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The Story Of The Empress Marie Louise And Count Neipperg






There is one famous woman whom history condems while at the same
time it partly hides the facts which might mitigate the harshness
of the judgment that is passed upon her. This woman is Marie
Louise, Empress of France, consort of the great Napoleon, and
archduchess of imperial Austria. When the most brilliant figure in
all history, after his overthrow in 1814, was in tawdry exile on
the petty island of Elba, the empress was already about to become
a mother; and the father of her unborn child was not Napoleon, but
another man. This is almost all that is usually remembered of her
--that she was unfaithful to Napoleon, that she abandoned him in
the hour of his defeat, and that she gave herself with readiness
to one inferior in rank, yet with whom she lived for years, and to
whom she bore what a French writer styled "a brood of bastards."

Naturally enough, the Austrian and German historians do not have
much to say of Marie Louise, because in her own disgrace she also
brought disgrace upon the proudest reigning family in Europe.
Naturally, also, French writers, even those who are hostile to
Napoleon, do not care to dwell upon the story; since France itself
was humiliated when its greatest genius and most splendid soldier
was deceived by his Austrian wife. Therefore there are still many
who know little beyond the bare fact that the Empress Marie Louise
threw away her pride as a princess, her reputation as a wife, and
her honor as a woman. Her figure seems to crouch in a sort of
murky byway, and those who pass over the highroad of history
ignore it with averted eyes.

In reality the story of Napoleon and Marie Louise and of the Count
von Neipperg is one which, when you search it to the very core,
leads you straight to a sex problem of a very curious nature.
Nowhere else does it occur in the relations of the great
personages of history; but in literature Balzac, that master of
psychology, has touched upon the theme in the early chapters of
his famous novel called "A Woman of Thirty."

As to the Napoleonic story, let us first recall the facts of the
case, giving them in such order that their full significance may
be understood.

In 1809 Napoleon, then at the plenitude of his power, shook
himself free from the clinging clasp of Josephine and procured the
annulment of his marriage to her. He really owed her nothing.
Before he knew her she had been the mistress of another. In the
first years of their life together she had been notoriously
unfaithful to him. He had held to her from habit which was in part
a superstition; but the remembrance of the wrong which she had
done him made her faded charms at times almost repulsive. And then
Josephine had never borne him any children; and without a son to
perpetuate his dynasty, the gigantic achievements which he had
wrought seemed futile in his eyes, and likely to crumble into
nothingness when he should die.

No sooner had the marriage been annulled than his titanic ambition
leaped, as it always did, to a tremendous pinnacle. He would wed.
He would have children. But he would wed no petty princess. This
man who in his early youth had felt honored by a marriage with the
almost declassee widow of a creole planter now stretched out his
hand that he might take to himself a woman not merely royal but
imperial.

At first he sought the sister of the Czar of Russia; but Alexander
entertained a profound distrust of the French emperor, and managed
to evade the tentative demand. There was, however, a reigning
family far more ancient than the Romanoffs--a family which had
held the imperial dignity for nearly six centuries--the oldest and
the noblest blood in Europe. This was the Austrian house of
Hapsburg. Its head, the Emperor Francis, had thirteen children, of
whom the eldest, the Archduchess Marie Louise, was then in her
nineteenth year.

Napoleon had resented the rebuff which the Czar had given him. He
turned, therefore, the more eagerly to the other project. Yet
there were many reasons why an Austrian marriage might be
dangerous, or, at any rate, ill-omened. Only sixteen years before,
an Austrian arch-duchess, Marie Antionette, married to the ruler
of France, had met her death upon the scaffold, hated and cursed
by the French people, who had always blamed "the Austrian" for the
evil days which had ended in the flames of revolution. Again, the
father of the girl to whom Napoleon's fancy turned had been the
bitter enemy of the new regime in France. His troops had been
beaten by the French in five wars and had been crushed at
Austerlitz and at Wagram. Bonaparte had twice entered Vienna at
the head of a conquering army, and thrice he had slept in the
imperial palace at Schonbrunn, while Francis was fleeing through
the dark, a beaten fugitive pursued by the swift squadrons of
French cavalry.

The feeling of Francis of Austria was not merely that of the
vanquished toward the victor. It was a deep hatred almost
religious in its fervor. He was the head and front of the old-time
feudalism of birth and blood; Napoleon was the incarnation of the
modern spirit which demolished thrones and set an iron heel upon
crowned heads, giving the sacred titles of king and prince to
soldiers who, even in palaces, still showed the swaggering
brutality of the camp and the stable whence they sprang. Yet, just
because an alliance with the Austrian house seemed in so many ways
impossible, the thought of it inflamed the ardor of Napoleon all
the more.

"Impossible?" he had once said, contemptuously. "The word
'impossible' is not French."

The Austrian alliance, unnatural though it seemed, was certainly
quite possible. In the year 1809 Napoleon had finished his fifth
war with Austria by the terrific battle of Wagram, which brought
the empire of the Hapsburgs to the very dust. The conqueror's rude
hand had stripped from Francis province after province. He had
even let fall hints that the Hapsburgs might be dethroned and that
Austria might disappear from the map of Europe, to be divided
between himself and the Russian Czar, who was still his ally. It
was at this psychological moment that the Czar wounded Napoleon's
pride by refusing to give the hand of his sister Anne.

The subtle diplomats of Vienna immediately saw their chance.
Prince Metternich, with the caution of one who enters the cage of
a man-eating-tiger, suggested that the Austrian archduchess would
be a fitting bride for the French conqueror. The notion soothed
the wounded vanity of Napoleon. From that moment events moved
swiftly; and before long it was understood that there was to be a
new empress in France, and that she was to be none other than the
daughter of the man who had been Napoleon's most persistent foe
upon the Continent. The girl was to be given--sacrificed, if you
like--to appease an imperial adventurer. After such a marriage,
Austria would be safe from spoliation. The reigning dynasty would
remain firmly seated upon its historic throne.

But how about the girl herself? She had always heard Napoleon
spoken of as a sort of ogre--a man of low ancestry, a brutal and
faithless enemy of her people. She knew that this bold, rough-
spoken soldier less than a year before had added insult to the
injury which he had inflicted on her father. In public
proclamations he had called the Emperor Francis a coward and a
liar. Up to the latter part of the year Napoleon was to her
imagination a blood-stained, sordid, and yet all-powerful monster,
outside the pale of human liking and respect. What must have been
her thoughts when her father first told her with averted face that
she was to become the bride of such a being?

Marie Louise had been brought up, as all German girls of rank were
then brought up, in quiet simplicity and utter innocence. In
person she was a tall blonde, with a wealth of light brown hair
tumbling about a face which might be called attractive because it
was so youthful and so gentle, but in which only poets and
courtiers could see beauty. Her complexion was rosy, with that
peculiar tinge which means that in the course of time it will
become red and mottled. Her blue eyes were clear and childish. Her
figure was good, though already too full for a girl who was
younger than her years.

She had a large and generous mouth with full lips, the lower one
being the true "Hapsburg lip," slightly pendulous--a feature which
has remained for generation after generation as a sure sign of
Hapsburg blood. One sees it in the present emperor of Austria, in
the late Queen Regent of Spain, and in the present King of Spain,
Alfonso. All the artists who made miniatures or paintings of Marie
Louise softened down this racial mark so that no likeness of her
shows it as it really was. But take her all in all, she was a
simple, childlike, German madchen who knew nothing of the outside
world except what she had heard from her discreet and watchful
governess, and what had been told her of Napoleon by her uncles,
the archdukes whom he had beaten down in battle.

When she learned that she was to be given to the French emperor
her girlish soul experienced a shudder; but her father told her
how vital was this union to her country and to him. With a sort of
piteous dread she questioned the archdukes who had called Napoleon
an ogre.

"Oh, that was when Napoleon was an enemy," they replied. "Now he
is our friend."

Marie Louise listened to all this, and, like the obedient German
girl she was, yielded her own will.

Events moved with a rush, for Napoleon was not the man to dally.
Josephine had retired to her residence at Malmaison, and Paris was
already astir with preparations for the new empress who was to
assure the continuation of the Napoleonic glory by giving children
to her husband. Napoleon had said to his ambassador with his usual
bluntness:

"This is the first and most important thing--she must have
children."

To the girl whom he was to marry he sent the following letter--an
odd letter, combining the formality of a negotiator with the
veiled ardor of a lover:

MY COUSIN: The brilliant qualities which adorn your person have
inspired in me a desire to serve you and to pay you homage. In
making my request to the emperor, your father, and praying him to
intrust to me the happiness of your imperial highness, may I hope
that you will understand the sentiments which lead me to this act?
May I flatter myself that it will not be decided solely by the
duty of parental obedience? However slightly the feelings of your
imperial highness may incline to me, I wish to cultivate them with
so great care, and to endeavor so constantly to please you in
everything, that I flatter myself that some day I shall prove
attractive to you. This is the end at which I desire to arrive,
and for which I pray your highness to be favorable to me.

Immediately everything was done to dazzle the imagination of the
girl. She had dressed always in the simplicity of the school-room.
Her only ornaments had been a few colored stones which she
sometimes wore as a necklace or a bracelet. Now the resources of
all France were drawn upon. Precious laces foamed about her.
Cascades of diamonds flashed before her eyes. The costliest and
most exquisite creations of the Parisian shops were spread around
her to make up a trousseau fit for the princess who was soon to
become the bride of the man who had mastered continental Europe.

The archives of Vienna were ransacked for musty documents which
would show exactly what had been done for other Austrian
princesses who had married rulers of France. Everything was
duplicated down to the last detail. Ladies-in-waiting thronged
about the young archduchess; and presently there came to her Queen
Caroline of Naples, Napoleon's sister, of whom Napoleon himself
once said: "She is the only man among my sisters, as Joseph is the
only woman among my brothers." Caroline, by virtue of her rank as
queen, could have free access to her husband's future bride. Also,
there came presently Napoleon's famous marshal, Berthier, Prince
of Neuchatel, the chief of the Old Guard, who had just been
created Prince of Wagram--a title which, very naturally, he did
not use in Austria. He was to act as proxy for Napoleon in the
preliminary marriage service at Vienna.

All was excitement. Vienna had never been so gay. Money was
lavished under the direction of Caroline and Berthier. There were
illuminations and balls. The young girl found herself the center
of the world's interest; and the excitement made her dizzy. She
could not but be flattered, and yet there were many hours when her
heart misgave her. More than once she was found in tears. Her
father, an affectionate though narrow soul, spent an entire day
with her consoling and reassuring her. One thought she always kept
in mind--what she had said to Metternich at the very first: "I
want only what my duty bids me want." At last came the official
marriage, by proxy, in the presence of a splendid gathering. The
various documents were signed, the dowry was arranged for. Gifts
were scattered right and left. At the opera there were gala
performances. Then Marie Louise bade her father a sad farewell.
Almost suffocated by sobs and with her eyes streaming with tears,
she was led between two hedges of bayonets to her carriage, while
cannon thundered and all the church-bells of Vienna rang a joyful
peal.

She set out for France accompanied by a long train of carriages
filled with noblemen and noblewomen, with ladies-in-waiting and
scores of attendant menials. The young bride--the wife of a man
whom she had never seen--was almost dead with excitement and
fatigue. At a station in the outskirts of Vienna she scribbled a
few lines to her father, which are a commentary upon her state of
mind:

I think of you always, and I always shall. God has given me power
to endure this final shock, and in Him alone I have put all my
trust. He will help me and give me courage, and I shall find
support in doing my duty toward you, since it is all for you that
I have sacrificed myself.

There is something piteous in this little note of a frightened
girl going to encounter she knew not what, and clinging almost
frantically to the one thought--that whatever might befall her,
she was doing as her father wished.

One need not recount the long and tedious journey of many days
over wretched roads, in carriages that jolted and lurched and
swayed. She was surrounded by unfamiliar faces and was compelled
to meet at every town the chief men of the place, all of whom paid
her honor, but stared at her with irrepressible curiosity. Day
after day she went on and on. Each morning a courier on a foaming
horse presented her with a great cluster of fresh flowers and a
few lines scrawled by the unknown husband who was to meet her at
her journey's end.

There lay the point upon which her wandering thoughts were
focused--the journey's end! The man whose strange, mysterious
power had forced her from her school-room, had driven her through
a nightmare of strange happenings, and who was waiting for her
somewhere to take her to himself, to master her as he had mastered
generals and armies!

What was marriage? What did it mean? What experience still lay
before her! These were the questions which she must have asked
herself throughout that long, exhausting journey. When she thought
of the past she was homesick. When she thought of the immediate
future she was fearful with a shuddering fear.

At last she reached the frontier of France, and her carriage
passed into a sort of triple structure, the first pavilion of
which was Austrian, while the middle pavilion was neutral, and the
farther one was French. Here she was received by those who were
afterward to surround her--the representatives of the Napoleonic
court. They were not all plebeians and children of the Revolution,
ex-stable boys, ex-laundresses. By this time Napoleon had gathered
around himself some of the noblest families of France, who had
rallied to the empire. The assemblage was a brilliant one. There
were Montmorencys and Beaumonts and Audenardes in abundance. But
to Marie Louise, as to her Austrian attendants, they were all
alike. They were French, they were strangers, and she shrank from
them.

Yet here her Austrians must leave her. All who had accompanied her
thus far were now turned back. Napoleon had been insistent on this
point. Even her governess, who had been with her since her
childhood, was not allowed to cross the French frontier. So fixed
was Napoleon's purpose to have nothing Austrian about her, that
even her pet dog, to which she clung as a girl would cling, was
taken from her. Thereafter she was surrounded only by French
faces, by French guards, and was greeted only by salvos of French
artillery.

In the mean time what was Napoleon doing at Paris. Since the
annulment of his marriage with Josephine he had gone into a sort
of retirement. Matters of state, war, internal reforms, no longer
interested him; but that restless brain could not sink into
repose. Inflamed with the ardor of a new passion, that passion was
all the greater because he had never yet set eyes upon its object.
Marriage with an imperial princess flattered his ambition. The
youth and innocence of the bride stirred his whole being with a
thrill of novelty. The painted charms of Josephine, the mercenary
favors of actresses, the calculated ecstasies of the women of the
court who gave themselves to him from vanity, had long since
palled upon him. Therefore the impatience with which he awaited
the coming of Marie Louise became every day more tense.

For a time he amused himself with planning down to the very last
details the demonstrations that were to be given in her honor. He
organized them as minutely as he had ever organized a conquering
army. He showed himself as wonderful in these petty things as he
had in those great strategic combinations which had baffled the
ablest generals of Europe. But after all had been arranged--even
to the illuminations, the cheering, the salutes, and the etiquette
of the court--he fell into a fever of impatience which gave him
sleepless nights and frantic days. He paced up and down the
Tuileries, almost beside himself. He hurried off courier after
courier with orders that the postilions should lash their horses
to bring the hour of meeting nearer still. He scribbled love
letters. He gazed continually on the diamond-studded portrait of
the woman who was hurrying toward him.

At last as the time approached he entered a swift traveling-
carriage and hastened to Compiegne, about fifty miles from Paris,
where it had been arranged that he should meet his consort and
whence he was to escort her to the capital, so that they might be
married in the great gallery of the Louvre. At Compiegne the
chancellerie had been set apart for Napoleon's convenience, while
the chateau had been assigned to Marie Louise and her attendants.
When Napoleon's carriage dashed into the place, drawn by horses
that had traveled at a gallop, the emperor could not restrain
himself. It was raining torrents and night was coming on, yet,
none the less, he shouted for fresh horses and pushed on to
Soissons, where the new empress was to stop and dine. When he
reached there and she had not arrived, new relays of horses were
demanded, and he hurried off once more into the dark.

At the little village of Courcelles he met the courier who was
riding in advance of the empress's cortege.

"She will be here in a few moments!" cried Napoleon; and he leaped
from his carriage into the highway.

The rain descended harder than ever, and he took refuge in the
arched doorway of the village church, his boots already bemired,
his great coat reeking with the downpour. As he crouched before
the church he heard the sound of carriages; and before long there
came toiling through the mud the one in which was seated the girl
for whom he had so long been waiting. It was stopped at an order
given by an officer. Within it, half-fainting with fatigue and
fear, Marie Louise sat in the dark, alone.

Here, if ever, was the chance for Napoleon to win his bride. Could
he have restrained himself, could he have shown the delicate
consideration which was demanded of him, could he have remembered
at least that he was an emperor and that the girl--timid and
shuddering--was a princess, her future story might have been far
different. But long ago he had ceased to think of anything except
his own desires.

He approached the carriage. An obsequious chamberlain drew aside
the leathern covering and opened the door, exclaiming as he did
so, "The emperor!" And then there leaped in the rain-soaked, mud-
bespattered being whose excesses had always been as unbridled as
his genius. The door was closed, the leathern curtain again drawn,
and the horses set out at a gallop for Soissons. Within, the
shrinking bride was at the mercy of pure animal passion, feeling
upon her hot face a torrent of rough kisses, and yielding herself
in terror to the caresses of wanton hands.

At Soissons Napoleon allowed no halt, but the carriage plunged on,
still in the rain, to Compiegne. There all the arrangements made
with so much care were thrust aside. Though the actual marriage
had not yet taken place, Napoleon claimed all the rights which
afterward were given in the ceremonial at Paris. He took the girl
to the chancellerie, and not to the chateau. In an anteroom dinner
was served with haste to the imperial pair and Queen Caroline.
Then the latter was dismissed with little ceremony, the lights
were extinguished, and this daughter of a line of emperors was
left to the tender mercies of one who always had about him
something of the common soldier--the man who lives for loot and
lust. ... At eleven the next morning she was unable to rise and
was served in bed by the ladies of her household.

These facts, repellent as they are, must be remembered when we
call to mind what happened in the next five years. The horror of
that night could not be obliterated by splendid ceremonies, by
studious attention, or by all the pomp and gaiety of the court.
Napoleon was then forty-one--practically the same age as his new
wife's father, the Austrian emperor; Marie Louise was barely
nineteen and younger than her years. Her master must have seemed
to be the brutal ogre whom her uncles had described.

Installed in the Tuileries, she taught herself compliance. On
their marriage night Napoleon had asked her briefly: "What did
your parents tell you?" And she had answered, meekly: "To be yours
altogether and to obey you in everything." But, though she gave
compliance, and though her freshness seemed enchanting to
Napoleon, there was something concealed within her thoughts to
which he could not penetrate. He gaily said to a member of the
court:

"Marry a German, my dear fellow. They are the best women in the
world--gentle, good, artless, and as fresh as roses."

Yet, at the same time, Napoleon felt a deep anxiety lest in her
very heart of hearts this German girl might either fear or hate
him secretly. Somewhat later Prince Metternich came from the
Austrian court to Paris.

"I give you leave," said Napoleon, "to have a private interview
with the empress. Let her tell you what she likes, and I shall ask
no questions. Even should I do so, I now forbid your answering
me."

Metternich was closeted with the empress for a long while. When he
returned to the ante-room he found Napoleon fidgeting about, his
eyes a pair of interrogation-points.

"I am sure," he said, "that the empress told you that I was kind
to her?"

Metternich bowed and made no answer.

"Well," said Napoleon, somewhat impatiently, "at least I am sure
that she is happy. Tell me, did she not say so?"

The Austrian diplomat remained unsmiling.

"Your majesty himself has forbidden me to answer," he returned
with another bow.

We may fairly draw the inference that Marie Louise, though she
adapted herself to her surroundings, was never really happy.
Napoleon became infatuated with her. He surrounded her with every
possible mark of honor. He abandoned public business to walk or
drive with her. But the memory of his own brutality must have
vaguely haunted him throughout it all. He was jealous of her as he
had never been jealous of the fickle Josephine. Constant has
recorded that the greatest precautions were taken to prevent any
person whatsoever, and especially any man, from approaching the
empress save in the presence of witnesses.

Napoleon himself underwent a complete change of habits and
demeanor. Where he had been rough and coarse he became attentive
and refined. His shabby uniforms were all discarded, and he spent
hours in trying on new costumes. He even attempted to learn to
waltz, but this he gave up in despair. Whereas before he ate
hastily and at irregular intervals, he now sat at dinner with
unusual patience, and the court took on a character which it had
never had. Never before had he sacrificed either his public duty
or his private pleasure for any woman. Even in the first ardor of
his marriage with Josephine, when he used to pour out his heart to
her in letters from Italian battle-fields, he did so only after he
had made the disposition of his troops and had planned his
movements for the following day. Now, however, he was not merely
devoted, but uxorious; and in 1811, after the birth of the little
King of Rome, he ceased to be the earlier Napoleon altogether. He
had founded a dynasty. He was the head of a reigning house. He
forgot the principles of the Revolution, and he ruled, as he
thought, like other monarchs, by the grace of God.

As for Marie Louise, she played her part extremely well. Somewhat
haughty and unapproachable to others, she nevertheless studied
Napoleon's every wish. She seemed even to be loving; but one can
scarcely doubt that her obedience sprang ultimately from fear and
that her devotion was the devotion of a dog which has been beaten
into subjection.

Her vanity was flattered in many ways, and most of all by her
appointment as regent of the empire during Napoleon's absence in
the disastrous Russian campaign which began in 1812. It was in
June of that year that the French emperor held court at Dresden,
where he played, as was said, to "a parterre of kings." This was
the climax of his magnificence, for there were gathered all the
sovereigns and princes who were his allies and who furnished the
levies that swelled his Grand Army to six hundred thousand men.
Here Marie Louise, like her husband, felt to the full the
intoxication of supreme power. By a sinister coincidence it was
here that she first met the other man, then unnoticed and little
heeded, who was to cast upon her a fascination which in the end
proved irresistible.

This man was Adam Albrecht, Count von Neipperg. There is something
mysterious about his early years, and something baleful about his
silent warfare with Napoleon. As a very young soldier he had been
an Austrian officer in 1793. His command served in Belgium; and
there, in a skirmish, he was overpowered by the French in superior
numbers, but resisted desperately. In the melee a saber slashed
him across the right side of his face, and he was made prisoner.
The wound deprived him of his right eye, so that for the rest of
his life he was compelled to wear a black bandage to conceal the
mutilation.

From that moment he conceived an undying hatred of the French,
serving against them in the Tyrol and in Italy. He always claimed
that had the Archduke Charles followed his advice, the Austrians
would have forced Napoleon's army to capitulate at Marengo, thus
bringing early eclipse to the rising star of Bonaparte. However
this may be, Napoleon's success enraged Neipperg and made his
hatred almost the hatred of a fiend.

Hitherto he had detested the French as a nation. Afterward he
concentrated his malignity upon the person of Napoleon. In every
way he tried to cross the path of that great soldier, and, though
Neipperg was comparatively an unknown man, his indomitable purpose
and his continued intrigues at last attracted the notice of the
emperor; for in 1808 Napoleon wrote this significant sentence:

The Count von Neipperg is openly known to have been the enemy of
the French.

Little did the great conqueror dream how deadly was the blow which
this Austrian count was destined finally to deal him!

Neipperg, though his title was not a high one, belonged to the old
nobility of Austria. He had proved his bravery in war and as a
duelist, and he was a diplomat as well as a soldier. Despite his
mutilation, he was a handsome and accomplished courtier, a man of
wide experience, and one who bore himself in a manner which
suggested the spirit of romance. According to Masson, he was an
Austrian Don Juan, and had won the hearts of many women. At thirty
he had formed a connection with an Italian woman named Teresa
Pola, whom he had carried away from her husband. She had borne him
five children; and in 1813 he had married her in order that these
children might be made legitimate.

In his own sphere the activity of Neipperg was almost as
remarkable as Napoleon's in a greater one. Apart from his exploits
on the field of battle he had been attached to the Austrian
embassy in Paris, and, strangely enough, had been decorated by
Napoleon himself with, the golden eagle of the Legion of Honor.
Four months later we find him minister of Austria at the court of
Sweden, where he helped to lay the train of intrigue which was to
detach Bernadotte from Napoleon's cause. In 1812, as has just been
said, he was with Marie Louise for a short time at Dresden,
hovering about her, already forming schemes. Two years after this
he overthrew Murat at Naples; and then hurried on post-haste to
urge Prince Eugene to abandon Bonaparte.

When the great struggle of 1814 neared its close, and Napoleon,
fighting with his back to the wall, was about to succumb to the
united armies of Europe, it was evident that the Austrian emperor
would soon be able to separate his daughter from her husband. In
fact, when Napoleon was sent to Elba, Marie Louise returned to
Vienna. The cynical Austrian diplomats resolved that she should
never again meet her imperial husband. She was made Duchess of
Parma in Italy, and set out for her new possessions; and the man
with the black band across his sightless eye was chosen to be her
escort and companion.

When Neipperg received this commission he was with Teresa Pola at
Milan. A strange smile flitted across his face; and presently he
remarked, with cynical frankness:

"Before six months I shall be her lover, and, later on, her
husband."

He took up his post as chief escort of Marie Louise, and they
journeyed slowly to Munich and Baden and Geneva, loitering on the
way. Amid the great events which were shaking Europe this couple
attracted slight attention. Napoleon, in Elba, longed for his wife
and for his little son, the King of Rome. He sent countless
messages and many couriers; but every message was intercepted, and
no courier reached his destination. Meanwhile Marie Louise was
lingering agreeably in Switzerland. She was happy to have escaped
from the whirlpool of politics and war. Amid the romantic scenery
through which she passed Neipperg was always by her side,
attentive, devoted, trying in everything to please her. With him
she passed delightful evenings. He sang to her in his rich
barytone songs of love. He seemed romantic with a touch of
mystery, a gallant soldier whose soul was also touched by
sentiment.

One would have said that Marie Louise, the daughter of an imperial
line, would have been proof against the fascinations of a person
so far inferior to herself in rank, and who, beside the great
emperor, was less than nothing. Even granting that she had never
really loved Napoleon, she might still have preferred to maintain
her dignity, to share his fate, and to go down in history as the
empress of the greatest man whom modern times have known.

But Marie Louise was, after all, a woman, and she followed the
guidance of her heart. To her Napoleon was still the man who had
met her amid the rain-storm at Courcelles, and had from the first
moment when he touched her violated all the instincts of a virgin.
Later he had in his way tried to make amends; but the horror of
that first night had never wholly left her memory. Napoleon had
unrolled before her the drama of sensuality, but her heart had not
been given to him. She had been his empress. In a sense it might
be more true to say that she had been his mistress. But she had
never been duly wooed and won and made his wife--an experience
which is the right of every woman. And so this Neipperg, with his
deferential manners, his soothing voice, his magnetic touch, his
ardor, and his devotion, appeased that craving which the master of
a hundred legions could not satisfy.

In less than the six months of which Neipperg had spoken the
psychological moment had arrived. In the dim twilight she listened
to his words of love; and then, drawn by that irresistible power
which masters pride and woman's will, she sank into her lover's
arms, yielding to his caresses, and knowing that she would be
parted from him no more except by death.

From that moment he was bound to her by the closest ties and lived
with her at the petty court of Parma. His prediction came true to
the very letter. Teresa Pola died, and then Napoleon died, and
after this Marie Louise and Neipperg were united in a morganatic
marriage. Three children were born to them before his death in
1829.

It is interesting to note how much of an impression was made upon
her by the final exile of her imperial husband to St. Helena. When
the news was brought her she observed, casually:

"Thanks. By the way, I should like to ride this morning to
Markenstein. Do you think the weather is good enough to risk it?"

Napoleon, on his side, passed through agonies of doubt and longing
when no letters came to him from Marie Louise. She was constantly
in his thoughts during his exile at St. Helena. "When his faithful
friend and constant companion at St. Helena, the Count Las Casas,
was ordered by Sir Hudson Lowe to depart from St. Helena, Napoleon
wrote to him:

"Should you see, some day, my wife and son, embrace them. For two
years I have, neither directly nor indirectly, heard from them.
There has been on this island for six months a German botanist,
who has seen them in the garden of Schoenbrunn a few months before
his departure. The barbarians (meaning the English authorities at
St. Helena) have carefully prevented him from coming to give me
any news respecting them."

At last the truth was told him, and he received it with that high
magnanimity, or it may be fatalism, which at times he was capable
of showing. Never in all his days of exile did he say one word
against her. Possibly in searching his own soul he found excuses
such as we may find. In his will he spoke of her with great
affection, and shortly before his death he said to his physician,
Antommarchi:

"After my death, I desire that you will take my heart, put it in
the spirits of wine, and that you carry it to Parma to my dear
Marie Louise. You will please tell her that I tenderly loved her--
that I never ceased to love her. You will relate to her all that
you have seen, and every particular respecting my situation and
death."

The story of Marie Louise is pathetic, almost tragic. There is the
taint of grossness about it; and yet, after all, there is a lesson
in it--the lesson that true love cannot be forced or summoned at
command, that it is destroyed before its birth by outrage, and
that it goes out only when evoked by sympathy, by tenderness, and
by devotion.









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