 The Story of the Empress Marie-Louise and Count Neyperg, Volume 2 of Famous Affinities of History. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Dodge. Famous Affinities of History by Lyndon Orr. Volume 2, The Story of the Empress Marie-Louise and Count Neyperg. There is one famous woman whom history condemns, 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 Tadri 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 with the French rider-styled, quote, a brood of bastards, unquote. 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 riders, 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 high road of history ignore it with averted eyes. In reality the story of Napoleon and Marie-Louise, and of the Count von Neyberg, 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, quote, A Woman of Thirty, unquote. 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 plentitude 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. The man who in his early youth had felt honored by a marriage with the almost dickless 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 Tsar 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 Roman offs, 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 Habsburg. 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 Tsar 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-omend. Only sixteen years before an Austrian Archduchess, Marie Antoinette, married to the ruler of France, had met her death upon the scaffold, hated and cursed by the French people, who had always blamed, quote, the Austrian, unquote, 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 Wagram. Bonaparte had twice entered Vienna at the head of a conquering army, and Thrice he had slept in the imperial palace at Schoenbrunn, while Francis was fleeing through the dark a beaten fugitive, pursued by the swift squadrons of the French cavalry. The feeling of Francis of Austria was not merely that of a vanquish toward the victor. It was a deep hatred, almost religious, in its fervour. 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 wints 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 that terrific battle of Wagram, which brought the empire of the Habsburgs to the very dust. The conqueror's rude hand had stripped from Francis' province after province. He had even let fall hints that the Habsburgs might be dethroned and that Austria might disappear from the map of Europe, to be divided between himself and the Russian Tsar, who was still his ally. It was at this psychological moment that the Tsar 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 arch-duchess 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 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 spoilation. 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 sort of an 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 bloodstained, 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 a birded face that she was to become the bride of such a being? Marie Louise had been brought up as all German girls of Frank 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 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 quote Hapsburg lip, unquote, slightly pendulous, a feature which has remained for generation after generation as a sure sign of Hapsburg blood. One sees in it 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 mad chun 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 Namasson and Paris was already a stir with the 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 entrust 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 someday I shall prove attractive to you. This is the end at which I desire to arrive, and for which I pray your highness will be favorable to me. Immediately everything was done to dazzle the imagination of the girl. She had always dressed in the simplicity of the schoolroom. 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 all 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 Neuchâtel, 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 be but plattered, and yet there were many hours when her heart misgave her. More than once she was found in tears. Her father, an unaffectionate though narrow soul, spent an entire day with her consoling and reassuring her. One thought she always kept in mind, which 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, and the dowry was arranged for. Gifts were scattered right and left. At the opera there were gala performances. Then Marie-Louise bet 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 can and 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 noble men and noble women, 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 honour, 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 schoolroom, 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 through 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 shuttering 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. These 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 maulmarinses and Beaumonts and adenards in abundance, but to Marie-Louise, as to her Austrian attendance, they were all alike. These 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 vases, by French guards, and was greeted only by salvos of French artillery. In the meantime, 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 ardour 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 favours of actresses, the calculated ecstasies of the women of the court who gave themselves to him from vanity, had long since paled 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 honour. He organised them as minutely as he had ever organised a conquering army. He showed himself as wonderful in these petty things, as he had 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 cheerings, 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 tuleries, almost beside himself. He hurried off courier after courier with orders that the postillion 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 travelling carriage and hastened to Campania, about fifty miles from Paris, where it had been arranged that he should meet his consort and wince he was to escort her to the capital so that they might be married in the great gallery of the Louvre. At Campania the chanceloré had been set apart for Napoleon's convenience, while the chateau had been assigned to Marie-Louise and her attendants. When Napoleon's carriage had dashed into the place, drawn by horses that had travelled at a gallop, the Emperor could not restrain himself. It was raining torrents and the night was coming on, yet nonetheless he shouted for fresh horses and pushed on to Soison, 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 Coursel, he met the courier who was riding in advance of the Empress's cortège. She will be here in a few minutes, cried Napoleon, and he leaped from his carriage into the highway. The rain descended harder than ever and he took refuge in the arch doorway of the village church. His boots already bemyered, 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 been so long 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 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 leather and 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 leather curtain again drawn, and the horses set out at a gallop for Cézanne. 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 Cézanne Napoleon allowed no halt, but the carriage plunged on, still in the rain, to Campania. There all the arrangements made was 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 chanceloré, and not to the chateau. In an anti-room 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 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 Tullaris 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 and everything. But though she gave compliance, and though her freshness seemed a-chanting to Napoleon, there was something concealed within her thoughts to which he could not penetrate. He gaily said to a member of his court, Maria 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 him 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 you're answering me. Metternich was closeted with the Empress for a long while. When he returned to the anti-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 a tall. 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 the waltz. But this he gave up in despair. Whereas before he ate hastily and at irregular intervals, he now sat at dinner with the unusual patients, and the court took on a character which it had never had. Never before had he sacrificed either his public duty or his private pleasures 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 battlefields, 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 exorious, 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 had 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 it was said, to a parterre of kings. That 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 heated, who was to cast upon her a fascination which in the end proved irresistible. The man was Adam Albrecht, Count von Neyperg. 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 sabre slashed him across the right side of his face, and he was made a 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 Neyperg 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 Neyperg was a comparatively 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 Neyperg is openly known to have been the enemy of the French. Little did the great conqueror dream how deadly was the blow with which this Austrian count was destined finally to deal him. Neyperg, although his title was not a high one, belonged to the old nobility of Austria. He had proved his bravery in war and as a dualist, 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 third he had formed a connection with an Italian woman named Therese Paola, who 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 Neyperg 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 just has 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 Marat at Naples, and then hurried on post-haste to urge Prince Eugene to abandon Panaparte. 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 Nipard received this commission, he was with Theresa 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 along 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 in many courtiers, but every message was intercepted, and no courtier reached its 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, Nipard 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 baritone 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 besides 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 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 rainstorm at Coursé, 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 Niprog, 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 Niprog 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 master's 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 Niprog 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 to 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 for 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 Low to depart from St. Helena. Napoleon wrote to him, should you see someday 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 and to Marquis, after my death I desire that you will take my heart, put it in the spirits of wine and that you will carry it to Parma to my dear Marie Louise. You will please tell her that I tenderly loved her, that I never cease 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 a 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 and that it is destroyed before its birth by outrage and that it goes out only when evoked by sympathy, by tenderness and by devotion. End of the story of the Empress Marie Louise and Count Nyberg. End of Volume 2 of Famous Affinities of History by Lyndon Orr. The wives of General Houston. Volume 3 of Famous Affinities of History. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Barry Eads. Famous Affinities of History by Lyndon Orr. Volume 3 The Wives of General Houston. Sixty or seventy years ago it was considered a great joke to chalk up on any man's house door or on his trunk at a coaching station the conspicuous letters G-T-T. The laugh went round and everyone who saw the inscription chuckled and said, they've got it on you old horse. The three letters meant gone to Texas and for any man to go to Texas in those days meant his moral, mental and financial dilapidation. Either he had plunged into bankruptcy and wished to begin life over again in a new world or the sheriff had a warrant for his arrest. The very task of reaching Texas was a fearful one. Rivers that overran their banks, fever-stricken lowlands where gaunt faces peered out from moldering cabins, bottomless swamps where the mud oozed recently and where the alligator could be seen slowly moving his repulsive form. All this stretched on for hundreds of miles to horrify and sicken the immigrants who came toiling on foot or struggling upon emaciated horses. Other daring pioneers came by boat, running all manner of risks upon the swollen rivers. Still others descended from the mountains of Tennessee and passed through a more open country and with a greater certainty of self-protection because they were trained from childhood to wield the rifle and the long sheath knife. It is odd enough to read in the chronicles of those days that amid all this suffering and squalor there was drawn a strict line between the quality and those who had no claim to be patricians. The quality was made up of such immigrants as came from the more civilized east or who had slaves or who dragged with them some rickety vehicle with carriage horses, however gaunt the animals might be. All others, those who had no slaves or horses and no traditions of the older states, were classed as poor whites and they accepted their mediocrity without a murmur. Because he was born in Lexington, Virginia and moved thence with his family to Tennessee, young Sam Houston, a truly eponymous American hero, was numbered with the quality when after long wandering he reached his boyhood home. His further claim to distinction as a boy came from the fact that he could read and write and was even familiar with some of the classics in translation. When less than 18 years of age he had reached a height of more than six feet, he was skillful with the rifle, a remarkable rough and tumble fighter, and as quick with his long knife as any Indian. This made him a notable figure, the more so as he never abused his strength and courage. He was never known as anything but Sam. In his own sphere he passed for a gentleman and a scholar thanks to his virginian birth and to the fact that he could repeat a great part of Pope's translation of the Iliad. His learning led him to teach school a few months in the year to the children of the white settlers. Indeed, Houston was so much taken with the pursuit of scholarship that he made up his mind to learn Greek and Latin. Naturally, this seemed mere foolishness to his mother, his six strapping brothers and his three stalwart sisters who cared little for study. So sharp was the difference between Sam and the rest of the family that he gave up his yearning after the classics and went to the other extreme by leaving home and plunging into the heart of the forest beyond sight of any white man or woman or any thought of Hellas and ancient Rome. Here in the dimly-litted glades he was most happy. The Indians admired him for his woodcraft and for the skill with which he chased the wild game amid the forest. From his copy of the Iliad he would read to them the thoughts of the world's greatest poet. It is told that nearly 40 years after when Houston had long led a different life and had made his home in Washington, a deputation of more than 40 untamed Indians from Texas arrived there under the charge of several army officers. They chanced to meet Sam Houston. One and all ran to him, clasped him in their brawny arms, hugged him like bears to their naked breasts and called him father. Beneath the copper skin and thick paint the blood rushed and their faces changed. And the lips of many a warrior trembled, although the Indian may not weep. In the gigantic form of Houston on whose ample brow the beneficent love of a father was struggling with the sternness of the patriarch and warrior we saw civilization awing the savage at his feet. We needed no interpreter to tell us that this impressive supremacy was gained in the forest. His family had been at first alarmed by his stay among the Indians, but when after a time he returned for a new outfit they saw that he was entirely safe and left him to wander among the red men. Later he came forth and resumed the pursuits of civilization. He took up his studies, he learned the rudiments of law, and entered upon its active practice. When barely 36 he had won every office that was open to him, ending with his election to the governorship of Tennessee in 1827. Then came a strange episode which changed the whole course of his life. Until then the love of woman had never stirred his veins. His physical activities in the forests, his unique intimacy with Indian life, had kept him away from the social intercourse of towns and cities. In Nashville Houston came to know for the first time the fascination of feminine society. As a lawyer, a politician and the holder of important offices he could not keep aloof from that gentler and more winning influence which had hitherto been unknown to him. In 1828 Governor Houston was obliged to visit different portions of the state, stopping as was the custom to visit at the homes of the quality, and to be introduced to wives and daughters as well as to their sportsmen's sons. On one of his official journeys he met Miss Eliza Allen, a daughter of one of the influential families of Sumner County on the northern border of Tennessee. He found her responsive, charming and greatly to be admired. She was a slender type of Southern beauty, well calculated to gain the affection of a lover and especially of one whose associations had been chiefly with the women of frontier communities. To meet a girl who had refined taste and wide reading and who was at the same time graceful and full of humor must have come as a pleasant experience to Houston. He and Miss Allen saw much of each other and few of their friends were surprised when the word went forth that they were engaged to be married. The marriage occurred in January 1829. They were surrounded with friends of all classes and ranks, for Houston was the associate of Jackson and was immensely popular in his own state. He seemed to have before him a brilliant career. He had won a lovely bride to make a home for him so that no man seemed to have more attractive prospects. What was there which at this time interposed in some malignant way to blight his future? It was a little more than a month after his marriage when he met a friend and taking him out into a strip of quiet woodland said to him, I have something to tell you but you must not ask me anything about it. My wife and I will separate before long. She will return to her father's while I must make my way alone. Houston's friend seized him by the arm and gazed at him with horror. Governor said he you're going to ruin your whole life. What reason have you for treating this young lady in such a way? What has she done that you should leave her? Or what have you done that she should leave you? Everyone will fall away from you. Houston grimly replied, I have no explanation to give you. My wife has none to give you. She will not complain of me nor shall I complain of her. It is no one's business in the world except our own. Any interference will be impertinent and I shall punish it with my own hand. But said his friend, think of it. The people at large will not allow such action. They will believe that you, who have been their idol, have descended to insult a woman. Your political career is ended. It will not be safe for you to walk the streets. What difference does it make to me? said Houston gloomily. What must be must be. I tell you as a friend in advance so that you may be prepared. But the parting will take place very soon. Little was heard for another month or two and then came the announcement that the governor's wife had left him and had returned to her parents' home. The news flew like wildfire and was the theme of every tongue. Friends of Mrs. Houston begged her to tell them the meaning of the whole affair. Adherence of Houston, on the other hand, set afloat stories of his wife's coldness and of her peevishness. The state was divided into factions and what really concerned a very few was, as usual, made everybody's business. There were times when, if Houston had appeared near the dwelling of his former wife, he would have been lynched or riddled with bullets. Again, there were enemies and slanderers of his who, had they shown themselves in Nashville, would have been torn to pieces by men who hailed Houston as a hero and who believed that he could not possibly have done wrong. However, his friends might rage, and however her people might wonder and seek to pry into the secret, no satisfaction was given on either side. The abandoned wife never uttered a word of explanation. Houston was equally reticent and self-controlled. In later years he sometimes drank deeply and was loose-tongued, but never, even in his cups, could he be persuaded to say a single word about his wife. The whole thing is a mystery and cannot be solved by any evidence that we have. Almost everyone who has written of it seems to have indulged in mere guesswork. One popular theory is that Ms. Allen was in love with someone else, that her parents forced her into a brilliant marriage with Houston, which, however, she could not afterward endure and that Houston, learning the facts, left her because he knew that her heart was not really his. But the evidence is all against this. Had it been so, she would surely have secured a divorce and would then have married the man whom she truly loved. As a matter of fact, although she did divorce Houston, it was only after several years and the man whom she subsequently married was not acquainted with her at the time of the separation. Another theory suggests that Houston was harsh in his treatment of his wife and offended her by his untaught manners and extreme self-conceit. But it was not likely that she objected to his manners, since she had become familiar with them before she gave him her hand, and as to his conceit, there is no evidence that it was as yet unduly developed. After his Texas campaign, he sometimes showed a rather lofty idea of his own achievements, but he does not seem to have done so in these early days. Some have ascribed the separation to his passion for drink, but here again we must discriminate. Later in life, he became very fond of spirits and drank whiskey with the Indians, but during his early years, he was most abstinence. It scarcely seems possible that his wife left him because he was intemperate. If one wishes to construct a reasonable hypothesis on a subject where the facts are either wanting or conflicting, it is not impossible to suggest a solution of this puzzle about Houston. Although his abandoned wife never spoke of him and shut her lips tightly when she was questioned about him, Houston on his part was not so tacky-turned. He never consciously gave any direct clue to his matrimonial mystery, but he never forgot this girl who was his bride and whom he seems always to have loved. In what he said, he never ceased to let a vein of self-reproach run through his words. I should choose this one paragraph as the most significant. It was written immediately after they had parted. Eliza stands acquitted by me. I have received her as a virtuous, chaste wife, and as such I pray God I may ever regard her, and I trust I ever shall. She was cold to me, and I thought she did not love me. And again, he said to an old and valued friend at about the same time, I can make no explanation. I exonerate the lady fully and do not justify myself. Miss Allen seems to have been a woman of the sensitive American type, which was so common in the early and the middle part of the last century. Mrs. Trelobe has described it for us with very little exaggeration. Dickens has drawn it with a touch of malice, and yet not without truth. Miss Martinu described it during her visit to this country and her account quite coincides with those of her two contemporaries. Indeed, American women of that time unconsciously described themselves in a thousand different ways. They were, after all, only a less striking type of the sentimental English women who read L.E.L. and the earlier novels of Bulwer Leighton. On both sides of the Atlantic there was a reign of sentiment and a prevalence of what was then called delicacy. It was a die-away, unwholesome attitude toward life and was morbid to the last degree. In circles where these ideas prevailed, to eat a hearty dinner was considered unwomanly. To talk of anything except some gilded annual or book of beauty or the gossip of the neighborhood was wholly to be condemned. The typical girl of such a community was thin and slender and given to a mild starvation, though she might eat quantities of jam and pickles and salaritas biscuit. She had the strangest view of life and an almost unnatural shrinking from any usual converse with men. Houston, on his side, was a thoroughly natural and healthful man, having lived an outdoor life, hunting and camping in the forest, and displaying the unaffected manner of the pioneer. Having lived the solitary life of the woods, it was a strange thing for him to meet a girl who had been bred in an entirely different way, who had learned a thousand little reservations and dainty graces and whose very breath was coyness and reserve. Their mating was the mating of the man of the forest with the woman of the sheltered life. Houston assumed everything, his bride shrank from everything. There was a mutual shock amounting almost to repulsion. She, on her side, probably thought she had found in him only the brute which lurks in man. He, on the other, repelled and checked at once grasped the belief that his wife cared nothing for him because she would not meet his ardors with like ardors of her own. It is the mistake that has been made by thousands of men and women at the beginning of their married lives, the mistake on one side of too great sensitiveness and on the other side of too great warmth of passion. This episode may seem trivial, and yet it is one that explains many things in human life. So far as concerns Houston, it has a direct bearing on the history of our country. A proud man, he could not endure the slights and gossip of his associates. He resigned the governorship of Tennessee and left by night in such a way as to surround his departure with mystery. There had come over him the old longing for Indian life, and when he was next visible, he was in the land of the Cherokees, who had long before adopted him as a son. He was clad in buckskin and armed with knife and rifle, and served under the old chief, Ulutika. He was a gallant defender of the Indians. When he found how some of the Indian agents had abused his adopted brothers, he went to Washington to protest, still wearing his frontier garb. One William Stansberry, a congressman from Ohio, insulted Houston, who leapt upon him like a panther, dragged him about the hall of representatives, and beat him within an inch of his life. He was arrested, imprisoned, and fined, but his old friend, President Jackson, remitted his imprisonment and gruffly advised him not to pay the fine. Returning to his Indians, he made his way to a new field which promised much adventure. This was Texas, of whose condition in those early days something has already been said. Houston found a rough American settlement, composed of scattered villages extending along the disputed frontier of Mexico. Already in the true Anglo-Saxon spirit, the settlers had formed a rudimentary state, and as they increased and multiplied, they framed a simple code of laws. Then, quite naturally, there came a clash between them and the Mexicans. The Texans, headed by Moses Austin, had set up a republic and asked for admission to the United States. Mexico regarded them as rebels and despised them because they made no military display and had no very accurate military drill. They were dressed in buckskin and ragged clothing, but their knives were very bright and their rifles carried surely. Furthermore, they laughed at odds, and if only a dozen of them were gathered together, they would take on almost any number of Mexican regulars. In February 1836, the acute-enabled Mexican, Santa Ana, led across the Rio Grande, a force of several thousand Mexicans, showily uniformed and completely armed. Everyone remembers how they fell upon the little garrison at the Alamo, now within the city limits of San Antonio, but then an isolated mission building surrounded by a thick adobe wall. The Americans numbered less than 300 men. A sharp attack was made against these overwhelming odds. The Americans drove the assailants back with their rifle fire, but they had nothing to oppose the Mexican artillery. The contest continued for several days, and finally the Mexicans breached the wall and fell upon the garrison, who were now reduced by more than half. There was an hour of blood, and every one of the Alamo's defenders, including the wounded, was put to death. The only survivors of the slaughter were two Negro slaves, a woman and a baby girl. When the news of this bloody affair reached Houston, he leaped forward to the combat like a lion. He was made commander-in-chief of the Scanty Texan forces. He managed to rally about 700 men and set out against Santa Ana with little in the way of equipment, and with nothing but the flame of frenzy to stimulate his followers. By March and Counter-March, the hostile forces came face to face near the shore of San Jacinto Bay, not far from the present city of Houston. Slowly they moved upon each other when Houston halted, and his sharpshooters raked the Mexican battle line with terrible effect. Then Houston uttered the cry, Remember the Alamo! With deadly swiftness, he led his men in a charge upon Santa Ana's lines. The Mexicans were scattered as by a mighty wind, their commander was taken prisoner, and Mexico was forced to give its recognition to Texas as a free republic, of which General Houston became the first president. This was the climax of Houston's life, but the end of it leaves us with something still to say. Long after his marriage with Miss Allen, he took an Indian girl to wife and lived with her quite happily. She was a very beautiful woman, a half-breed, with the English name of Tyanna Rogers. Very little, however, is known of her life with Houston. Later still, in 1840, he married a lady from Marion, Alabama, named Margaret Moffat-Lay. He was then in his 47th year, while she was only 21. But again, as with his Indian wife, he knew nothing but domestic tranquility. These later experiences go far to prove the truth of what has already been given as the probable cause of his first mysterious failure to make a woman happy. After Texas entered the Union in 1845, Houston was elected to the United States Senate, in which he served for 13 years. In 1852, 1856, and 1860, as a Southerner who opposed any movement looking toward secession, he was regarded as a possible presidential candidate. But his career was now almost over, and in 1863, while the Civil War, which he had striven to prevent, was at its height, he died. Famous Affinities of History by Lyndon Orr, Volume 3, Lola Montes and King Ludwig of Bavaria. Lola Montes, the name suggests dark eyes and abundant hair, live limbs and a sinuous body, with twining hands and great eyes that clean with a sort of ebb and splendor. One thinks of Spanish beauty as one hears the name, and in truth Lola Montes justified the mental picture. She was not altogether Spanish, yet the other elements that entered into her mercurial nature heightened and vivified her chastelion traits. Her mother was a Spaniard, partly Moorish, however. Her father was an Irishman, and there you have it, the dreamy romance of Spain, the exotic touch of the Orient, and the daring, unreasoning vivacity of the Count. This woman, during the 43 years of her life, had adventures innumerable, was widely known in Europe and America, and actually lost one king his throne. Her maiden name was Marie Dolores Eliza Rosanna Gilbert. Her father was a British officer, the son of an Irish knight, Sir Edward Gilbert. Her mother had been a Danseus named Lola Oliver. Lola is diminutive of Dolores, as Lola she became known to the world. She lived at one time or another in nearly all the countries of Europe, and likewise in India, America, and Australia. It would be impossible to sit down here all the sensations that she achieved. Let us select the climax of her career and show how she overturned the kingdom, passing but lightly over her early and her later years. She was born in Limerick in 1818, but her father's parents cast off their son and his young wife, the Spanish dancer. They went to India and in 1825 the father died, leaving his young widow without a rupee, but she was quickly married again, this time to an officer of importance. The former Danseus became a very conventional person, a fit match for her highly conventional husband, but the small daughter did not take kindly to the proprieties of life. The Hindu servants taught her more things than she should have known, and at one time her stepfather found her performing the Danse du Ventre. It was the Moorish strain inherited from her mother. She was sent back to Europe, however, and had a sort of education in Scotland and England, finally in Paris, where she was detected in an incipient flirtation with her music master. There were other persons hanging about her from her fifteenth year, at which time her stepfather in India had arranged a marriage between her and a rich but uninteresting old judge. One of her numerous admirers told her this, What on earth am I to do, asked little Lola, most naively? Why, marry me, the artful advisor, who was Captain Thomas James, and so the very next day they fled to Dublin and were speedily married at me. Lola's husband was violently in love with her, but unfortunately others were no less susceptible to her charms. She was presented at the viceregal court and everyone there became her victim. Even the viceroy, Lord Normandy, was greatly taken with her. This nobleman's position was such that Captain James could not object to his attentions, though they made the husband angry to a degree. The viceroy would draw her into alcoves and engage her in flattering conversation, while poor James could only gnaw his nails and let green-eyed jealousy prey upon his heart. His only recourse was to take her into the country, where she speedily became bored and boredom is the death of love. Later she went with Captain James to India. She endured a campaign in Afghanistan in which she thoroughly enjoyed herself because of the attentions of the officers. On her return to London in 1842, one Captain Linux was a fellow passenger and their association resulted in an action for divorce, by which she was freed from her husband and yet by a technicality was not able to marry Linux, whose family in any case would probably have prevented the wedding. Mrs. Main says in writing on this point, even Lola never quite succeeded in being allowed to commit bigamy unmolested, though in later years she did commit it and took refuge in Spain to escape punishment. The same writer has given a vivid picture of what happened soon after the divorce. Lola tried to forget her past and to create a new and brighter future, here is the narrative. Her Majesty's Theatre was crowded on the night of June 10th, 1843, a new Spanish dancer was announced, Dona Lola Montes. It was her debut, and lonely the manager had been puffing her beforehand as he alone knew how. To Lord Ranila, the leader of the dilettante group of fashionable young men, he had whispered mysteriously, I have a surprise in store, you shall see. So Ranila and a party of his friends filled the omnibus boxes, those tribunes at the side of the stage when success or failure was pronounced. Things had been done with Lumley's consonant art. The packed house was murmurous with excitement. She was a raving beauty, said report, and then all those intoxicating Spanish dances. Taglioni, Cerrito, Fanny Elsa, all were to be eclipsed. Ranila's glasses were steadily leveled on the stage from the moment her entrance was imminent. She came on. There was a murmur of admiration, but Ranila made no sign, and then she began to dance. A sense of disappointment perhaps, but she was very lovely, very graceful, like a flower swept by the wind she floated round the stage. Not a dancer, but by George a beauty, and still Ranila made no sign. Yet no. What low, silibent sound is that, and then what confused angry words from the tribunal? He turns to his friends, his eyes ablaze with anger, upper glass in hand, and now again that terrible hiss, taken up by the other box, and the words repeated loudly and more angrily, even than before. The historic words which sealed Lola's doom at her Majesty's theater. Why, it's Betty James. She was indeed Betty James, and London would not accept her as Lola Montes. She left England and appeared on the continent as a beautiful virago, making a sensation. As the French would say, a success di scandale, by boxing the ears of people who offended her, and even on one occasion, horse whipping a policeman who was in attendance on the King of Prussia. In Paris, she tried once more to be a dancer, but Paris would not have her. Shepid took herself to Dresden and Warsaw, where she sought to attract attention by her eccentricities, making mouths at the spectators, flinging her garters in their faces, and one time removing her skirts and still more necessary garments, whereupon her manager broke off his engagement with her. An English writer who heard a great deal of her, and who saw her often about this time, writes that there was nothing wonderful about her, except her beauty and her impudence. She had no talent, nor any of the graces which make women attractive. Yet many men of talent raved about her. The clever young journalist Dujeret, who assisted Émile Girardin, was her lover in Paris. He was killed in a duel, and left Lola 20,000 francs and some securities, so that she no longer had to sing in the streets, as she did in Warsaw. She now betook herself to Munich, the capital of Bavaria. That country was then governed by Ludwig I, a king as eccentric as Lola herself. He was a curious compound of kindness, ideality, and peculiar ways. For instance, he would never use a carriage even on state occasions. He prowled about the streets, knocking off the hats of those whom he chanced to meet. Like his unfortunate descendant, Ludwig II, he wrote poetry, and he had a picture gallery devoted to portraits of the beautiful women whom he had met. He dressed like an English fox hunter, with the most extraordinary hat. And what was odd and peculiar in others pleased him, because he was odd and peculiar himself. Therefore, when Lola made her first appearance at the court theatre, he was enchanted with her. He summoned her at once to the palace, and within five days he presented her to the court, saying as he did so, mine, Heron, I present to you my best friend. In less than a month, this curious monarch had given Lola the title of Countess of Landsfeld. A handsome house was built for her, and a pension of 20,000 Florence was granted her. This was in 1847. With the people of Munich she was unpopular. They did not mind the eccentricities of the king, since these amused them and did the country no perceptible harm. But they were enraged by this beautiful woman who had no softness, such as a woman ought to have. Her swearing, her readiness to box the ears of everyone whom she disliked, the huge bulldog which accompanied her everywhere. All these things were beyond endurance. She was discourteous to the queen, besides meddling with the politics of the kingdom. Either of these things would have been sufficient to make her hated. Together they were more than the city of Munich could endure. Finally the Countess tried to establish a new core in the university. This was the last touch of all. A student who ventured to where her colors was beaten and arrested. Lola came to his aid with all her wanted boldness, but the city was in commotion. Daggers were drawn. Lola was hustled and insulted. The foolish king rushed out to protect her, and on his arm she was led in safety to the palace. As she entered the gate she turned and fired a pistol into the mob. No one was hurt, but a great rage took possession of the people. The king issued a decree closing the university for a year. By this time, however, Munich was in possession of a mob, and the Bavarians demanded that she should leave the country. Ludwig faced the Chamber of Peers, where the demand of the populace was placed before him. I would rather lose my crown, he replied. The lords of Bavaria regarded him with grim silence, and in their eyes he read the determination of his people. On the following day a royal decree revoked Lola's rights as a subject of Bavaria, and still another decree ordered her to be expelled. The mob yelled with joy and burned her house. Poor Ludwig watched the tumult by the light of the leaping flames. He was still in love with her and tried to keep her in the kingdom, but the result was that Ludwig himself was forced to abdicate. He had given his throne for the light love of this beautiful but half-crazy woman. She would have no more to do with him, and as for him, he had to give place to his son Maximilian. Ludwig had lost a kingdom merely because this strange, outrageous creature had peaked him and made him think that she was unique among women. The rest of her career was adventurous. In England she contracted a bigamess marriage with a youthful officer, and within two weeks they fled to Spain for safety from the law. Her husband was drowned and she made still another marriage. She visited Australia, and at Melbourne she had a fight with a strapping woman who clawed her face until Lola fell fainting to the ground. It is a squalid record of horse whippings face-scratching. In short, a rowdy life. Her end was like that of Becky Sharp. In America she delivered lectures which were written for her by a clergyman which dealt with the art of beauty. She had a temporary success, but soon she became quite poor and took to piety, professing to be a sort of piteous, penitent Magdalene. In this role she made effective use of her beautiful dark hair, her pallor, and her wonderful eyes. But the violence of her disposition had wrecked her physically, and she died of paralysis in Astoria on Long Island in 1861. Upon her grave in Greenwood Cemetery, Brooklyn, there is a tablet to her memory, bearing the inscription, quote, Mrs. Eliza Gilbert, born 1818, died 1861, end quote. What can one say of a woman such as this? She had no morals and her manners were outrageous. The love she felt was the love of a she-wolf. Fourteen biographies of her have been written, besides her own autobiography, which was called The Story of a Penitent and which tells less about her than any of the other books. Her beauty was undeniable. Her courage was the blended courage of the Kelt, the Spaniard, and the Moor. Yet all that one can say of her was said by the elder Dumas. When he declared that she was born to be the evil genius of everyone who cared for her, her greatest fame comes from the fact that in less than three years she overturned a kingdom and lost a king his throne. End of Lola Montes and King Ludwig of Stavaria. Leon Gambetta and Leonie Lyon. Volume 3 of Famous Affinities of History. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Famous Affinities of History by Lyndon Orr. Volume 3, Leon Gambetta and Leonie Lyon. The present French Republic has endured for over 40 years. Within that time it has produced just one man of extraordinary power and parts. This was Leon Gambetta. Other men, as remarkable as he, were conspicuous in French political life during the first few years of the Republic. But they belonged to an earlier generation, while Gambetta leaped into prominence only when the empire fell, crashing down in ruin and disaster. It is still too early to form an accurate estimate of him as a statesman. His friends praise him extravagantly. His enemies still revile him bitterly. The period of his political career lasted for little more than a decade, yet in that time it may be said that he lived almost a life of 50 years. Only a short time ago the French government caused his body to be placed within the Great Pantheon, which contains memorials of the heroes and heroines of France. But, though we may not fairly judge of his political motives, we can readily reconstruct the picture of him as a man, and in doing so, recall his one romance, which many will remember after they have forgotten his oratorical triumphs and his statecraft. Leon Gambetta was the true type of the southern Frenchman, what his countrymen call a meridional. The Frenchman of the south is different from the Frenchman of the north, for the latter has in his veins a touch of the Viking blood, so that he is very apt to be fair-haired and blue-eyed, temperate in speech and self-controlled. He is different again from the Frenchman of central France, who is almost purely Celtic. The meridional has a marked vein of the Italian in him, derived from the conquerors of ancient Gaul. He is impulsive, ardent, fiery in speech, hot-tempered, and vivacious to an extraordinary degree. Gambetta, who was born at Cahors, was French only on his mother's side, since his father was of Italian birth. It is also said that somewhere in his ancestry there was a touch of the Oriental. At any rate, he was one of the most southern of the sons of southern France, and he showed the Precaucas maturity which belongs to a certain type of Italian. At 21 he had already been admitted to the French bar, and had drifted to Paris, where his audacity, his pushing nature, and his red-hot, unrestrained of speech gave him a certain notoriety from the very first. It was toward the end of the reign of Napoleon III that Gambetta saw his opportunity. The emperor, weakened by disease and yielding to a sort of evil idealism, gave to France a greater freedom of speech than it had enjoyed while he was more rural. This relaxation of control merely gave to his opponents more courage to attack him and his empire. Demagogues harangued the crowds in words which would once have led to their imprisonment. In the National Assembly, the opposition did all within its power to hamper and defeat the policy of the government. In short, republicanism began to rise in an ominous and threatening way, and at the head of republicanism in Paris stood forth Gambetta with his impassioned eloquence, his singing phrases, and his youthful boldness. He became the idol of that part of Paris known as Belleville, where artisans and laborers united with the rival of the streets and hating the empire and uncrying out for a republic. Gambetta was precisely the man to voice the feelings of these people. Whatever polish he acquired in after years was then quite lacking, and the cruelty of his manners actually helped him with the man whom he harangued. A recent book by M. Francis Lauer, an ardent admirer of Gambetta, gives a picture of the man which may be nearly true of him in his later life, but which is certainly too flattering when applied to Gambetta in 1868 at the age of 30. How do we see Gambetta as he was at 30? A man of powerful frame and of intense vitality, with thick clustering hair, which he shook as the lion shakes its mane, olive skin with eyes that darted fire, a resonant, sonorous voice, and a personal magnetism which was instantly felt by all who meant him or who heard him speak. His manners were not refined. He was fond of oil and garlic. His gestures were often more frantic than impressive, so that his enemies called him the furious fool. He had a trick of spitting while he spoke. He was by no means a sort of man whose habits had been formed in drawing rooms or among people of good breeding. Yet his oratory was, of his kind, superb. In 1869, Gambetta was elected by the Red Republicans to the Core Legislative. From the very first, his vehemence and fire gained him a ready hearing. The chamber itself was arranged like a great theater, the members occupying the floor and the public the galleries. Each orator in addressing the house mounted a sort of rostrum and promise faced the whole assemblage, not noticing, as with us, the presiding officer at all. The very nature of this arrangement stimulated parliamentary speaking into eloquence and flamboyant oratory. After Gambetta had spoken a few times, he noticed in the gallery a tall, graceful woman, dressed in some neutral color and wearing long black gloves, which accentuated the beauty of her hands and arms. No one in the whole assembly paid such close attention to the orator as this woman, whom he had never seen before, and who appeared to be entirely alone. When it came to him to speak on another day, he saw sitting in the same place the same stately and yet light and sinuous figure. This was repeated again and again, until at last, whenever he came to a peculiarly fervid burst of oratory, he turned to this woman's face and saw it lighted up by the same enthusiasm which was stirring him. Finally, in the early part of 1870, there came a day when Gambetta surpassed himself in eloquence. His theme was a grandeur of republican government. Never in his life has he spoken so boldly as then or with such fervor, the ministers of the emperor shrank back in dismay as this big-voiced, strong-limbed man hurled forth sentence after sentence like successive peals of irresistible artillery. As Gambetta rolled forth his sentences, superb and their rhetoric, and all ablaze with a sort of intense feeling which mastered an orator in the moment of his triumph, the face of the lady in the gallery responded to him with wonderful appreciation. She was no longer calm, unmoved, or almost severe. She flushed, and her eyes, as they met his, seemed to sparkle with living fire. When he finished and descended from the rostrum, he looked at her, and their eyes cried out significantly as if the two had spoken to each other. Then Gambetta did what a person of finer breathing would not have done. He hastily scribbled a note, sealed it, and called to his side one of the official pages. In the presence of the Great Assemblage, where he was for the moment a center of attention, he pointed to the lady in the gallery and ordered the page to take the note to her. One may excuse this only on the ground that he was completely carried away by his emotion, so that to him there was no one present, save this enigmatically fascinating woman and himself. But the lady on her side was wiser, or perhaps a slight delay gave her time to recover her discretion. When Gambetta's note was brought to her, she took it quietly and tore it into little pieces without reading it, and then, rising, she glided through the crowd and disappeared. Gambetta, in his excitement, had acted as if she wore a mere adventurous. With perfect dignity, she had shown him that she was a woman who retained her self-respect. Immediately upon the heels of this curious incident came the outbreak of the war with Germany. In the war, the empire was shattered at Sedan. The republic was proclaimed in Paris, the French capital was besieged by a vast German army. Gambetta was made minister of the interior and remained for a while in Paris, even after it had been blockaded, but his fury spirit chafed under such conditions. He longed to go forth into the south of France and aroused his countrymen with a cry to arms against the invaders. Escaping in the balloon, he safely reached the city of Tours, and there he established what was practically a dictatorship. He flung himself with tremendous energy into the task of organizing armies of equipping them and of directing their movements to the relief of Paris. He did, in fact, accomplish wonders. He kept the spirit of the nation still alive. Three new armies were launched against the Germans. Gambetta was everywhere and took part in everything that was done. His inexperience in military affairs, coupled with his impatience of advice, led him to make serious mistakes. Nevertheless, one of his armies practically defeated the Germans at Orléans, and could he have had his own way, even the fall of Paris would not have ended the war. Never, said Gambetta, shall I consent to peace so long as France still has 200,000 men under arms and more than a thousand cannon to direct against the enemy. But he was overruled by other and less fiery statesmen. Peace was made, and Gambetta retired for a moment into private life. If he had not succeeded in expelling the German hosts he had, at any rate, made Bismarck hate him, and he had saved the honour of France. It was while the National Assembly at Versailles was debating the terms of peace with Germany, that Gambetta once more delivered a noble and patriotic speech. As he concluded, he felt a strange magnetic attraction, and, sweeping the audience with a glance, he saw before him, not very far away, the same woman with the long black gloves, having about her still an air of mystery, but again meeting his eyes with her own, suffused with feeling. Gambetta hurried to an ante-room and hastily scribbled the following note. At last I see you once more. Is it really you? The scroll was taken to her by a discreet official, and this time she received the letter, pressed it to her heart, and then slipped it into the bodies of her gown. But this time, as before, she left without making a reply. It was an encouragement, yet it gave no opening to Gambetta, for she returned to the National Assembly no more. But now his heart was full of hope, for he was convinced with a very deep conviction that somewhere, soon, and in some way, he would meet this woman, who had become to him one of the intense realities of his life. He did not know her name, they had never exchanged a word, yet he was sure that time would bring them close together. His intuition was unerring. What we call chance often seems to know what it is doing. Within a year after the occurrence that has just been narrated, an old friend of Gambetta's met with an accident which confined him to his house. The statesman strolled to his friend's residence. The accident was a trifling one, and the mistress of the house was holding a sort of informal reception, answering questions that were asked her by the numerous acquaintances who called. As Gambetta was speaking, of a sudden he saw before him, at the extremity of the room, the lady of his dreams. The sphinx of his waking hours, the woman who four years earlier had torn up the note which she addressed to her, but who more recently had kept his written words. Both of them were deeply agitated, yet both of them carried off the situation without betraying themselves to others. Gambetta approached, and they exchanged a few casual common places. But now, close together, I and the voice spoke of what was in their hearts. Presently the lady took her leave. Gambetta followed closely. In the street he turned to her and said in pleading tones, Why did you destroy my letter? You knew I loved you, and yet all these years you have kept away from me in silence. Then the girl, for she was a little more than a girl, hesitated for a moment. As she looked upon her face, he saw that her eyes were full of tears. At last she spoke with emotion. You cannot love me, for I am unworthy of you. Do not urge me. Do not make promises. Let us say goodbye. At least I must first tell you of my story, for I am one of those women whom no one ever marries. Gambetta brushed aside her pleadings. She begged that he might see her soon. Little by little she consented, but she would not see him at her house. She knew that his enemies were many and that everything she did would be used against him. In the end she agreed to meet him in the park at Versailles, near the Petit Triano, at eight o'clock in the morning. When she had made this promise, he left her. Already a new inspiration had come to him, and he felt that with this woman by his side he could accomplish anything. At the appointed hour, in the silence of the park, and amid the sunshine of the beautiful morning, the two met once again. Gambetta seized her hands with eagerness and cried out in an exalted tone. At last, at last, at last! But the woman's eyes were heavy with sorrow, and upon her face there was a settled melancholy. She trembled at his touch and almost shrank from him. Here was seen the impetuosity of the meridional. He had first spoken to this woman only two days before. He knew nothing of her station, of her surroundings, or of her character. He did not even know her name, yet one thing he knew absolutely, that she was made for him and he must have her for his own. He spoke at once of marriage, but at this she drew away from him still further. No, she said. I told you that you must not speak to me until you have heard my story. He led her to a great stone bench nearby, and, passing his arm around her waist, he drew her head down to his shoulder as he said. Well, tell me. I will listen. Then this girl of 24, with perfect frankness, because she was absolutely loyal, told him why she felt that they must never see each other anymore, much less marry and be happy. She was the daughter of a colonel in the French army. The sudden death of her father had left her penniless and alone. Coming to Paris at the age of 18, she had given lessons in the household of a high officer of the empire. This man had been attracted by her beauty and had seduced her. Later she had secured the means of living modestly, realizing more deeply each month how dreadful had been her fate and how she had been cut off from the lot of other girls. She felt that her life must be a perpetual penance for what had befallen her, through her ignorance and inexperience. She told Gambetta that her name was Lyoni Lyon. As is the custom of French women who live alone, she styled herself madame. It is doubtful whether the name by which she passed was that which had been given to her at baptism. But if so, her true name has never been disclosed. When she had told the whole of her sad story to Gambetta, he made nothing of it. She said to him again, You cannot love me. I should only dim your fame. You can have nothing in common with a dishonored, ruined girl. That is what I came here to explain to you. Let us part and let us for all time forget each other. But Gambetta took no heed of what she said. Now that he had found her, he would not consent to lose her. He seized her slender hands and covered them with kisses. Again, he urged that she should marry him. Her answer was a curious one. She was a devoted Catholic and would not regard any marriage as valid, save a religious marriage. On the other hand, Gambetta, though not absolutely irreligious, was leading the opposition to the Catholic party in France. The church to him was not so much a religious body as a political one, and to it he was unalterably opposed. Personally, he would have no objections to being married by a priest, but as a leader of the anti-clerical party, he felt that he must not recognize the church's claim in any way. A religious marriage would destroy his influence with his followers and might even imperil the future of the republic. They pleaded long and earnestly both then and afterward. He urged a civil marriage, but she declared that only a marriage according to the rights of the church could ever purify her past and give her back her self-respect. In this, she was absolutely stubborn, yet she did not urge upon Gambetta that he should destroy his influence by marrying her in church. Through all this interplay of argument and pleading and emotion, the two grew every moment more hopelessly in love. Then the woman, with a woman's curious subtlety and indirectness, reached a somewhat singular conclusion. She would hear nothing of a civil marriage because a civil marriage was no marriage in the eyes of Pope and Prelate. On the other hand, she did not wish Gambetta to mark his political career by going through a religious ceremony. She had heard from a priest that the church recognized two forms of betrothal. The usual one looked to a marriage in the future and gave no marriage privileges until after the formal ceremony. But there was another kind of betrothal known to the theologians as Ponsalia Depresente. According to this, if there were an actual betrothal, the pair might have the privileges and rights of marriage immediately, if only they sincerely meant to be married in the future. The eager mind of Leone Leone caught at this bit of a classiastical law and used it with great ingenuity. Let us, she said, be formally betrothed by the interchange of her ring, and let us promise each other to marry in the future. After such a betrothal as this we shall be the same as married, for we shall be acting according to the laws of the church. Gambetta gladly gave his promise. A betrothal ring was purchased, and then, her conscious being appeased, she gave herself completely to her lover. Gambetta was sincere, he said to her, if the time should ever come when I shall lose my political station, when I am beaten in the struggle, when I am deserted and alone, will you not then marry me when I ask you? And Leone, with her arms about his neck, promised that she would. Yet neither of them specified what sort of marriage this should be, nor did it seem at the moment as if the question could arise. For Gambetta was very powerful. He led his party to success in the election of 1877. Again and again his triumphant oratory mastered the National Assembly of France. In 1879 he was chosen to be President of the Chamber of Deputies. He towered far above the President of the Republic, Jules Grévy, that hard-headed, close-fisted old peasant, and his star had reached its zenith. All this time he and Leone Leone maintained their intimacy, though it was carefully concealed safe from a very few. She lived in a plain but pretty house under Avenue Perichon in the quiet corner of Atoy, but Gambetta never came there. Where and when they met was a secret guarded very carefully by the few who were his close associates. But meet they did continually and their affection grew stronger every year. Leone thrilled at the victories of the man she loved and he found joy in the hours that he spent with her. Gambetta's need for rest was very great, for he worked at the highest tension, like an engine which is using every pound of steam. Bismarck, whose spies kept him well informed of everything that was happening in Paris and who had no liking for Gambetta, since the latter always spoke of him as the ogre, one said to a Frenchman named Chebri. He is the only one among you who thinks of revenge and who is any sort of menace to Germany, but fortunately he won't last much longer. I am not speaking thoughtlessly, I know from secret reports what sort of a life your great man leads, and I know his habits. Why? His life is a life of continual overwork. He rests neither night nor day. All politicians who have led the same life have died young. To be able to serve one's country for a long time, a statesman must marry an ugly woman, have children like the rest of the world, and a country place or a house to one's self, like any common peasant, where he can go and rest. The iron chancellor chuckled as he said this, and he was right, and yet Gambetta's end came not so much through overwork as by an accident. It may be that the ambition of Madame Lyon stimulated him beyond his powers. However this may be, early in 1882, when he was defeated in parliament on a question which he considered vital, he immediately resigned and turned his back on public life. His fickle friend soon deserted him, his enemies jeered and hooded the mention of his name. He had reached a time which with a sort of prophetic instinct he had foreseen nearly 10 years before. So he turned to the woman who had been faithful and loving to him, and he turned to her with a feeling of infinite peace. You promised me, he said, that if I ever was defeated and alone you would marry me. The time is now. Then this man, who had exercised the powers of a dictator, who had levied armies and shaken governments, and through whose hands there had passed thousands of millions of francs, sought for a country home. He found for sale a small estate which had once belonged to Balzac, and which is known as Les Jardis. It was in wretched repair, yet the small sum which had caused Gambetta, 12,000 francs, was practically all that he possessed. Worn and weary as he was, it seemed to him a haven of delightful peace, for here he might live in the quiet country with a still beautiful woman who assumed to become his wife. It is not known what form of marriage they at last agreed upon. She may have consented to a civil ceremony, or he, being now out of public life, may have felt that he could be married by the church. The day for their wedding had been set, and Gambetta was already at Les Jardis, but there came a rumor that he had been shot, still further tidings bore the news that he was dying. Paris, fond as it was of scandals, immediately spread the tale that he had been shot by a jealous woman. The truth is quite the contrary. Gambetta, in arranging his effects in his new home, took it upon himself to clean a pair of dueling pistols, for every French politician of importance must fight duels, and Gambetta had already done so. Unfortunately, one cartridge remained unnoticed in the pistol which Gambetta cleaned, as he held the pistol barrel against the soft part of his hand, the cartridge exploded, and the ball passed through the base of the thumb with the rinding, spluttering noise. The wound was not in itself serious, but now the prophecy of Bismarck was fulfilled. Gambetta had exhausted his vitality, a fever set in, and before long he died of internal ulceration. This was the end of a great career, and of a great romance of love. Leonid Eon was half distraught at the death of the lover, who was so soon to be her husband. She wandered for hours in the forest until she reached the convent, where she was received. Afterward she came to Paris and hit herself away in a garret of the slums. All the life of her had gone out. She wished that she had died with him whose glory had been her life. Friends of Gambetta, however, discovered her and cared for her until her death, long afterward, in 1906. She lived upon the memories of the past, of the swift love that had come at first sight, but which had lasted unbrokenly, which had given her the pride of conquest, and which had brought her lover both happiness and inspiration, and a refining touch which had smoothed away his roughness, and made him fit to stand in palaces with dignity and distinction. As for him, he left a few lines which have been carefully preserved, and which sum up his thought of her. They read, To the light of my soul, to the star of my life, Leonie Lyon. Forever, forever, end of Leon Gambetta and Leonie Lyon.