Never a word about the lady’s relationship to her son or to herself.  Her reply is studiously formal, but every expression of it betokens grief and thoughts of the great martyr whom the woman she was writing to had wronged.  There is not a syllable of open reproach, though there runs through it a polite, withering indictment that must assuredly have cut deeply into the callous nature of this notorious Austrian Archduchess who had played her son so falsely.

This wonderful mother of a wonderful family seems to have been the least suspected of political plotting of all the Bonapartists.  She was respected by all, and revered and beloved by many.  Crowned heads were not indifferent to her strength and nobility of character, but the stupid old King who succeeded her son to the throne of France got it into his head that she was harbouring agents in Corsica to excite rebellion, and he thereupon had a complaint lodged against her.  Pius VII., who knew Madame Mere, sent his secretary to see her about this supposed intrigue.  She listened to what the representative of the Pope had to say, and then with stern dignity began her reply:—­

“Monseigneur, I do not possess the millions with which they credit me, but let M. de Blacas tell his master Louis XVIII. that if I did, I should not employ them to foment troubles in Corsica, or to gain adherents for my son in France, since he already has enough; I should use them to fit out a fleet to liberate him from St. Helena, where the most infamous perfidy is holding him captive.”

Then she bowed reverently and left the room.

This was indeed a slashing rebuff both to Pius VII. and the “Most
Christian King.”

Another very good story is told of this extraordinary old lady by H. Noel Williams.  It appears she persisted after the fall of the Empire in using the Imperial arms on her carriage.

“Why should I discontinue this symbol?” she asked.  “Europe bowed to the dust before my son’s arms for ten years, and her sovereigns have not forgotten it.”

On one occasion she was out driving when a block occurred.  Two Austrian officers, who were riding past, boldly looked into the carriage.  Madame Mere, observing the Austrian uniform, to which she had an aversion, was excited to indignation, so letting down the window she exclaimed to them, “What, gentlemen, is your pleasure?  If it is to see the mother of the Emperor Napoleon, here she is!” The officers were naturally crestfallen.  They respectfully saluted and rode off.  These stinging shots of hers were quite disturbing; they always went home, and reached too far for the comfort of her son’s persecutors.

Her letter to the allied sovereigns who met at Aix-la-Chapelle is one of the most trenchant indictments that has ever been penned.  Its logic, its brave, though courteous, appeal for justice and magnanimity, and above all the echo of motherly love which characterises it, stamp it as a document worth cherishing.  The last paragraph will fascinate the imagination of generations yet to come, and heavy judgment will be laid on those that were committing the crime.