Neipperg, this foul and willing instrument of seduction, whose baseness insults every moral law, suffered great agony for three years from an incurable disease, and died in December, 1828, aged fifty-seven years.  The Kings and regicides in their ferocious fear had made it an important part of their policy that Marie Louise should be the pivot on which the complete ruin of Napoleon should centre, so Neipperg was fixed upon as a fit and proper person to mould the ex-Empress into passive obedience to the wishes of her husband’s inveterate enemies.  Meneval notes that this man had already amours to his credit.  He had indeed run away with another man’s wife, and had issue by her.  Probably his amorous reputation influenced the oligarchy in their choice.

In order that the plan might be carried out, he adroitly improvised falsehood, poured into her ears stories of faithlessness on the part of her Imperial husband, read books and pamphlets manufactured and exactly suited for the purpose he had in view.  His instructions were to carry things as far he could get them to go, and he did this with revolting success.

God’s broad earth has not known a more ugly incident than that of carrying personal hatred and political cowardice to such a pitch of delirium as that of forcing a weak woman to forsake her husband, sacrifice the interests of her child, and tempt her to break her marriage vow in order that her husband’s ruin might be more completely assured.  As a matter of high policy its wickedness will never be excelled.

At the death of her morganatic husband Marie Louise became “inconsolable.”  She gave orders for a “costly mausoleum to be put up so that her grief might be durably established.”  In reply to a letter of condolence written to her by the eminent Italian, Dr. Aglietti, in which he seems to have made some courteous and consoling observations, she says “that all the efforts of art were powerless, for it is impossible to fight against the Divine Will.  You are very right in saying that time and religion can alone diminish the bitterness of such a loss.  Alas! the former, far from exercising its power over me, only daily increases my grief.”  This “amiable,” grief-stricken royal sham, overcharged with expressions of religious fervour, succumbs again to her natural instincts.  “Time,” she avers, “cannot console,” but only increases the depth of her grief for “our dear departed.”

Her sentiments would be consummately impressive were it not that we know how wholly deceitful she was without in the least knowing it.  But the creeping horror of time is quickly softened by her marriage in 1833 to a Frenchman called De Bombelles, who was in the service of her native land, and is said to have had English blood in his veins.  In spite of the loyal effort of Meneval to make her ironic procession through life appear as favourable as he can, the only true impression that can be arrived at is that she was without shame, self-control, or pity.