M. Tascher, a native of France, having resigned his commission in the
cavalry, retired to an estate in the Island of St. Domingo. In the
year 1763, he, together with his wife, made a visit to a sister in
Martinico, and there, on the 23d of June, a daughter, Josephine, was
born. On the return of her parents to St. Domingo, she was left with
her aunt, and there are no traces of future intercourse with them.
Often, in after years, did Josephine revert to the unmingled happiness
and peaceful enjoyments of her childhood. The advantages for education
enjoyed by Mademoiselle Tascher were superior to what would be
supposed by those who have only known the French colonies at a
subsequent period. The proprietors were many of them highly
accomplished gentlemen, born and educated in France, who had retired
to their estates in the New World, as a retreat from which to watch
the progress of those events which were beginning to disturb the quiet
of the Old.
[Illustration: JOSEPHINE.]
Josephine, naturally amiable and gentle in disposition, with manners
which combined ease and elegance with dignity, possessed a natural
aptitude for acquiring feminine accomplishments. She played,
especially on the harp, and sung with exquisite feeling. Her dancing
is said to have been perfect. An eye-witness describes her light form,
rising scarcely above the middle size, as seeming in its faultless
symmetry to float rather than to move--the very personation of Grace.
She was mistress of the pencil and of the needle. Flowers were her
passion; she early cultivated a knowledge of botany. To the _empress_
Josephine Europe is indebted for a knowledge of the Camelia. She read
delightfully; the tones of her voice fascinated. "The first applause
of the French people," said Napoleon, "sounded to my ear sweet as the
voice of Josephine."
The companion of her infancy was a mulatto girl, some years older than
herself,--her foster-sister, Euphemia,--who never afterwards quitted
her patroness, shared in her amusements, and was the companion of her
rambles. In one of these an incident occurred, which exercised a
lasting influence over her imagination. The particulars were, long
afterwards, thus related by herself:--
"One day, some time before my first marriage, while taking my usual
walk, I observed a number of negro girls assembled round an old woman,
who was telling their fortune. I stopped to listen to her. The
sorceress, on seeing me, uttered a loud shriek, and grasped my hand. I
laughed at her grimaces, and allowed her to proceed, saying, 'So you
discover something extraordinary in my destiny?' 'I do.' 'Do you
discover traces of happiness, or misfortune?' 'Of misfortune,
certainly; but of happiness also.' 'You take care not to commit
yourself, my worthy sibyl; your oracles are not the most clear.' 'I
am not permitted to make them more so,' said the woman, raising her
eyes in a mysterious manner towards heaven. My curiosity was now
awakened, and I said to her, 'But tell me, what read you in futurity
concerning me?' 'What do I read? You will not believe me if I tell
you.' 'Yes, indeed, I assure you. Come, good woman, what am I to hope
or fear?' 'You insist; listen then. You will soon be married; the
union will not be happy; you will become a widow, and then--you will
become queen of France! You will enjoy many years of happiness, but
you will be killed in a popular commotion.' The old woman then burst
from the crowd, and hurried away as fast as her limbs, enfeebled by
age, would permit. I forbade the bystanders to laugh at the prophetess
for her ridiculous prediction, and took the occasion to caution the
young negro women against giving credit to such pretenders.
Henceforth, I thought of the affair only to laugh at it. But
afterwards, when my husband had perished on the scaffold, in spite of
my better judgment, this prediction forcibly recurred to my mind; and,
though I was myself then in prison, the transaction daily assumed a
less improbable character, and I ended by regarding the fulfilment as
almost a matter of course."
Nothing at the time seemed less likely than the fulfilment of the
prediction. Miss Tascher seemed destined to become the wife of some
creole youth, and to pass a tranquil and indolent life on some
neighboring plantation. It so chanced, however, that the young
Vicompte Alexander de Beauharnais, "who," in Josephine's words,
"had embraced the new ideas with all the ardor of a very lively
imagination," after serving with distinction in the war of the
American revolution, came to Martinico to prove his title to some
estates which had fallen by inheritance to himself and his brother.
These estates were held on lease by Josephine's uncle, and an
acquaintance between the young people naturally followed. They
became mutually attached; but his relatives, who were opposed to the
match, interposed obstacles which Josephine surmounted with a
gentleness and address hardly to be expected in a girl of sixteen. In
1794, writing to her children, Josephine says, "If to my union with
your father I have been indebted for all my happiness, I dare to
think and say, that to my own character I owe our union, so many
were the obstacles which opposed us. Yet, without any effort of
talents, I effected their removal. I found in my own heart the
means of gaining the affection of my husband's relations; patience
and goodness will ever in the end conciliate the good-will of
others."
On their arrival in France, in 1779, the youthful pair are said to
have created a sensation in society. The manners and accomplishments
of Josephine excited admiration in the most polished court in Europe;
and the attentions of Marie Antoinette made an impression on her
grateful heart which endured through a life, the incidents of which
were in such seeming opposition to the interests of the Bourbons. Much
of their time, however, was spent on the vicompte's estates in
Brittany; and here were born Eugene, afterwards viceroy of Italy, and
Hortense, afterwards queen of Holland.
Every thing gave promise of enduring happiness. But the misconduct of
the vicompte destroyed it. Josephine at first complained with
gentleness, and sought by increased fondness to win back the waning
affections of her husband. Finding this unavailing, she infused into
her reproaches a degree of bitterness which alienated completely the
affections she was so anxious to gain. A separation was the
consequence, and Josephine returned with her children to Martinico.
After an absence of several years, she once again sailed for France,
and in circumstances far from affluent. An incident which occurred on
the voyage was thus related to the ladies of her court. She had
indulged a wish they had expressed to see her jewels. They were spread
upon a spacious table, which was covered with them. The brilliancy,
the size, and the quantity, of the jewels composing the different
sets, were dazzling to the eye. Here were collected the choicest gems
of Europe, for all its nations had been eager to heap presents upon
the wife of Napoleon. After she had permitted the ladies to examine at
leisure these treasures, which almost realized the tales of the
"Arabian Nights," Josephine said to them, "During the first dawn of my
elevation, I delighted in these trifles. I grew by degrees so tired of
them, that I no longer wear any, except when I am compelled to do so
by my station in the world. Trust to me, ladies, and do not envy a
splendor which does not constitute happiness. You will be surprised
when I tell you that I felt more pleasure at receiving a pair of old
shoes, than at being presented with all the diamonds now spread before
you." The ladies smiled at what they considered a mere pleasantry; but
Josephine repeated the remark with such earnestness as to induce them
to ask for the story. "Accompanied by Hortense, I embarked at
Martinico for France. Being separated from my husband, my pecuniary
resources were not very flourishing; the expense of my return to
France, which the state of my affairs rendered necessary, had nearly
drained my purse, and I found great difficulty in providing the
indispensable requisites for the voyage. Hortense, who was a smart,
lively girl, became a great favorite with the sailors; she entertained
them by imitating the songs and dances of the negroes. No sooner did
she observe me engaged, than she slipped upon deck, and repeated her
little exercises to the renewed delight of all. An old quarter-master
was particularly attentive to her, and, whenever he found a moment's
leisure, he devoted it to his _little friend_, who became much
attached to him. This constant dancing and skipping soon destroyed my
daughter's slight shoes. Knowing that she had no other pair, and
fearing that I should forbid her going upon deck, if I should discover
this defect in her attire, she concealed it. Her bleeding feet one day
attracted my notice. I asked, in alarm, if she had hurt herself. 'No,
mamma.' 'But your feet are bleeding.' 'It really is nothing.' I
insisted upon seeing what was the matter, and found that the shoes
were in tatters, and her foot dreadfully torn by a nail. The voyage
was not half performed, and there seemed no possibility of procuring a
new pair before reaching France. I was quite overcome at the idea of
Hortense's sorrow at being compelled to remain shut up in my little
cabin, and to the injury to her health. My tears found a free vent.
At this moment our friend the quarter-master appeared. With honest
bluntness he asked the cause of our grief. Hortense, sobbing all the
while, told him that she could no longer go on deck, because she had
no shoes. 'Is that all?' said he; 'I have an old pair somewhere in my
chest; I will bring them; you, madam, can cut them to shape, and I
will sew them as well as I can. On board ship, you must put up with
many things. It is not the place to be too nice and particular.' He
did not wait for my reply, but went in quest of his shoes, which he
brought to us with an air of exultation, and offered them to Hortense,
who received them with eager delight. We set to work with zeal, and
Hortense enjoyed the delight of furnishing the evening's diversion to
the crew. I repeat that no present was ever received by me with more
pleasure than this pair of old, coarse, leather shoes."
The motive of Josephine in returning to France was to be near her
husband, who was a prominent actor in the scenes of the French
revolution. Knowing the warmth of his political feelings, she
trembled for his safety; her past resentment vanished. She sought a
reconciliation, which he most cordially desired.
Passing onward in our story, we find Madame de Beauharnais a widow and
a prisoner. Her husband, after filling the offices of president of the
Convention, and general-in-chief of the army of the Rhine, had, during
the reign of terror, perished on the scaffold. On the same day on
which this event was communicated to her, she received an intimation
to prepare herself for death. But she had found a new source of
strength. Her mind, in reverting to past scenes dwelt upon the almost
forgotten prophecy of the negress. Her imagination was excited; it
began to appear less and less absurd to her, and finally terminated in
her almost certain belief. The following relation was made by herself
at Navarre:--
"The jailer came one morning to the room occupied by the Duchess
d'Aiguillon, two other ladies, and myself, and said that he came to
remove my bed, which was to be given to another prisoner. 'Why give it
away?' said the duchess eagerly: 'is, then, Madame de Beauharnais to
have a better?' 'No, no; she will not need one at all,' said the
wretch, with an atrocious smile; 'she is to be taken to a new
lodging, and thence to the guillotine.' On hearing this, my companions
shrieked aloud. I endeavored to console them. At length, wearied
with their continued lamentations, I told them their grief was
quite unreasonable; that not only I should not die, but that I should
be queen of France. 'Why do you not at once name the persons of your
household?' said Madame d'Aiguillon, with an air of resentment.
'Very true; I had quite forgotten it. Well, my dear, you shall be lady
of honor; you may rely upon my promise.' The tears of the ladies
now flowed afresh, for my composure made them think that my reason was
affected. I assure you, however, that there was no affectation of
courage on my part; I felt a conviction that the oracle would be
fulfilled. Madame d'Aiguillon grew faint, and I led her towards the
window, which I threw open, that she might breathe the fresh air;
I suddenly caught sight of a poor woman who was making signs to us.
She was laying hold of her gown at every moment--a sign which we were
at a loss to understand. At length I cried out to her,' _Robe_.' She
nodded in assent, and then, picking up a stone, held it up with
her other hand. '_Pierre_,' I cried out. Her joy was unbounded when
we understood her; and, bringing the gown close to the stone, she
made quick and repeated signs of cutting her throat, and began to
dance and clap her hands. This strange pantomime excited an emotion
in our minds which it is impossible to describe, as we ventured to
hope that it gave us the announcement of _Robespierre's_ death.
"Whilst we were in this state of suspense, we heard a great noise in
the passage, and the formidable voice of the keeper, who, giving a
kick to his dog, said to the animal, 'Get out of the way, you d--d
brute of a Robespierre.' This energetic phraseology proved to us that
France was rid of her tyrant. In fact, our companions in misfortune
came in soon afterwards, and gave us the details of the important
event. My hammock was brought back to me, and I never enjoyed a
quieter night. I fell asleep, after saying to my friends, 'You see
that I am not guillotined; I shall yet be queen of France!'"
Notwithstanding this confidence, Josephine had devoted a portion of
her last day to writing a last farewell to her children. Here are
extracts from it: "My children, your father is dead, and your mother
is about to follow him; but as, before that final stroke, the
assassins leave me a few moments to myself, I wish to employ them in
writing to you. Socrates, when condemned, philosophized with his
disciples; a mother, on the point of undergoing a similar fate, may
discourse with her children. My last sigh will be for you, and I wish
to make my last words a lasting lesson. Time was, when I gave you
lessons in a more pleasing way; but the present will not be the less
useful, that it is given at so serious a moment. I have the weakness
to water it with my tears; I shall soon have the courage to seal it
with my blood. * * * I am about to die as your father died, a victim
of the fury he always opposed, but to which he fell a sacrifice. I
leave life without hatred of France and its assassins; but I am
penetrated with sorrow for the misfortunes of my country. Honor my
memory in sharing my sentiments. I leave for your inheritance the
glory of your father, and the name of your mother, whom some who have
been unfortunate will bear in remembrance." In more prosperous days,
the poor and the distressed had ever found Josephine's heart and hand
open for their relief. She was now herself obliged to rely upon the
benevolence of others for her own subsistence, and of the services she
then received, she ever retained a grateful recollection. She had been
most affected by the attentions of Madame Dumoulin, and felt great
delight, in after years, in adverting to the subject. At this period
of general scarcity, this benevolent lady every day entertained at her
table a party of those whose means were more limited. Madame de
Beauharnais was a regular guest. Bread was at this time so scarce as
to be a subject of legal enactment, restricting the quantity allowed
to each person to two ounces. Guests at the houses of the most
opulent, even, were expected to bring their own bread. Aware that
Madame de Beauharnais was in more distressed circumstances than the
rest, Madame Dumoulin dispensed with this practice in her favor,
thereby justifying the expression of the latter, that she received
_her daily bread_ from her.
Tallien, Barras, and those who succeeded to power, on the fall of the
terrorists, being themselves not destitute of refinement, were
desirous that society should emerge from the state of barbarism into
which it had fallen. Madame Tallien, distinguished for grace, beauty,
and brilliancy of wit, exerted all her charms to diffuse a taste for
the courtesies and amenities of civilized life, and thus to soften the
sanguinary spirit which had led to so many atrocities. Calling to her
assistance her intimate friend, Madame de Beauharnais, the task was
soon, to some extent, accomplished. Private individuals did not yet
dare to make any show of wealth by receiving company habitually at
their own houses. Public balls, and public concerts at the Hotels
Thelusson and Richelieu, were the fashion. Here persons of all
opinions, of all castes, intermingled, and laughed and danced together
in the utmost harmony. The influence of Madame Tallien was at this
time very great, and under her protection many an _emigre_ returned,
and many a royalist emerged from the hiding-place to figure in these
gay scenes. Most of them submitted with a good grace to the new order
of things. It sometimes chanced, however, that curiosity or ennui
would lead thither some who could not so readily lay aside feelings
and habits acquired under the old _regime_, and scenes would occur not
a little amusing to the philosophic observer, who, had he possessed
the gift of second sight, would have been doubly amused. One of these
is thus related by a contemporary. Madame de D. was one evening
persuaded, by the old Marquis d'Hautefort, so far to lay aside her
prejudices as to accompany him, with her daughter, to a ball at
Thelusson's. The party arrived late. The room was crowded. By dint of
elbowing and entreaties, they reached the centre. To find two seats
together was impossible, and Madame de D., who was not of a timid
nature, looked about on all sides to find at least one. Her eyes
encountered a young and charming face, surrounded by a profusion of
light hair, looking slyly forth from a pair of large, dark-blue eyes,
and exhibiting altogether the image of the most graceful of sylphs.
This young lady was conducted back to her seat by M. de T., which
proved that she danced well; for none other were invited to be his
partners. The graceful creature, after courtesying, with a blush, to
the Vestris of the ball-rooms, sat down by the side of a female, who
appeared to be her elder sister, and whose elegant dress excited the
notice and envy of all the women at the ball. "Who are those persons?"
said Madame de D. "What, is it possible that you do not know the
Viscountess Beauharnais?" said the marquis. "It is she and her
daughter. There is a vacant place by her; come and sit down; you may
renew your acquaintance with her." Madame de D., without making any
reply, gave such a tug at the arm of the marquis as to draw him,
whether he would or not, into one of the little saloons. "Are you
mad?" said she to him. "A pretty place, truly, by the side of Madame
Beauharnais! Ernestine would of course have been obliged to make
acquaintance with her daughter. Marquis, you must have lost your
wits."
In the month of May, 1795, Napoleon Bonaparte came to Paris. His
energies and talents had already attracted the notice of some of the
leading men, especially of Barras, who had witnessed his conduct at
Toulon. Upon the establishment of the Directory, he was appointed
general-in-chief of the army of the interior, and commandant of Paris.
In this latter capacity he had his first particular interview with
Josephine. It had been his duty to disarm the citizens, and he had
thus become possessed of the sword of Viscount Beauharnais. Eugene,
who had a reverential admiration of his father, wished to obtain so
precious a relic. Though not yet fourteen, he presented himself at the
levee of the commander-in-chief, and solicited the restoration of his
father's sword. His frank and gallant bearing pleased the general, who
immediately granted the request.
The next day, Madame Beauharnais called at the head-quarters, to thank
the general for his condescension to her son. They had before met at
the table of Barras; but a disappointed, and, in some degree,
disgraced officer was not likely to attract the regards of one already
looked upon as among the most distinguished ladies in France. But the
circumstances of their present interview served to infuse a particular
interest into their previous acquaintance. Bonaparte returned the
visit. He became a suitor in his turn. Josephine, besides her intimacy
with Madame Tallien, herself exerted great influence over those in
power, and could do much to secure the position of the young soldier.
Ambition, as well as love, being his prompters, Bonaparte was not the
man to fail, gifted, as he appears to have been, from Josephine's own
confession, with unequalled powers of persuasion. The nuptials were
celebrated March 9th, 1796, and twelve days after, Bonaparte left
Paris to take the command of the army of Italy--an appointment which
Barras had promised, as it were, as a dowry for Josephine.
Amidst the exciting, and, one would think, all-absorbing events of
that wonderful campaign, Josephine was always in the thoughts of the
youthful conqueror. His constant letters breathe the most romantic
passion, couched in the most ardent language. By some accident, the
glass of a miniature of his bride, which he constantly wore about his
person, was broken; how he knew not. This simple occurrence he
conceived to be a prognostication of the death of the original, and
enjoyed no peace of mind, until a courier, despatched express,
returned with tidings of her safety.
The campaign finished, Josephine joined her husband at the head-quarters
at Montebello, where a crowd of princes, nobles, and ambassadors,
had assembled to settle with the conqueror the terms of peace. Add
to these a crowd of young and gallant Frenchmen, the officers of the
army, flushed with victory, and we have a picture of a court as
brilliant as can well be conceived. All vied in assiduous attention
to her who was beloved and honored by the general. All was joy and
festivity. The most magnificent entertainments were varied by
excursions among the enchanting scenery around. For all this Josephine
was indebted to her husband, and it was all enjoyed in his company. In
after life, she often reverted to this as the happiest period of her
existence. Of her conduct in this new position, Bonaparte himself
remarked, "I conquer provinces, Josephine gains hearts."
When the expedition to Egypt was determined upon, a new armament was
to be organized, and great difficulties to be overcome. While her
husband passed the day, and frequently great part of the night, in his
cabinet, or at the Luxemburg, in wringing from the Directory reluctant
consent to his measures, Josephine, in the saloon, was equally active
in attaching new or confirming old adherents. Never were those
conciliating manners for which she was so celebrated more successfully
employed, than in the dawn of her husband's fortunes. Not a few were
thus won to a standard which they were destined to display over so
many prostrate capitals of Europe. Under her auspices, too, were
formed some unions, more in consonance with her own gentle nature.
"Habit," said the empress, long afterwards, "has rendered the practice
familiar; but there is only one occasion on which I should voluntarily
say, _I will_; namely, when I would say, _I will_ that all around me
be happy."
The greater portion of the time of her husband's absence in the East
was passed by her at Malmaison, an estate which she purchased, about
twelve miles from Paris. Here she occupied herself in the education of
her daughter, in the improvement of the grounds, and in watching over
and securing the interests of her husband. To this end it was
necessary that she should see much company; but she received none to
her intimacy, except a few of her ancient female friends.
Leading a life above reproach, there were about her concealed enemies,
who watched in order to misrepresent every action; of these the most
active were her own brothers and sisters-in-law, who, needy and
rapacious, and totally dependent on their brother, viewed with jealous
alarm any influence which threatened the exclusive dominion they
wished to maintain over his mind. In the Syrian camp there were found
creatures base enough to be the instruments of conveying their
slanders to their destination. A repetition of these produced at
length some effect on the jealous temper of the husband, as was
obvious from the altered tone of his letters, which had hitherto been
full of the most tender and confiding affection. On his return,
however, an explanation took place, which left not a shade of
suspicion on his mind; nor was the union ever afterwards disturbed
from the same cause.
The crisis which Bonaparte had foreseen at length arrived; the people
demanded the overthrow of the weak and tyrannical government. During
the 19th of Brumaire, Josephine remained at home, in the most anxious
inquietude, relieved, indeed, from time to time, by her husband's
attention in despatching notes of what was passing at St. Cloud. When
night, however, and at last morning, came, without sight, or even
tidings, of him, she was in a condition bordering on distraction. In
this state, she had retired to bed, when, at length, about four in the
morning, the _Consul_ entered the apartment. A lively conversation
ensued, and Bonaparte gayly announced that the fate of thirty
millions of people bad passed into his hands, by the remark, "Good
night--to-morrow we sleep in the Luxemburg."
The palace of the Luxemburg was soon found "_trop etroit_,"--too
confined,--and the consuls removed their residence to the Tuileries,
the ancient palace of the kings, now disguised by the title of the
"governmental palace." To the wife of the "first consul" a portion of
the former royal apartments was assigned, and here, soon after the
installation, she made her first essay in the grand observances of
empire. On the evening of her first levee, the drawing-rooms were
crowded, at an early hour, by a most brilliant assembly, and so
numerous, that the doors of her private apartments were thrown open.
Madame Bonaparte was announced, and entered, conducted by M. de
Talleyrand, then minister for foreign affairs. A momentary feeling of
disappointment may have crossed the minds of those who had looked for
magnificence and state. Josephine was attired with the utmost
simplicity, in a robe of white muslin: her hair, without decoration of
any kind, and merely retained by a plain comb, fell in tresses upon
her neck, in the most becoming negligence; a collar of pearls
harmonized with and completed this unpretending costume. A spontaneous
murmur of admiration followed her entrance: such were the grace and
dignity of her deportment, that, in the absence of all the external
attributes of rank, a stranger would have fixed upon the principal
personage in the circle, as readily as if radiant with diamonds and
stars of every order. Making the tour of the apartments, the
ambassadors from foreign powers were first introduced to her. When
these were nearly completed, the first consul entered, but without
being announced, dressed in a plain uniform, with a sash of
tri-colored silk. In this simplicity there were both good taste and
sound policy. The occasion was not a royal levee; it was merely the
first magistrate and his wife receiving the congratulations of their
fellow-citizens.
Josephine was at this time thirty-six years old; but she yet retained
those personal advantages which usually belong only to more youthful
years. The surpassing elegance and taste displayed in the mysteries of
the toilet were doubtless not without their influence in prolonging
the empire of beauty; but nature had been originally bountiful. Her
stature was exactly that perfection which is neither too tall for
female delicacy, nor so diminutive as to detract from dignity. Her
person was faultlessly symmetrical, and the lightness and elasticity
of its action gave an aerial character to her graceful carriage. Her
features were small and finely modelled, of a Grecian cast. The
habitual character of her countenance was a placid sweetness. "Never,"
says a very honest admirer, "did any woman better justify the saying,
'The eyes are the mirror of the soul.'" Josephine's were of a deep
blue, clear and brilliant, usually lying half concealed under their
long and silky eyelashes. The winning tenderness of her mild, subdued
glance had a power which could tranquillize Napoleon in his darkest
moods. Her hair was "glossy chestnut brown," harmonizing delightfully
with a clear and transparent complexion, and neck of almost dazzling
whiteness. Her voice has already been mentioned; it constituted one of
her most pleasing attractions, and rendered her conversation the most
captivating that can easily be conceived.
On the 7th of May, 1800, the first consul took leave of his wife, on
his departure for Italy. "Courage," said he, "my good Josephine! I
shall not forget thee, nor will my absence be long." To both promises
he was faithful. On the 2d of July, less than two months after he left
Paris, he again slept at the Tuileries, having, in that brief space,
broken the strength of the mighty armies which opposed him, wrested
Italy, which the Austrians had reconquered during his absence in the
East, again from their power, and thus laid deep the foundations of
his future empire. During this brilliant campaign, Josephine's
absorbing enjoyment was to read the letters from Italy. These, in the
handwriting of the consul, or dictated to his secretary, arrived
almost daily at Malmaison, where she had resided, superintending the
improvements. At this period, too, she began a collection of rare
animals; to which the power or conquests of her husband, or a grateful
remembrance of her own kindness, brought her accessions from all
quarters of the globe.
The first consul now had leisure to enjoy the tranquillity which he
had restored. The _jours de conge_, or _holydays_, on which, retiring
to Malmaison, he threw off the cares of state, now came round more
frequently. His visitors, on these occasions, were, besides the chief
officers of state and of the army, the persons most distinguished for
talent and for birth, the historic names of the olden time mingling
with the new men of the revolution. Josephine received her visitors
with elegance and grace, and with a simplicity which placed every one
perfectly at his ease. The amusements were of the simplest kind. The
favorite was the familiar, schoolboy game of "prison-bars." Bonaparte,
in the selection of partisans, always chose Josephine, never suffering
her to be in any camp but his own. When by chance she was taken
prisoner, he seemed uneasy till she was released, making all exertions
for that purpose, though a bad runner himself, often coming down, in
mid career, plump upon the grass. Up again, however, he started, but
usually so convulsed with laughter that he could not move, and the
affair generally ended in his own captivity.
But Josephine did not neglect the higher duties of her station. From
the moment she had the power, her endeavors were used to alleviate the
misfortunes of those whom the revolution had driven into exile, and a
considerable portion of her income was devoted to their support. To
the general act of amnesty, which the consul had issued on his access
to power, there were many exceptions. To smooth the difficulties which
lay in the way of the return of such, Josephine's influence and
exertions were seldom denied, and rarely unsuccessful. "Josephine," as
her husband remarked, "will not take a refusal; but, it must be
confessed, she rarely undertakes a cause that has not propriety, at
least, on its side."
In May, 1804, destiny was fulfilled in the prediction of which
Josephine had professed so long to believe. On the 18th of that month,
the Senate, headed by the ex-second consul, proceeded in state to her
apartments, and saluted her as Empress of the French. She received
their congratulations with emotion, but with her accustomed benignity
and grace. The succeeding night was passed by her in tears. "To be the
wife of the _first consul_, fulfilled her utmost ambition."
Presentiments of evil now filled her bosom. The ambition of founding a
new dynasty had found a place in the breast of the _consul_: would not
this increase in strength in that of the _emperor_? The hopes of
establishing it in his own line were now little likely to be realized,
and the enemies of Josephine had already hinted at a divorce. What
impression these might have made had been effaced for the time by the
grant of power to Bonaparte to name his successor in the consulship,
and by the birth of a son to Louis, who had married Hortense, but
especially by his undiminished affection for his wife. He now had the
inducement of seeking, by new family ties, to secure the stability of
his throne. But such thoughts did not permanently disturb the repose
of Josephine. Impressions were readily made, and as quickly effaced;
and she possessed the true secret of happiness--the art of postponing
imaginary evil, and of enjoying the real good of the moment.
In her new situation Josephine found another source of sorrow. The
state and ceremony of the consulship had sadly marred the pleasures of
domestic intercourse. But now she found herself alone, above the
kindly glow of equal affections--a wretched condition for one "whose
first desire was to be loved." She sought, however, by increased
kindness, to lessen the distance between herself and her old friends
and companions. Nothing could be more amiable than the reception
which she gave to those who came to take the oaths of fidelity on
receiving appointments in her household. She took care to remove all
ostentatious ceremony, talked to them on familiar topics, and sought
to make the whole pass as an agreement between two friends to love
each other. This condescension extended even to her humble domestics,
yet never degenerated into undignified familiarity or absence of
self-possession, as the following little incident will show. On the
first occasion of her leaving St. Cloud for a distant excursion as
empress, she traversed a whole suit of apartments to give directions
to a very subaltern person of the household. The grand steward
ventured to remonstrate on her thus compromising her dignity. The
empress gayly replied, "You are quite right, my good sir; such neglect
of etiquette would be altogether inexcusable in a princess trained
from birth to the restraints of a throne; but have the goodness to
recollect that I have enjoyed the felicity of living so many years as
a private individual, and do not take it amiss if I sometimes venture
to speak kindly to my servants without an interpreter."
The frequent excursions made by the court formed a principal class of
events in Josephine's life as empress; they constituted those
alternations which gave her most pleasure. When such journeys were in
contemplation, none knew the hour of departure, or even the route--a
secrecy adopted to guard against conspiracies. "We set out at such an
hour," generally an early one, Napoleon would carelessly say, as he
retired for the night. By the appointed hour every preparation was
made, and the imperial travellers departed.
Sometimes Josephine travelled alone; and, on such occasions, every
thing was arranged beforehand, including the replies she was to make
to the addresses made to her, and the presents she was to bestow. Even
the most minute thing was set down in a huge manuscript volume, which
Josephine diligently conned previous to every ceremony. But if any
thing chanced to escape her memory in this multiplicity of details,
her unpremeditated answers or arrangements were always delivered with
so much eloquence and propriety, or marked with such perfect kindness,
that all parties were satisfied. Sometimes, however, a little mistake
occurred, as, for example, on departing from Rheims, Josephine
presented the mayoress with a medalion of malakite, set with diamonds,
using the expression, "It is the emblem of hope." Some days after, on
seeing this absurdity in one of the journals, she could not believe
that she had used it, and despatched a courier instantly to Napoleon,
fearing his displeasure above all things. This occasioned the famous
order that no journalist should report any speech of the emperor or
empress, unless the same had previously appeared in the "_Moniteur_."
But Josephine usually adhered with scrupulous exactness to her written
instructions. "He has said it, and it must be right," was the constant
remark with which she silenced all suggestions of change. On these
excursions, every thing like vain etiquette was laid aside: every
thing passed as if among a party of equals, on an excursion of
pleasure, each being bound to supply a modicum to the common fund of
enjoyment; the empress studying opportunities of showing those
attentions which cost so little, and yet go so far in winning a way to
the heart.
Charlemagne had received the holy unction from the hands of the head
of the Catholic church. Napoleon aspired to the same distinction, but
with this difference,--instead of going to Rome to receive it, the
pope was brought to Paris to administer it. He suffered much from the
climate of France, which was too severe for his delicate health. The
solicitude of the empress to provide for his comfort was extreme. The
orders of the emperor had provided every thing that could be deemed
necessary; but the observant delicacy of the empress supplied many
wants which might else have been overlooked. Every day she sent to
inquire after his welfare, frequently visited, and sometimes
corresponded with him. The following letter, addressed to him, does
equal credit to her head and to her heart:--
"THE EMPRESS TO HIS HOLINESS PIUS VII.
"Whatever experience of human change the knowledge of our religion
may have taught, your holiness will view, doubtless, not without
astonishment, an obscure woman ready to receive from your hands
the first among the crowns of Europe. In an event so far beyond
the ordinary course, she recognizes and blesses the work of the
Almighty, without daring to inquire into his purposes. But, holy
father, I should be ungrateful, even while I magnified the power
of God, if I poured not out my soul into the paternal bosom of him
who has been chosen to represent his providence--if I confided not
to you my secret thoughts. The first and chief of these is the
conviction of my own weakness and incapacity. Of myself I can do
nothing, or, to speak more correctly, the little I can do is
derived from that extraordinary man with whom my lot is cast.
* * * How many are the difficulties which surround the station to
which he has raised me! I do not speak of the corruption, which,
in the midst of greatness, has tainted the purest minds; I can
rely upon my own, so far as, in this respect, not to fear
elevation. But from a height whence all other dignities appear
mean, how shall I distinguish real poverty? Ah, truly do I feel
that, in becoming empress of the French, I ought also to become to
them as a mother. But of what avail are intentions? Deeds are what
the people have a right to demand of me, and your holiness, who so
well replies to the respectful love of your subjects by continual
acts of justice and benevolence, more than any other sovereign, is
qualified to instruct me. O, then, holy father, may you, with the
sacred unctions poured upon my head, not only awaken me to the
truth of these precepts which my heart acknowledges, but also
confirm the resolution of applying them to practice!"
On the 2d of December, 1804, Napoleon placed the imperial crown upon
the head of Josephine, as she knelt before him on the platform of the
throne in the cathedral of Notre Dame. Her appearance at this moment
was most touching; tears of deep emotion fell from her eyes; she
remained for a space kneeling, with hands crossed upon her bosom,
then, slowly and gracefully rising, fixed upon her husband a look of
gratitude and tenderness. Napoleon returned the glance. It was a
silent but conscious interchange of the hopes, the promises, and the
memories, of years.
In the spring of the following year, at Milan, Josephine received from
her husband the crown of the ancient Lombard sovereigns. The
festivities which followed were interrupted by a summons to put down a
new combination against France. She resolved to accompany the emperor
on his return to Paris, though suffering most severely from the
rapidity of the journey. At each change of horses, it was necessary to
throw water on the smoking wheels; yet Napoleon kept calling from the
carriage, "On, on! We do not move!"
On his departure for the splendid campaign of Austerlitz, Josephine
was appointed regent of the empire. The victory, decisive of the fate
of Austria, was productive of renewed pleasure to the empress, by the
marriage of her Eugene with the princess royal of Bavaria. Joyfully
obeying the mandate which was to restore her for a time to the society
of those she loved, the empress left Paris for Munich, where the
marriage was celebrated. This union proved a most happy one; and the
domestic felicity of her son--now made viceroy of Italy--constituted,
both in her prosperous and adverse fortunes, a cause of rejoicing to
Josephine. Her daughter, Hortense, soon after became queen of Holland.
Could grandeur command or insure happiness, Josephine had subsequently
never known misfortune. Every wish, save one, was gratified. She found
herself on the most splendid of European thrones, beloved by the
wonderful man who had placed her there, adored by the French nation,
and respected even by enemies. Her children occupied stations second
only to herself, with the prospect, either directly or in their issue,
of succeeding to empire when death should relax the giant grasp which
now swayed the sceptre.
All these brilliant prospects were closed to her by the death, in
1807, of her grandson, the prince royal of Holland. This boy had
gained, in an astonishing manner, upon the affections and hopes of his
uncle, and there seems to be no reason for discrediting the belief of
the emperor's intention to adopt him as his successor. Napoleon was
strongly affected by the loss of his little favorite, and was often
heard to exclaim, amidst the labors of his cabinet, "To whom shall I
leave all this?"
To Josephine this loss was irremediable: hers was a grief not less
acute, yet greater, than a mother's sorrow; for, while she grieved for
a beloved child, she trembled to think of the consequences to
herself.
But for two years longer she enjoyed such happiness as Damocles may be
supposed to have felt with the sword suspended over his head. The
final blow was not struck till 1809. On the 26th of October of that
year, Napoleon, having once more reduced Austria to sue for peace,
arrived most unexpectedly at Fontainbleau. The court was at St. Cloud,
and there were none to receive him. A courier was despatched to inform
Josephine, who instantly obeyed the summons. During the succeeding
night, it is supposed that Napoleon first opened to her the subject of
a separation; for from the morning of the 27th, it was evident that
they lived in a state of constant restraint and mutual observation;
Napoleon scarcely venturing to look upon Josephine, save when he was
not observed; while she hung upon every glance, and trembled at every
word, at the same time that both endeavored to be composed and natural
in their demeanor before the courtiers. But these are quicksighted to
detect any change of condition in their superiors; nor was it one of
the least of Josephine's troubles to be exposed to their ingratitude.
"In what self-restraint," said she, "did I pass the period during
which, though no longer his wife, I was obliged to appear so to all
eyes! Ah, what looks are those which courtiers suffer to fall upon a
repudiated wife!" The circumstance which, more than others, excited
suspicion, was the shutting up, by the emperor's commands, of the
private access between their apartments. Formerly, their intercourse
had thus been free, even amid the restraints of a court. Napoleon
would surprise Josephine in her _boudoir_, and she would steal upon
his moments of relaxation in his cabinet. But now all was reversed;
the former never entered, but knocked when he would speak to the
latter, who hardly dared to obey the signal, the sound of which caused
such violent palpitations of the heart, that she had to support
herself against the wall as she tottered towards the little door, on
the other side of which Napoleon waited her approach. At these
conferences he sought to persuade her of the political necessity and
advantages of a separation--a measure which he at first rather hinted
at than disclosed as a matter determined upon.
But it was not the less fixed, and on the 30th of November, after
dinner, the emperor ordered his attendants to withdraw. Of what
passed at this interview Josephine has been the chronicler. "I
watched," says she, "in the changing expression of his countenance
that struggle which was in his soul. At length his features settled
into stern resolve. I saw that my hour was come. His whole frame
trembled; he approached, and I felt a shuddering horror come over me.
He took my hand, placed it upon his heart, gazed upon me for a moment,
then pronounced these fearful words: 'Josephine! my excellent
Josephine! thou knowest if I have loved thee! To thee, to thee alone,
do I owe the only moments of happiness which I have enjoyed in this
world. Josephine! my destiny overmasters my will. My dearest
affections must be silent before the interests of France. Say no
more.' I had still strength sufficient to reply, 'I was prepared for
this, but the blow is not the less mortal.' More I could not utter. I
became unconscious of every thing, and, on returning to my senses,
found I had been carried to my chamber."
During the interval between the private announcement of the divorce
and the 16th of December, the most splendid public rejoicings took
place on the anniversary of the coronation, and in commemoration of
the victories of the German campaign. At all these, Josephine appeared
in the pomp and circumstance of station, and even with a smiling
countenance, while her heart was breaking.
On the 15th of December, the council of state were first officially
informed of the intended separation. On the 16th, the whole imperial
family assembled in the grand saloon at the Tuileries. Napoleon's was
the only countenance which betrayed emotion. He stood motionless as a
statue, his arms crossed upon his breast, without uttering a single
word. The members of his family were seated around, showing in their
expression a satisfaction that one was to be removed who had so long
held influence, gently exerted as it had been, over their brother. In
the centre of the apartment was an arm-chair, and before it a little
table, with a writing apparatus of gold. A door opened, and Josephine,
pale, but calm, appeared, leaning on the arm of her daughter. Both
were dressed in the simplest manner. All rose on her entrance. She
moved slowly, and with wonted grace, to the seat prepared for her,
and, her head supported on her hand, listened to the reading of the
act of separation. Behind her chair stood Hortense, whose sobs were
audible; and a little farther on, towards Napoleon, Eugene, trembling,
as if incapable of supporting himself. It had required all a mother's
influence to prevent him, on the first announcement of that mother's
wrongs, from abandoning the service of the wrong-doer; that influence
had done more; it had persuaded him not only to witness her own
renouncement of the crown, but to be present at the coronation of her
successor.
Josephine heard with composure--the tears coursing each other down her
cheeks--the words which placed an eternal barrier between affection
and its object. This painful duty over, pressing for an instant the
handkerchief to her eyes, she rose, and, in a voice but slightly
tremulous, pronounced the oath of acceptance; then, sitting down, she
took the pen and signed. The mother and daughter now retired,
followed by Eugene, who appears to have suffered the most severely of
the three; for he had no sooner reached the ante-chamber, than he fell
lifeless on the floor.
The emperor returned to his cabinet, silent and sad. He threw himself
on a sofa in a state of complete prostration. Thus he remained for
some minutes, his head resting on his hand; and, when he rose, his
features were distorted. Orders had previously been given to proceed
to Trianon. When the carriages were announced, he took his hat, and
proceeded by the private staircase to the apartment of Josephine. She
was alone. At the noise caused by the entrance of the emperor, she
rose quickly, and threw herself, sobbing, on his neck: he held her to
his breast, and embraced her several times; but, overcome by her
emotions, she fainted. As soon as she exhibited signs of returning
sensation, the emperor, wishing to avoid the renewal of a scene of
grief which he could not calm, placing her in the arms of an officer
who had attended him, and who relates the occurrence, he withdrew
rapidly to his carriage. Josephine immediately perceived his absence,
and her sobs and moans increased. Her female attendants, who had come
in, placed her on a couch. In her agony, she seized the hands of the
officer, and besought him to tell the emperor not to forget her, and
to assure him that her attachment would survive all contingencies. It
was with difficulty that she suffered him to leave her, as if his
absence severed the last link by which she still held to the emperor.
Henceforward, the life of Josephine, passed either at Malmaison
or Navarre, offers but few incidents. The emperor would not suffer
any change to be made in the regal state to which she had been
accustomed at the Tuileries. Her household was on a scale of
imperial magnificence. She continued to receive the visits, almost
the homage, of the members of the court of Napoleon and Maria Louisa;
for it was quickly discovered, that, however unpleasant to her new
rival, such visits were recommendations to the emperor's favor. The
apartments in which the empress received her guests were elegant, the
furniture being covered with needle-work, wrought by the empress and
her ladies; but the residence altogether was small--an inconvenience
increased through Josephine's veneration of every thing that had
been Napoleon's. The apartment he had occupied remained exactly as
he had left it; she would not suffer a chair to be moved, and,
indeed, very rarely permitted any person to enter, keeping the key
herself, and dusting the articles with her own hands. On the table
was a volume of history, with the page doubled down where he had
finished reading; beside it lay a pen, with the ink dried upon the
point, and a map of the world, on which he was accustomed to point
out his plans to those in his confidence, and which still showed on
its surface many marks of his impatience. These Josephine would
allow to be touched on no account. By the wall stood his camp-bed,
without curtains; above hung his arms; on different pieces of
furniture lay different articles of apparel, just as Napoleon had
flung them from him.
It was long before the harassed feelings of Josephine were
sufficiently calmed to take any interest in common affairs. So severe
had been her sufferings, that it was six months before her sight
recovered from the effects of inflammation and swelling of the eyes.
The first circumstance which produced something like a change for the
better, was her removal to Navarre, the repairing of which became at
once a source of amusement and a means of benevolence. This once royal
residence had suffered from the revolution, and was nearly in a state
of dilapidation. The restoration of the buildings and grounds
furnished employment to great numbers of people; and Josephine, in
addition to the pleasures of planting and agriculture, enjoyed the
delight--to her more dear--of spreading comfort and fertility over a
region where before reigned extreme misery.
Her life at Navarre was now more agreeable to her, because free from
the restraints of etiquette. Though constantly surrounded by the pomp
of a court, her courtiers were for the most part old and valued
friends, with whom she lived rather in society, than as mistress and
dependants. She exhausted every means to render their retreat
agreeable to them--a retreat, however, recompensed by salaries equal
to those of the imperial court, and which conciliated Napoleon's
approval. Benevolence and kindliness of feeling were the leading
traits of Josephine's character; besides distributing, by the hands of
competent and pious persons, a large portion of her limited revenues
in relieving distress wherever it occurred, she kept constantly about
her a number of young ladies, orphans of ancient houses, now fallen
into decay, to whom she not only gave an accomplished education, but
watched over their establishment in life with parental solicitude.
The first event of importance which broke in upon the tranquillity of
Josephine's life, was the birth of the king of Rome. It happened that
the whole household were at Evreux, at a grand entertainment, when the
news reached that place. The party returned immediately to the palace,
where Josephine had remained. "I confess," says a youthful member of
the party, "that my boundless affection for Josephine caused me
violent sorrow, when I thought that she who occupied her place was now
completely happy. Knowing but imperfectly the grandeur of soul which
characterized the empress, her absolute devotion to the happiness of
the emperor, I imagined there must still remain in her so much of the
woman as would excite bitter regret at not having been the mother of a
son so ardently desired. I judged like a frivolous person, who had
never known cares beyond those of a ball. On arriving at the palace, I
learned how to appreciate one who had been so long the cherished
companion, and always the true friend, of Napoleon. I beheld every
face beaming with joy, and Josephine's more radiant than any. No
sooner had the party entered than she eagerly asked for details. 'How
happy,' said she, 'the emperor must be! I rejoice that my painful
sacrifice has proved so useful for France. One thing only makes me
sad; not having been informed of his happiness by the emperor himself;
but then he had so many orders to give, so many congratulations to
receive. Yes, ladies, there must be a _fete_ to celebrate this event;
the whole city of Evreux must come to rejoice with us; I can never
have too many people on this occasion.'"
[Illustration: MARIA LOUISA.]
The emperor's omission seems to have greatly pained Josephine; for the
same night she wrote him a delicate and touching letter, from which
these are extracts:--
"Sire,--Amid the numerous felicitations which you receive from every
corner of Europe, can the feeble voice of a woman reach your ear, and
will you deign to listen to her who has so often consoled your
sorrows, and sweetened your pains, now that she speaks to you only of
that happiness in which all your wishes are fulfilled? Having ceased
to be your wife, dare I felicitate you on becoming a father? Yes,
sire, without hesitation; for my soul renders justice to yours, as you
know mine. Though separated, we are united by a sympathy which
survives all events. I should have desired to learn the birth of the
king of Rome from yourself, and not from the cannons of Evreux; but I
know that your first attentions are due to the public authorities, to
your own family, and especially to the fortunate princess who has
realized your dearest hopes. She cannot be more devoted to you than I;
but she has been enabled to contribute more towards your happiness, by
securing that of France. Not till you have ceased to watch by her bed,
not till you are weary of embracing your son, will you take the pen to
converse with your best friend. I wait."
The next day, Eugene arrived, charged with a message from the emperor:
"Tell your mother," said he, "that I am certain she will rejoice more
than any one at my good fortune. I would have written to her already,
had I not been completely absorbed in looking at my son. I tear myself
from him only to attend to the most indispensable duties. This evening
I will discharge the sweetest of all--I will write to Josephine."
Accordingly, about eleven o'clock the same evening, the folding-doors
were opened in great form, and the announcement, "From the emperor,"
ushered in one of his own pages, bearer of a letter from Napoleon. The
empress retired to read this ardently-desired epistle; and on her
return it was easy to see that she had been weeping. The curiosity of
her court was gratified by hearing various portions of the letter,
which concluded in these words: "This infant, in concert with _our
Eugene_, will constitute my happiness, and that of France." "Is it
possible," said Josephine, "to be more amiable? or could any thing be
better calculated to soothe whatever might be painful in my thoughts
at this moment, did I not so ardently love the emperor? This uniting
of my son with his own is worthy of him, who, when he wills, is the
most delightful man in the world."
From their separation, the correspondence between Napoleon and
Josephine continued undiminished in respect and affection. Notes from
the emperor arrived weekly, and he never returned from any journey or
long absence without seeing the "illustrious solitary." No sooner had
he alighted, than a messenger, usually his own confidential attendant,
was despatched to Malmaison: "Tell the empress I am well, and desire
to hear that she is happy." In every thing Napoleon continued to
evince for her the most confiding tenderness. All the private griefs
in which Josephine had shared, and the sorrows to which she had
ministered, were still disclosed to her. He gave a further proof of it
by allowing her frequently to see his son--a communication which the
jealous temper of Maria Louisa would have sought to prevent, had it
not been secretly managed. Josephine had so far complied with the
wishes of the emperor as to attempt an intercourse with her successor.
"But the latter," to use Josephine's own words, "rejected the proposal
in a manner which prevented me from renewing it. I am sorry for it;
her presence would have given me no uneasiness, and I might have
bestowed good counsel as to the best means of pleasing the emperor."
The personal intercourse between Napoleon and Josephine was conducted
with the most decorous attention to appearances. It ended in one
hurried and distressful interview after the return of Napoleon from
his disastrous Russian campaign. But in the midst of the tremendous
struggle that followed, Napoleon found leisure to think of her. His
letters to her were more frequent and more affectionate than ever,
while hers, written by every opportunity, were perused, under all
circumstances, with a promptitude which showed clearly the pleasure or
the consolation that was expected: in fact, it was observed that
letters from Malmaison or Navarre were always torn rather than broken
open, and read, whatever else might be retarded.
On the approach of the allies to Paris, Josephine retired from
Malmaison to Navarre. Her only pleasure, during the period of painful
uncertainty which followed, was to shut herself up alone, and read
the letters she had last received from the emperor. A letter from him
at last put an end to all uncertainty; it announced his fall and his
retirement to Elba. The perusal of it overwhelmed her with grief and
consternation; but, recovering herself, she exclaimed, with
impassioned energy, "I must not remain here: my presence is necessary
to the emperor. The duty is, indeed, more Maria Louisa's than mine;
but the emperor is alone, forsaken. I, at least, will not abandon
him." Tears came to her relief. She became more composed, and added,
"I may, however, interfere with his arrangements. I will remain here
till I hear from the allied sovereigns. They will respect her who was
the wife of Napoleon." Nor was she deceived. The Emperor Alexander
sent assurances of his friendship, and the other allies united in a
request that she would return to Malmaison. Here every thing was
maintained on its former footing. Her court, elegant as ever, was
frequented by the most distinguished personages of Europe. Among the
earliest visitors was Alexander. Josephine received him with her
wonted grace, and expressed how much she felt on the occasion.
"Madam," replied Alexander, "I burned with the desire of beholding
you. Since I entered France, I have never heard your name pronounced
but with benedictions. In the cottage and in the palace I have
collected accounts of your goodness; and I do myself a pleasure in
thus presenting to your majesty the universal homage of which I am the
bearer." The king of Prussia also visited her, and she received
attentions even from the Bourbons. Her children were protected, and
Eugene was offered his rank as marshal of France; but he declined it.
The health of Josephine, which had been undermined by previous
sufferings, sunk entirely under these new and agitating emotions. On
the 4th of May, 1814, she became, for the first time, decidedly ill.
The Emperor Alexander was unremitting in his attentions to her, and to
him her last words were addressed. "I shall die regretted. I have
always desired the happiness of France; I did all in my power to
contribute to it; I can say with truth, that the first wife of
Napoleon never caused a single tear to flow." She then sunk into a
gentle slumber, from which she never awoke.
The funeral procession, which was headed by representatives of the
sovereigns of Russia and Prussia, and was composed of princes,
marshals, and generals, the most celebrated in Europe, was closed by
two thousand _poor_, who had voluntarily come to pay their last
tribute to the memory of their benefactor and friend. The spot where
her remains are buried is marked by a monument of white marble,
bearing this simple, yet touching inscription:--
"EUGENE AND HORTENSE TO JOSEPHINE."