on the evening of the 9th of October, Josephine was at a large party
at the house of M. Gohier, President of the Directory. All the most
distinguished men of the metropolis were there. The intelligence
produced the most profound sensation. Some, rioting in the spoils
of office, turned pale with apprehension; knowing well the genius
of Napoleon, and his boundless popularity, they feared another
revolution, which should eject them from their seats of power.
Others were elated with hope; they felt that Providence had sent to
France a deliverer, at the very moment when a deliverer was needed.
One of the deputies, who had been deeply grieved at the disasters
which were overwhelming the Republic, actually died of joy, when
he heard of Napoleon's return. Josephine, intensely excited by the
sudden and totally unexpected announcement, immediately withdrew,
hastened home, and at midnight, without allowing an hour for repose,
she entered her carriage, with Louis Bonaparte and Hortense, who
subsequently became the bride of Louis, and set out to meet her
husband. Napoleon almost at the same hour, with his suite, left
Frejus. During every stop of his progress he was greeted with the
most extraordinary demonstrations of enthusiasm and affection.
Bonfires blazed from the hills, triumphed arches, hastily of maidens
spread a carpet of flowers for his chariot wheels, and greeted
him with smiles and choruses of welcome. He carried at Lyons in
the evening. The whole city was brilliant with illuminations. An
immense concourse surrounded him with almost delirious shouts of
joy. The constituted authorities received him as he descended from
his carriage. The major had prepared a long and eulogistic harangue
for the occasion. Napoleon had no time to listen to it. With a
motion of his hand, imposing silence, he said said, "Gentlemen, I
learned that France was in peril, I therefore did not hesitate to
leave my army in Egypt, that I might come to he rescue. I now go
hence. In a few days, if you think fit to wait upon me, I shall be
at leisure to hear you." Fresh horses were by this time attached to
the carriages, and the cavalcade, which like a meteor had burst upon
them, like a meteor disappeared. From Lyons, for some unexplained
reason, Napoleon turned from the regular route to Paris and took
a less frequented road. When Josephine arrived at Lyons, to her
utter consternation she found that Napoleon had left the city,
several hours before her arrival, and that they had passed each
other by different roads. Her anguish was inexpressible. For many
months she had not received a line from her idolized husband, all
communication having been intercepted by the English cruisers. She
knew that many, jealous her power, had disseminated, far and wide,
false reports respecting her conduct. She knew that these, her
enemies, would surround Napoleon immediately upon his arrival,
and take advantage of her absence to inflame his mind against her.
Lyons is 245 miles from Paris. Josephine had passed over those
weary leagues of hill and dale, pressing on without intermission, by
day and by night, alighting not for refreshment of repose. Faint,
exhausted, and her heart sinking within her with fearful apprehensions
of the hopeless alienation of her husband, she received the dreadful
tidings that she had missed him. There was no resource left her but
to retrace the steps with the utmost possible celerity. Napoleon
would, however, have been one or two days in Paris before Josephine
could, by any possibility, re-enter the city. Probably in all France,
there was not, at that time, a more unhappy woman than Josephine.
Secret wretchedness was also gnawing at the heart of Napoleon.
Who has yet fathomed the mystery of human love! Intensest love and
intensest hate can, at the same moment, intertwine their fibres
in inextricable blending. In nothing is the will so impotent as
in guiding or checking the impulses of this omnipotent passion.
Napoleon loved Josephine with that almost superhuman energy which
characterized all the movements of his impetuous spirit. The stream
did not fret and ripple over a shallow bed, but it was serene
in its unfathomable depths. The world contained but two objects
for Napoleon, glory and Josephine; glory first, and then, closely
following the more substantial idol.
Many of the Parisian ladies, proud of a more exalted lineage than
Josephine could boast, were exceedingly envious of the supremacy
she had attained in consequence of the renown of her husband. Her
influence over Napoleon was well known. Philosophers, statesmen,
ambitious generals, all crowded her saloons, paying her homage. A
favorable word from Josephine they knew would pave the way for them
to fame and fortune. Thus Josephine, from the saloons of Paris,
with milder radiance, reflected back the splendor of her husband.
She solicitous of securing as many friends as possible, to aid
him in future emergencies, was as diligent in "winning hearts" at
home, as Napoleon was in conquering provinces abroad. The gracefulness
of Josephine, her consummate delicacy of moral appreciation, her
exalted intellectual gifts, the melodious tones of her winning
voice, charmed courtiers, philosophers, and statesmen alike. Her
saloons were ever crowded. Her entertainments were ever embellished
by the presence of all who were illustrious in rank and power in
the metropolis. And in whatever circles she appeared the eyes of
the gentlemen first sought for her. Two resistless attractions drew
them. She was peculiarly fascinating in person and in character,
and, through her renowned husband, she could dispense the most
precious gifts. It is not difficult to imagine the envy which must
thus have been excited. Many a haughty duchess was provoked, almost
beyond endurance, that Josephine, the untitled daughter of a West
Indian planter, should thus engross the homage of Paris, while she,
with her proud rank, her wit, and her beauty, was comparatively
a cipher. Moreau's wife, in particular resented the supremacy of
Josephine as a personal affront. She thought General Moreau entitled
to as much consideration as General Bonaparte. By the jealousy,
rankling in her own bosom, she finally succeeded in rousing her
husband to conspire against Napoleon, and thus the hero of Hohenlinden
was ruined. Some of the brothers and sisters of Napoleon were also
jealous of the paramount influence of Josephine, and would gladly
wrest a portion of it from her hands. Under these circumstances,
in various ways, slander had been warily insinuated into the ears
of Napoleon, respecting the conduct of his wife. Conspiring enemies
became more and more bold. Josephine was represented as having
forgotten her husband, as reveling exultant with female vanity, in
general flirtation; and, finally, as guilty of gross infidelity.
Nearly all the letters written by Napoleon and Josephine to each
other, were intercepted by the English cruisers. Though Napoleon
did not credit these charges in full, he cherished not a little of
the pride, which led the Roman monarch to exclaim, "Caesar's wife
must not be suspected."
Napoleon was in the troubled state of mind during the latter
months of his residence in Egypt. One day he was sitting alone in
his tent, which was pitched in the great Arabian desert. Several
months had passed since he had heard a word from Josephine. Years
might elapse ere they would meet again. Junot entered, having
just received, through some channel of jealousy and malignity,
communications from Paris. Cautiously, but fully, he unfolded the
whole budget of Parisian gossip. Josephine had found, as he represented,
in the love of others an ample recompense for the absence of her
husband. She was surrounded by admirers with whom she was engaged
in an incessant round of intrigues and flirtations. Regardless
of honor she had surrendered herself to the dominion of passion.
Napoleon was for a few moments in a state of terrible agitation. With
hasty strides, like a chafed lion, he paced his tent, exclaiming,
"Why do I love that woman so? Why can I not tear her image from my
heart? I will do so. I will have an immediate and open divorce-open
and public divorce." He immediately wrote to Josephine, in terms
of the utmost severity accusing her of playing the coquette with
half the world." The letter escaped the British cruisers and she
received it. It almost broke her faithful heart. Such were the
circumstances under which Napoleon and Josephine were to meet after
an absence of eighteen months. Josephine was exceedingly anxious to
see Napoleon before he should have an interview with her enemies.
Hence the depth of anguish with which she heard her husband had
passes her. Two or three days must have elapse ere she could possibly
retraced the weary miles over which she had already traveled.
In the mean time the carriage of Napoleon was rapidly approaching
the metropolis. By night his path was brilliant with bonfires and
illuminations. The ringing of bells, the thunders of artillery,
and the acclamations of the multitude, accompanied him every step
of his way. But no smile of triumph played upon his pale and pensive
cheeks. He felt that he was returning to a desolated home. Gloom
reigned in his heart. He entered Paris, and drove rapidly to his
own dwelling. Behold, Josephine was not there. Conscious guilt, he
thought, had made her afraid to meet him. It is in vain to attempt
to penetrate the hidden anguish of Napoleon's soul. That his proud
spirit must have suffered intensity of woe no one can doubt. The
bitter enemies of Josephine immediately surrounded him, eagerly
taking advantage of her absence, to inflame, to a still higher
degree, by adroit insinuations, his jealousy and anger. Eugene
had accompanied him in his return from Egypt, and his affectionate
heart ever glowed with love and admiration for his mother. With
anxiety, amounting to anguish, he watched at the window for her
arrival. Said one to Napoleon, maliciously endeavoring to prevent
the possibility of reconciliation, "Josephine will appear before
you, with all her fascinations. She will explain matters. You will
forgive all, and tranquillity will be restored." "Never!" exclaimed
Napoleon, with pallid cheek and trembling lip, striding nervously
too and fro, through the room, "never! I forgive! ever!" Then
stopping suddenly, and gazing the interlocutor wildly in the face,
he exclaimed, with passionate gesticulation, "You know me. Were I
not sure of my resolution, I would tear out this heart, and cast
it into the fire."
How strange is the life of the heart of man. From this interview,
Napoleon, two hours after his arrival in Paris with his whole soul
agitated by the tumult of domestic woe, went to the palace of the
Luxembourg, to visit the Directory, to form his plans for overthrow
the government of France. Pale, pensive, joyless, his inflexible
purposes of ambition wavered not--his iron energies yielded not.
Josephine was an idol. He execrated her and he adored her. He loved
her most passionately. He hated her most virulently. He could clasp
her one moment to his bosom with burning kisses; the next moment
he would spurn her from him with as the most loathsome wretch. But
glory was a still more cherished idol, at whose shrine he bowed with
unwavering adoration. He strove to forget his domestic wretchedness
by prosecuting, with new vigor, his schemes of grandeur. As he
ascended the stairs of the Luxembourg, some of the guard, who had
been with him in Italy, recognized his person, and he was instantly
greeted, with enthusiastic shouts. "Long live Bonaparte." The clamor
rolled like a voice of thunder through the spacious halls of the
palace, and fell, like a death knell, upon the ears of the Directors.
The populace upon the pavement, caught the sound and reechoed it
from street to street. The plays at the theatres, and the songs
at the Opera, were stopped, that it might be announced, from the
stage, that Bonaparte had arrived in Paris. Men, women, and children
simultaneously rose to their feet, and a wild burst of enthusiastic
joy swelled upon the night air. All Paris was in commotion. The
name of Bonaparte was upon every lip. The enthusiasm was contagious.
Illuminations began to blaze, here and there, without concert, from
the universal rejoicing, till the whole city was resplendent with
light. One bell rang forth its merry peal of greeting, and then
another, and another till every steeple was vocal with its clamorous
welcome. One gun was heard, rolling its heavy thunders over the
city. It was the signal for an instantaneous, tumultuous roar, from
artillery and musketry, from all the battalions in the metropolis.
The tidings of the great victories of Aboukir and Mount Tabor,
reached Paris with Napoleon. Those Oriental names were shouted
through the streets, and blazed upon the eyes of the delighted
people in letters of light. Thus in an hour the whole of Paris was
thrown into a delirium of joy, was displayed the most triumphant
and gorgeous festival.
The government of France was at the time organized somewhat upon
the model of that the United States. Instead of one President,
they have five, called Directors. Their Senate was called The House
of Ancients; their House of Representatives, The Council of Five
Hundred. The five Directors, as might have been expected, were
ever quarreling among themselves, each wishing for the lion's share
of power. The Monarchist, the Jacobin, and the moderate Republican
could not harmoniously co-operate in the government They only circumvented
each other, while the administration sank into disgrace and ruin.
The Abbe'Sieyes was decidedly the most able man of the Executive.
He was a proud patrician, and his character may be estimated from
the following anecdote, which Napoleon has related respecting him:
"The abbe, before the revolution, was chaplain to one of the
princesses. One day, when he was performing mass before herself,
her attendants, and a large congregation, something occurred which
rendered it necessary for the princess to leave the room. The
ladies in waiting and the nobility, who attended church more out
of complaisance to her than from any sense of religion followed
her example. Sieyes was very busy reading his prayers, and, for a
few moments, he did not perceive their departure. At last, raising
his eyes from his book, behold the princess, the nobles, and all
the ton had disappeared. With an air of displeasure and contempt
he shut the book, and descended from the pulpit, exclaiming, 'I do
not read prayers for the rabble.' He immediately went out of the
chapel, leaving the service half-finished."
Napoleon arrived in Paris on the evening of the 17th of October,
1799. Two days and two nights elapse ere Josephine was able to
retrace the weary leagues over which she had passed. It was the
hour of midnight on the 19th when the rattle of her carriage wheels
was heard entering the court-yard of their dwelling in the Rue
Chanteraine. Eugene, anxiously awaiting her arrival, was instantly
at his mother's side, folding her in his embrace. Napoleon also
heard the arrival, but he remained sternly in his chamber. He had
ever been accustomed to greet Josephine at the door of her carriage,
even when she returned from an ordinary morning ride. No matter what
employments engrossed his mind, no matter what guest were present,
he would immediately leave every thing, and hasten to the door to
assist Josephine to alight and to accompany her into the house. But
now, after an absence of eighteen months, the faithful Josephine,
half-dead with exhaustion, was at the door, and Napoleon, with
pallid check and compressed lip, and jealousy rankling in his bosom,
remained sternly in his room, preparing to overwhelm her with his
indignation.
Josephine was in a state of terrible agitation. Her limbs tottered
and her heart throbbed most violently. Assisted by Eugene, and
accompanied by Hortense, she tremblingly ascended the stairs to the
little parlor where she had so often received the caresses of her
most affectionate spouse. She opened the door. There stood Napoleon,
as immovable as a statue, leaning against the mantle, with his arms
folded across his breast. Sternly and silently, he cast a withering
look upon Josephine, and then exclaimed in tones, which, like
a dagger pierced her heart "Madame! It is my wish that you retire
immediately to Malmaison."
Josephine staggered and would have fallen, as if struck by a mortal
blow, had she not been caught in the arms of her son. Sobbing bitterly
with anguish, she was conveyed by Eugene to her own apartment.
Napoleon also was dreadfully agitated. The sight of Josephine had
revived all his passionate love. But he fully believed that Josephine
had unpardonably trifled with his affections, that she had courted
the admiration of a multitude of flatterers, and that she had degraded
herself and her husband by playing the coquette. The proud spirit
of Napoleon could not brook such a requital for his fervid love.
With hasty strides he traversed the room, striving to nourish his
indignation. The sobs of Josephine had deeply moved him. He yearned
to fold her again in fond love to his heart. But he proudly resolved
that he would not relent. Josephine, with that prompt obedience
which ever characterized her, prepared immediately to comply with his
orders. It was midnight. For a week she had lived in her carriage
almost without food or sleep. Malmaison was thirty miles from
Paris. Napoleon did not suppose that she would leave the house until
morning. Much to his surprise, in a few moments he heard Josephine,
Eugene, and Hortense descending the stairs to take the carriage.
Napoleon, even in his anger, could not be thus inhuman. "My heart,"
he said, "was never formed to witness tears without emotion." He
immediately descended to the court-yard, though his pride would
not yet allow him to speak to Josephine. He, however, addressing
Eugene, urged the party to return and obtain refreshment and repose.
Josephine, all submission, unhesitatingly yielded to his wishes,
and re-ascending the stairs, in the extremity of exhaustion and
grief, threw herself upon a couch, in her apartment. Napoleon,
equally wretched, returned to his cabinet. Two days of utter misery
passed away, during which no intercourse took place between the
estranged parties, each of whom loved the other with almost superhuman
intensity.
Love in the heart will finally triumph over all obstructions. The
struggle was long, but gradually pride and passion yielded, and
love regained the ascendency. Napoleon so far surrendered on the
third day, as to enter the apartment of Josephine. She was seated at
a toilet-table, her face buried in her hands, and absorbed in the
profoundest woe. The letters, which she had received from Napoleon,
and which she had evidently been reading, were spread upon the
table. Hortense the picture of grief and despair, was standing in
the alcove of a window. Napoleon had opened the door softly, and
his entrance had not been heard. With an irresolute step he advanced
toward his wife, and then said, kindly and sadly, "Josephine!"
She started at the sound of that well-known voice, and raising her
swollen eyes, swimming in tears, mournfully exclaimed, "Monami"
--my friend . This was the term of endearment with which she had
invariably addressed her husband. It recalled a thousand delightful
reminiscences. Napoleon was vanquished. He extended his hand.
Josephine threw herself into his arms, pillowed her aching head
upon his bosom, and in the intensity of blended joy and anguish,
wept convulsively. A long explanation ensued. Napoleon became
satisfied that Josephine had been deeply wronged. The reconciliation
was cordial and entire, and was never again interrupted.
Napoleon now, with a stronger heart, turned to the accomplishment of
his designs to rescue France from anarchy. He was fully conscious
of his own ability to govern the nation. He knew that it was
the almost unanimous wish of the people that he should grasp the
reins of power. He was confident of their cordial co-operation in
any plans he might adopt. Still it was an enterprise of no small
difficulty to thrust the five Directors from their thrones, and to
get the control of the Council of Ancients and of The Five Hundred.
Never was a difficult achievement more adroitly and proudly
accomplished.
For many days Napoleon almost entirely secluded himself from
observation, affecting a studious avoidance of the public gaze. He
laid aside his military dress and assumed the peaceful costume of
the National Institute. Occasionally he wore a beautiful Turkish
sabre, suspended by a silk ribbon. This simple dress transported
the imagination of the beholder to Aboukir, Mount Tabor, and the
Pyramids. He studiously sought the society of literary men, and
devoted to them his attention. He invited distinguished men of
the Institute to dine with him, and avoiding political discussion,
conversed only upon literary and scientific subjects.
Moreau and Bernadotte were the two rival generals from whom Napoleon
had the most to fear. Two days after his arrival in Paris Napoleon
said to Bourrienne, "I believe that I shall have Bernadotte and Moreau
against me. But I do not fear Moreau. He is devoid of energy. He
prefers military to political power. We shall gain him by the promise
of a command. But Bernadotte has Moorish blood in his veins. He is
bold and enterprising. He does not like me, and I am certain that
he will oppose me. If he should become ambitious he will venture
anything. Besides, this fellow is not to be seduced. He is disinterested
and clever. But, after all, we have just arrived. We shall see."