at Milan, although she bore the title of Queen of Italy. She watched the
ceremony from a gallery. At half-past eleven she went to the Cathedral,
preceded by her sister-in-law, the Princess Bacciocchi, and was conducted
beneath a canopy to her gallery, amid loud applause. At noon the Emperor
and King left his palace, and reached the Cathedral through the wooden
gallery. On his arrival there incense was burned, and he was welcomed by
an address from Cardinal Caprara, Archbishop of Milan, at the head of all
his clergy. Preceded by the ushers, the heralds-at-arms, the pages, the
Grand Master and the masters of ceremonies, by the seven ladies carrying
offerings, and by the honors of Charlemagne, of the Empire, and of Italy,
he appeared in most impressive pomp. On his head he wore the crown; he
carried in his hands the sceptre, and the hand of justice of the kingdom;
on his back he wore the royal cloak, the skirts of which were carried by
the two First Equerries of France and Italy. As he entered the Cathedral a
march of triumph was played. He took his seat on the small throne in the
choir, having on his right the honors of Italy, on his left, those of
France. The Archbishop of Bologna, who held a place at the coronation of
the King very like that of the Pope at the crowning of the Emperor,
carried to the altar the iron crown of the old Lombard kings, and began
the mass. After the gradual, he blessed the royal ornaments in the
following order: the sword, the cloak, the ring, the crown. Napoleon
received from the Archbishop's hands the sword, the cloak, and the ring,
but he took himself the iron crown from the altar, and proudly placing it
on his head, exclaimed, in a voice that thrilled all present: "_Dio me la
diede, guai a chi la tocca!_"--"God has given it to me; woe to him who
touches it!" Then, having replaced the iron crown on the altar, he took
the crown of Italy and placed it on his head, amid unanimous applause.
Preceded by the same officials who had conducted him to the chair, he
walked down the nave and took his place on the great throne at the other
end by the entrance. The first herald-at-arms shouted, "Napoleon, Emperor
of the French and King of Italy, is crowned and enthroned. Long live the
Emperor and King."
The same day, at half-past four in the afternoon, the King and the Queen
drove in a state carriage, with a brilliant escort, to the church of Saint
Ambrose, one of the most revered sanctuaries of Italy, and there they
heard a _Te Deum_ of thanksgiving.
Mademoiselle Avrillon, Josephine's reader, tells us that Napoleon, when he
had returned to the palace, was full of the wildest gaiety. He rubbed his
hands, and in his good humor said to the reader: "Well! Did you see the
ceremony? Did you hear what I said when I placed the crown on my head?"
Then he repeated, almost in the same tone that he had used in the
Cathedral: "God has given it to me! Woe to him that touches it!" "I told
him," says Mademoiselle Avrillon, "that nothing that had happened had
escaped me. He was very kind to me, and I often noticed that when there
was nothing to annoy the Emperor, he talked cheerfully and freely with us,
as if we were his equals; but whenever he spoke to us he used to ask
questions, and in order to avoid displeasing him, it was necessary to
answer him without showing too much embarrassment. Sometimes he gave us a
pat on the cheek, or pinched our ears; these were favors not accorded
every one, and we could judge of his good humor by the way they hurt
us.... Often he treated the Empress in the same way, with little pats
preferably on the shoulders; it was no use her saying: 'Come, stop,
Bonaparte!' he went on as long as he pleased."
The Emperor greatly enjoyed his stay in Milan, and breathed with rapture
the incense burned in abundance before him. The _Italian Journal_ in its
account of the coronation reached lyric heights:
"The most brilliant day has lit up Milan; it has had no equal in the past,
and it offers the happiest auguries for the future.... Old men themselves,
accustomed as they are to praise the past, have exhibited the liveliest
enthusiasm. It was in vain that night struggled to draw its veil over our
city, it had to yield before the general and magnificent illumination
which brought out in lines of fire the shape and admirable form of the
Duomo. Most of the palaces and private houses were covered with devices
and inscriptions. The first one of the days consecrated to the liveliest
national rejoicing was ended by a vast exhibition of fireworks, which were
set off on the spot where so many have perished at the stake."
The next day games were celebrated, in the manner of the ancients, in a
circus rivalling the Roman amphitheatres in size. This was the occasion of
a dithyrambic outburst inserted in the _Moniteur_: "The Italians have just
offered Napoleon the same spectacle that their ancestors offered Marcus
Aurelius and Trajan; but the presence of Napoleon has called forth more
joy and admiration, because it has aroused greater admiration and higher
hopes. They were but the preservers of Italian greatness; he is its
creator and its father. In the pomp of the games, amid the tumultuous
applause, the immense mass of people were to be seen turning their eyes
towards him alone, as if they were saying to him: 'These festivities are
but feeble expressions of the gratitude that all Italy vows to you for all
the good you have done her; and since you deign to accept it, since you
like to sit among us as our Prince and our father, these festivities
become an augury to us of still greater benefit. The day will perhaps come
when Italy, restored to this new life, may be able to adorn its circus
with the monuments of its own bravery which will also be the monuments of
your glory; and Italy, being never doomed to perish, whatever great deeds
may be wrought by Italians in the course of centuries will be due to the
hero who has recalled them to life.'" After the races there was a balloon
ascension. The courageous wife of the aeronaut Garnerin accompanied him
and threw down flowers to Napoleon and Josephine. "Thus," the _Moniteur_
goes on, "in a single day, at one show, the Italians have combined the
proudest pomp of the ancients and the boldest invention of modern science,
together with the presence of a hero who excels both ancients and
moderns."
The 29th of May was devoted to popular festivities. All the afternoon the
public gardens were crowded with musicians, singers, mountebanks, and
pedlars. In the evening the via della Riconoscenza, as far as the East
Gate, was lit by lampstands, and at the end of a long row there was an
eagle of fire holding on his breast an iron crown.
Nothing was neglected to touch the national pride of Italy. An article in
the _Moniteur_, speaking of a poem of Vincenzo Monti's, said: "What
interest the poet has aroused, in recalling the glorious titles of ancient
Italy, the disasters and degradation which followed this period of glory,
in evoking the shades of those remote days, and after them, the shade of
Dante who, by the wisdom of his maxims, is superior to the poets of other
nations; of Dante, the most enthusiastic admirer of the former glory of
the Italians, the severest censor of the corruption into which Italy had
fallen in his time; of Dante, whose sole ambition was to prepare the new
birth of Italy! And how did he prepare it? By preaching union to the
inhabitants of the different countries of Italy, and to the public
authorities the consecration of power modified by the laws."
June 3 Napoleon and Josephine went to visit an industrial and artistic
exhibition at the Brera. There they saw Canova's Hebe, and his colossal
statue of Clement XIII. "The desire of seeing and approaching the
sovereign," says the _Moniteur_, "had made the crowd larger. An
octogenarian who had in vain struggled to get to a staircase before him,
was hustled and knocked down on the steps by the eager multitude. The
Empress, who was following, ran to his aid. The Emperor turned back,
questioned the old man, who was more disturbed by his joy than by his
fall, asked him his name and a memorandum, and promised to look out for
him. This scene produced a deep impression, and Their Majesties were led
back amid universal applause and thanksgivings."
At Milan, Josephine, who had become Queen of Italy, inhabited, with the
Emperor, the magnificent Monza Palace. But, perhaps, in all the splendor
of the highest point of her good fortune, she regretted the Serbelloni
Palace, where, nine years before, she exercised so beneficent an influence
on her husband's destiny, and had protected him with her affection, as
with a talisman. Doubtless the Empress and Queen would have returned
gladly to the time when she was called simply Citizeness Bonaparte. Then,
instead of the imperial and royal diadem, she possessed youth, which is
better than any crown, and her husband gave her something preferable to
any throne--his love! There the generals used to wear less showy uniforms,
more moderate salaries, but they were more enthusiastic, and unselfish.
Then Bonaparte's glory was less famous, but purer. When she saw Milan
again, after many years' absence, Josephine recalled all the happiness and
all the misery that had occurred meanwhile, all the grandeur and the
tragedy that had filled this period so brief, but so crowded with
marvellous events.
There were many happy memories, but also many shadows! This look backward
was not without melancholy. When she saw the approach of the autumn of her
amazing career, Josephine could not think without secret sadness of the
splendor of its summer. While her husband proudly enjoyed his satisfied
ambition, she dreamed and pondered seriously. She desired once more to see
the places which recalled the pleasantest memories of her first journey:
the lake of Como, with the Villa Julia and Pliny's house; the Lago
Maggiore and Borromean Islands; the palaces of the Isola Bella and the
Isola Madre; all the enchanting spots which recalled the gracious memories
of youth and love.
June 7 Napoleon appointed Eugene de Beauharnais Viceroy of the Kingdom of
Italy, and three days later left Milan with Josephine. In all the
principal cities of the Empire his coronation had been celebrated by
public rejoicings. Murat had given a ball at his castle of Neuilly, about
which the _Journal des Débats_ had said: "At the same moment when the arts
of ingenious Italy were displaying all their marvels under the eyes of
Their Majesties, French gallantry and gaiety were rendering similar homage
to the happy reign which had recalled them from a long exile."
Aix-la-Chapelle inaugurated the statue of the great Carlovingian Emperor
amid salvos of artillery and the applause of the Germanic populace, who
saluted at the same time the names of Charlemagne and of Napoleon.
XIV.
THE FESTIVITIES AT GENOA.
The Italian journey closed as brilliantly as it began. After leaving
Milan, Napoleon approached the frontiers of Austria, against which he was
to fight before the end of the year, visiting the celebrated
quadrilateral, consisting of the four fortified towns: Mantua, Peschiera,
Verona, and Legnago. He was present at a mimic representation of the
battle of Castiglione, in which twenty-five thousand men took part on the
field upon which that battle had been fought; then he went to Bologna,
where the charms of his conversation were highly appreciated by the
learned professors of its university. While he was there a deputation from
Lucca visited him, asking him to take that little country under his
protection. He gave it for Prince and Princess, his brother-in-law, Felix
Bacciocchi, and his sister Elisa, to whom he had already entrusted the
Duchy of Piombino. Lucca was thus elevated to a hereditary principality, a
dependent of the French Empire, which should revert to the French crown in
case the male line of the Bacciocchi should become extinct. It was a sort
of revival of the old Germanic fiefs. Evidently the memory of Charlemagne
continually filled Napoleon's thoughts. Elisa thenceforth bore the title
of Princess of Lucca and of Piombino. She was a well educated and able
woman, of marked intelligence and strong will. M. de Talleyrand used to
call her "the Semiramis of Lucca." After Bologna, Napoleon visited Modena,
Parma, and Piacenza. The cities he passed through rivalled one another in
flattery. They voted him medals, statues, and even a temple, which,
however, the demi-god declined.
June 30 Napoleon and Josephine arrived at Genoa, where they were to stay
till July 7, amid unprecedented festivities celebrating the incorporation
of the old Republic with the French Empire. It was a singular sight, this
enthusiastic reception of a Corsican by the Genoese. While at Milan, the
Emperor had received M. Durazzo, the last Doge of Genoa, who had come to
beg him to permit the illustrious Republic, famous for its historical
splendor, to exchange its independence for the honor of becoming a plain
French department. The offer was accepted. The home of Andrea Doria, the
city of marble palaces, that municipality once called "the superb" had
begged as a favor to be stricken from the list of independent states. It
contented itself with being the principal town in the twenty-seventh
military division, and its doge, dispossessed by his own desire, went to
swell the number of the Senators of the Empire. Napoleon took formal
possession of his peaceful conquest, and slept in the palace, and in the
bed of Charles V.
The night festivity, given in the harbor, July 2, was, in the way of
picturesqueness, one of the most original and most beautiful ever seen.
The sky was clear, the sea calm, the crowd of spectators enormous.
Napoleon and Josephine, going down from the terrace in the garden of the
Palazzo Doria, entered a large round temple, magnificently decorated,
which was at once set in motion as if by magic, and transported by many
oars to the middle of the harbor. Four rafts, covered with shrubbery,
resembling floating islands, then drew up to the temple. The sovereigns
were thus, in open sea, enclosed in a vast garden with trees, flowers,
statues, and fountains. About this garden of Armida, thus radiant upon the
waves, were a multitude of boats, under sail or propelled by oars, moving
about, and their lights resembled the swarms of fireflies that in summer
flutter above the fields of Lombardy. The mild temperature favored this
joyous festival. The whole city, all the buildings, every vessel, were
ablaze with a thousand lights, and the glassy sea reflected numberless
flames. The darkness of night gave the signal for the illuminations.
Magnificent fireworks were set off from the mole, the jetty, and the ships
lining the entrance of the harbor. Music mingled with the joyous cries of
the multitude. The temple in which were Napoleon and Josephine was rowed
back to the terrace of the Palazzo Doria amid the applause of the crowd
lining the shore.
The next day the Emperor and Empress were at a ball given in the old Ducal
Palace. "The presence of Their Majesties in this superb building," says
the _Moniteur_, "the kindness with which they deigned to speak to every
one, gave this festivity a touching character. All who saw and heard our
sovereigns, rejoiced in their new destinies. The concert was followed by a
ball, and Their Majesties stayed through the several dances, leaving about
midnight. Their path was lit by numberless candles. On their way they met
a multitude, delighted even at that hour, to be able to discern some of
our monarch's features."
In spite of all these splendid ceremonies Josephine, though idolized, was
not happy. "In general," Mademoiselle Avrillon says with justice, "the
public has a very faint knowledge of the real feelings of those in the
highest station. Being often on show, they are obliged to assume a
fictitious character, just as they dress themselves for great ceremonies.
I have seen the Empress's sufferings, whom nothing could console for her
separation from her children, whom she loved above everything. Ambitions
were less to her than maternal love, her strongest feeling. The thought of
leaving her son in Italy, the fear of never seeing him again, or the
certainty of seeing him seldom, made her shed tears." One day when she was
in more distress than usual, Napoleon said to her: "You are crying,
Josephine; that's absurd; you are crying because you are going to be
separated from your son. If the absence of your children gives you so much
pain, judge what I must suffer. The affection you show them makes me feel
most acutely my unhappiness in having none." These words sounded in
Josephine's ears like a funeral knell. She saw the spectre of divorce
rising before her, and turned pale. From Genoa they went to Turin.
Napoleon heard there of the coalition preparing against him, and left
suddenly for France with Josephine. Non-commissioned officers of the
Grenadiers and the Chasseurs of the Guard served as escort, but they were
unable to keep up with the carriages, so the Emperor thanked them for
their zeal and pushed on without them. He did not stop once for twenty-
four hours. Josephine, who never tormented her husband by complaining, did
not say a word about the fatigues of this quick journey. After an absence
of a hundred days, they reached Fontainebleau, July 11. No one expected
them and no preparations had been made for their reception. Their
departure from Turin had been so recent, and it resembled a flight. The
Emperor did not wish to be recognized on the way, and burst into
Fontainebleau like a bombshell. The palace porter was an old servant,
named Guillot, who had been Napoleon's cook in Egypt. "Well," the Emperor
said to him, "you must go back to your old business and cook us some
supper." Fortunately the porter had in his sideboard some mutton-chops and
eggs. He set to work, and Napoleon ate this improvised meal with great
relish. Josephine borrowed some linen from one of her old chambermaids.
The Emperor asked for a full account of everything that had happened in
Paris during his absence, and began to draw up the plans which were to be
accomplished at Austerlitz before the end of the year. July 18, at one in
the afternoon, he arrived at Saint Cloud, accompanied by the Empress, amid
the roar of the cannon at the Invalides. That evening they went into the
city, called on Napoleon's mother, and went to the opera, where the
_Prétendus_ was given; the audience greeted them most warmly. After all
the splendor of the Italian festivities the time had come for military
preparations and warlike thoughts.
XV.
DURING THE CAMPAIGN OF AUSTERLITZ.
Austerlitz was to be for the Empire what Marengo had been for the
Consulate: a consolidation. In spite of the pomps of the double
coronation, Napoleon did not feel firmly established on his Imperial and
Royal throne. Opinions varied with regard to the stability of the new
regime. The Liberals missed the Republic, and the Royalists the Bourbons.
If the army and the people showed confidence in the Emperor's star, the
Parisian middle class was always cool, and business men observed with
anxiety the hostility of England, Austria, Russia, and possibly Prussia.
Paris was gloomy; business was dull; the absence of the court depressed
the shop-keepers; the theatres were empty; in short, the winter was
infinitely less gay than the one before. There was general uneasiness;
wives feared for their husbands; mothers for their sons. Every one had
become used to the peace which had lasted five years, and the renewal of
war inspired the greatest anxiety.
As for Napoleon, he felt the need of some great stroke that should
astonish and fascinate the world. He understood that to maintain his fame
he was condemned to work miracles. September 23, 1805, he had exposed to
the Senate the hostile conduct of Austria, and had announced his speedy
departure to carry aid to the Elector of Bavaria, the ally of France, whom
the Austrians had just driven from Munich. Five days later he had started,
confident of success, and certain that he would find his people at his
feet on his return. The Empress accompanied him as far as Strassburg, and
established herself there to be near the scene of war and to receive
earlier news than was possible at Paris.
Napoleon's letters to Josephine during the Austerlitz campaign have been
preserved; unfortunately, we have not hers to him. The Emperor writes very
differently from General Bonaparte. His letters are not the ardent,
passionate, romantic epistles recalling the fervid style and thought of
the _Nouvelle Héloïse_. They are substantial letters, concise and
interesting, such as a good husband might write after ten years of
marriage, but not at all a lover's letters. Josephine, who was quite
observant, must have noticed the difference, but she had enough tact and
prudence to avoid complaint. 1805 was not 1796; Napoleon still loved
Josephine, but from habit, gratitude, and a sense of duty, not with mad
passion. He paid her much attention, held her in high regard, felt
sympathy with her, deference, and friendship, but scarcely love. Beneath
the vaulted roof of Notre Dame Napoleon had given to Josephine the
Imperial diadem, but he had not given her the true crown,--love.
October 1 the Emperor took command of his army, which had assembled with
wonderful promptness on the Rhine. The next day he wrote to the Empress
from Marenheims: "I am still very well, and leaving for Strassburg, where
I shall arrive this evening. The advance has begun. The armies of
Würtemberg and of Baden are joining mine. I have a good position and love
you." October 4 he wrote to her: "I am at Ludwigsberg, and leave to-night.
There is no news. All the Bavarians have joined me. I am well. I hope in a
few days to have something interesting to tell you. Keep well and believe
that I love you. There is a very fine court here, a pretty bride, and the
people are pleasant, even the Elector's wife, who seems very good,
although she is a daughter of the King of England."
October 5 Napoleon sent another letter to Josephine from Ludwigsberg: "I
have at once to continue my march. You will be five or six days without
news of me; don't be anxious; it is on account of the operations we
undertake. Are you as well as I could hope? Yesterday I was at the wedding
of the son of the Elector of Würtemberg with a niece of the King of
Prussia. I want to give her a present of from thirty-six to forty thousand
francs. Have it made and send it by one of my chamberlains to the bride
when the chamberlains are coming to me. Do this at once. Good by; I love
and kiss you."
These five or six days of silence were taken up by the opening of
hostilities on the road from Stuttgart to Ulm, the crossing of the Danube,
and the occupation of Augsburg. From this city Napoleon wrote to Josephine
October 10: "I spent last night with the former Elector of Trèves, who has
comfortable quarters. I have been on the move for a week. The campaign
opens with noteworthy successes. I am very well though it rains nearly
every day. Things have moved very quickly. I have sent to France four
thousand prisoners, eight flags, and have captured fourteen cannon. Good
by, my dear; I kiss you." Two days later the French army entered Munich in
triumph, the Austrians having been driven out of Bavaria. The Emperor
wrote to the Empress, October 12: "My army has entered Munich. The enemy
is partly on the other side of the Inn; the other army of sixty thousand
men I have blockaded on the Iller between Ulm and Memmingen. The enemy is
lost, has completely lost its head, and everything promises the luckiest,
shortest, and most brilliant campaign ever known. I leave in an hour for
Burgau on the Iller. I am well: the weather is frightful. It rains so that
I have to change my clothes twice a day. I love you."
The first successes of the campaign caused great excitement in Paris, as
is shown by the letters of Madame de Rémusat, no great lover of military
glory, to her husband, who had accompanied the Empress to Strassburg;
every day this lady would jot down what had happened, and her interesting
correspondence brings the period vividly before us. October 12, she wrote,
the absence of the Empress leaving her time heavy on her hands: "How
gloomy and ill we are in this odious Paris! Please tell M. de Talleyrand
that it is really something pitiable. Not even a word of gossip! In short,
we are as bored as we are virtuous. I don't know which is the cause and
which the effect, but I do know that I am horribly bored. The solitude of
this great city is really remarkable; the theatres are empty; I hardly
ever go to them."