Emperor. We quote a few of the phrases:--
_M. Monge, President of the Senate_: "Madame, the Senate lays at the feet
of Your Imperial and Royal Majesty the tribute of its profound respect and
the homage of the administration with which it is animated for all your
virtues.... It congratulates itself on seeing again, in the capital, the
august spouse to whom our adored ruler has given all his confidence and
who deserves it in so many ways."
_M. de Fontanes, President of the Legislative Body_: "Half of our wishes
are granted. The presence of Your Majesty will make us attend less
impatiently another return that the French desire with you. ... Paris
consoles itself for not seeing him who gives such glory to the throne, by
finding in you her who has always lent to Sovereignty so much charm, so
much gentleness and kindness."
_M. Fabre, President of the Tribunal_: "Madame, your return has aroused
the keenest joy. The memory of that delicate kindness which knew how to
temper so many woes; of that active beneficence which repaired so many
misfortunes, is imprinted on every heart. Every one says: 'Providence in
giving to us the hero, whose vast designs are crowned with the most
constant and prompt success, desired to complete his kindness, by placing
near him her to whom every stricken heart turns, who is the most agreeable
object of gratitude, and who, moreover, throughout France is called the
friend of misfortune.'"
_M. Lejean, First Vicar-General of the Chapter of Notre Dame_ (speaking in
the place of the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris, who was ill): "Madame, His
Eminence the Archbishop, our worthy prelate, has commanded me to convey to
Your Imperial and Royal Majesty his regrets at not being able himself to
present to you the chapter and clergy of Paris. 'Go,' that venerable old
man said to me, 'and assure the benevolent Empress from me that I
thoroughly share the joy which every one feels at her return. Tell her
that never a moment passes that I do not address to Heaven the most
fervent prayers for the happiness of France and of our invincible Emperor,
and for the success of his arms. The Lord has deigned to grant my prayers;
in a very short time astounding prodigies have been wrought by Napoleon,
and I offer my thanks.' The chapter and the clergy of Paris pray for Your
Majesty to be sure that their feelings for your sacred person and for that
of your august husband are like those of His Eminence."
_The Prefect of the Seine_: "You are far from the Emperor, Madame, but
Paris, too, is far from him. Well, to mitigate this separation, equally
painful for Paris and for Your Majesty, Paris and Your Majesty will talk
to one another much about the Emperor. You will take pleasure in hearing
that his subjects of the good city of Paris are ever faithful to him; that
they are prepared for every act of devotion which may be demanded by his
glory, the honor of the Empire, and the resolution he has formed of not
laying down his arms until he has assured the peace of nations. You will
take pleasure in seeing us follow in thought, even to the most distant
climes, his ever victorious eagles. In short, Madame, at every exploit of
the Grand Army, you will be glad to hear the loud applause which we have
often wished could reach you, even in the camps of the founder of the
Empire, and then touched by the sincerity of our prayers, you will deign
to listen to them, and sometimes even to be their interpreter."
In spite of these official flatteries, and more or less interested
compliments, the Empress was far from happy. Possibly she imagined that
soon, even in her lifetime, the same homage would be addressed by the same
persons, in the same palace, to another woman. Besides this, however, she
had many causes for distress. She suffered from the absence of her
children, from her daughter's domestic unhappiness, from the Emperor's
remoteness, his infidelities in Poland, from the dangers threatening him
in this relentless and distant war. She wrote to her daughter February 3:
"I got here, dear Hortense, the evening of the 31st, as I expected. My
journey was pleasant, if I can call it so when it separated me further
from the Emperor. I have received five letters from him since my
departure. I need to hear from you now that you are no longer with me to
console me. Tell me how you are; write to me about your husband and
children. Although I see more people here than at Mayence, I am quite as
lonely, and you will seem to be with me if you write. Good by, my dear, I
love you tenderly." Josephine yearned all the more eagerly for happiness
as a mother, because as wife she suffered cruelly, and the torments of
jealousy were added to her grief at the Emperor's absence.
To one of the last letters his wife had written from Mayence Napoleon
answered in an undated letter which she received in Paris: "My dear, your
letter of January 20, has pained me much; it is too sad. That is the
result of excessive piety! You tell me that your happiness makes your
glory. That is ungenerous; you ought to say, the happiness of others makes
my glory. It is not like a mother; you ought to say, the happiness of my
children is my glory. It is not like a wife; you ought to say, my
husband's happiness makes my glory. Now, since the nation, your husband,
your children cannot be happy without a little glory, you should not
despise it. Josephine, you have a good heart, but a weak head; your
feelings are most admirable; you reason less well. But that is enough
squabbling; I want you to be merry, content with your lot, and to obey,
not grumbling and crying, but cheerfully and happily. Good by, my dear.
I'm off to-night, to inspect my outposts." It must be confessed that to be
as merry as the Emperor demanded, Josephine would have needed a very
exceptional character. Her husband was at the other end of Europe, never
interrupting the intense emotions and great risks of a colossal struggle
except for brief distractions, which, however, could not be agreeable, so
suspicious and jealous as she was.
Constant, the Emperor's valet de chambre, has recounted in his Memoirs,
the passion with which a beautiful Polish lady inspired his master, early
in 1807. Napoleon spent the whole month of January at Warsaw in a great
palace. The Polish nobility gave him magnificent balls, and at one of them
he noticed a young woman of twenty-two, Madame V., who had recently
married an old nobleman, a most worthy man of stern principles and severe
nature. By the side of her aged husband, this young woman, whose sadness
and melancholy only added to her beauty, was like a victim in waiting for
a consoler. She was a charming person, with light hair, blue eyes, a
brilliant complexion, a graceful figure, and dignified carriage. The
Emperor went up to her, addressed her, and was soon delighted by her
conversation. He imagined that she was unhappily married and he at once
conceived a warm love for her, intenser and far more serious than any he
had ever felt for one of his favorites. The next day he was noticeably
restless. He would get up and walk about, then sit down only to get on his
feet again. "I thought," Constant goes on, "that I should never get him
dressed that day. Immediately after breakfast he despatched a great
personage, whose name I shall not give, to pay a visit to Madame V., and
carry his regards and entreaties. She proudly refused to listen to his
propositions, possibly on account of their suddenness, or, it may be, by
natural coquetry. The hero had pleased her; the thought of having a lover
resplendent with power and glory fascinated her, but she had no idea of
yielding without a struggle. The grand personage returned in great
surprise and compassion at the failure of his negotiation."
Constant says that he found his master the next morning very busy. The
Emperor had written many letters the previous evening to the Polish lady,
who had made no reply. His pride was wounded by a resistance to which he
had not been accustomed since he had become great. At last, however, he
had written so many, and such ardent and touching letters, that she
consented to visit him one evening between ten and eleven. The grand
personage who had tried to make the negotiations, was ordered to go to a
remote spot and receive the lady in a carriage. Napoleon paced the room
while awaiting her, betraying emotion and impatience. "At last Madame V.
arrived," says Constant, whose master kept asking him what time it was.
"She was in a most pitiable condition, pale, silent, her eyes full of
tears. As soon as she appeared, I led her to the Emperor's room. She could
scarcely stand and she was trembling as she leaned on my arm. Then I
withdrew with the great personage who had brought her. During her
interview with the Emperor, Madame V. wept and sobbed so that I could
overhear her even at a great distance. At about two in the morning, the
Emperor called me. I went to him and saw Madame V. going away, with her
handkerchief at her eyes, weeping freely. The same personage carried her
away. I thought she would never come back." But, contrary to his
expectations, Madame V. came back two or three days later at about the
same hour; she seemed calmer, her eyes were less red, her face not so
pale, and she continued her visits during the Emperor's stay. Evidently
Josephine had good grounds for jealousy.
Napoleon interrupted these distractions by going forth to fight the battle
of Eylau, one of the bloodiest and most obstinate combats known to
history. He described it in two letters to the Empress, written in the
same day. This is the first:--
"Eylau, February 9, 1803, 3 A.M. MY DEAR: We had a great battle yesterday.
I was victorious, but our loss was heavy; that of the enemy, which was
even greater, is no consolation for me. I write you these few lines
myself, though I am very tired, to tell you that I am well and love you.
Ever yours."
This is the second:--
"Eylau, February 9, 6 P.M. I write a word lest you should be anxious. The
evening lost the battle; forty cannon, ten flags, twelve thousand
prisoners, suffering horribly. I lost sixteen hundred killed and three to
four thousand wounded. Your cousin, Tascher, is unhurt. I have placed him
on my staff as artillery officer. Corbineau was killed by a shell. I was
exceedingly attached to him; he was an excellent officer, and I am deeply
distressed. My Horse Guard covered itself with glory. D'Allemagne is
dangerously wounded. Good by, my dear."
The Emperor did not tell everything to Josephine; he said nothing about
the terrible vicissitudes of the battle, a victory scarcely to be
distinguished from a defeat; he kept silence about the cruel sufferings of
his army which, without having eaten, had fought amid blinding snow
beneath a leaden sky; he said no word about the regiments destroyed, one
in particular, from colonel to drummers, all killed or wounded; he did not
mention his own danger in the cemetery on the hill, where he had stood
surrounded by his Guard, his last resource, anxiously watching the fight
from its beginning, slashing the snow with his whip, and exclaiming at the
approach of the Russian Grenadiers as they advanced towards him, "What
audacity!" He did not say that after the terrible and fruitless bloodshed,
which both armies claimed as a victory, he had been obliged to withdraw,
and that Bennigsen had taken possession of the hotly disputed battle-
field. He did not say what he was about to say in his bulletins: "Imagine,
on a space a league square, nine or ten thousand corpses; four or five
thousand dead horses; lines of Russian knapsacks; fragments of guns and
sabres: the earth covered with bullets, shells, supplies; twenty-four
cannon, surrounded by their artillery-men, slain just as they were trying
to take their guns away; and all that in plainest relief on the stretch of
snow." He did not quote the words he uttered in the biting frost, in face
of thousands of dead and dying, when the gloomy day was sinking into a
night of anguish: "This sight is one to fill rulers with a love of peace
and a horror of war." No; the Emperor did not tell her everything.
In another letter, dated Eylau, February 11, 8 A.M., the Emperor tried to
reassure the Empress: "I send you a line: you must have been very anxious,
I fought the enemy on a memorable day which cost me many brave men. The
bad weather drove me into winter quarters. Do not distress yourself, I beg
of you; it will all be over soon, and my delight at seeing you once more
will soon make me forget my fatigue. Besides, I have never been better.
Little Tascher, of the fourth of the line, did well; and he had a hard
experience. I have given him a place near me, in the artillery; so his
troubles are over. The young man interests me. Good by, my dear; a
thousand kisses."
From this moment the Emperor's letters to his wife became cold, short,
dull, and utterly insignificant; speaking of nothing but the rain, or the
good weather, and perpetually bidding her to be cheerful. A clear-witted
person ought to see readily that Napoleon, who was otherwise occupied,
wrote to the Empress only from a sense of duty. Here are four letters; the
first from Landsberg, the other three from Liebstadt. February 18: "I
write a line. I am well. I am busy putting the army into winter quarters.
It is raining and thawing like April. We have not yet had a cold day. Good
by, my dear. Yours ever." February 20: "I write a line that you may not be
anxious. My health is good, and everything is in good condition. I have
put the army into winter quarters. It is a curious season, freezing and
thawing, damp and changeable. Good by, my dear." February 21: "I have
yours of February 4, and am glad to hear that you are well. Paris will
give you cheerfulness and rest; the return to your usual habits will
restore your health. I am wonderfully well. The weather and the country
are wretched. Everything is in good condition; it freezes and thaws every
day; it is a most singular winter. Good by, my dear. I think of you, and
am anxious to hear that you are contented, cheerful, and happy. Ever
yours." February 22: "I have your letter of the 8th. I am glad to hear
that you have been to the Opera, and that you mean to receive every week.
Go to the theatre occasionally, and always sit in the grand box. I am
pleased with the festivities given to you. I am very well. The weather
continues unsettled, freezing and thawing. I have put the army into winter
quarters to rest it. Don't be sad, and believe that I love you."
Towards the end of February Napoleon had established his headquarters at
Osterode, where he lived in a sort of barn, from which he governed his
Empire and controlled Europe. He wrote to his brother Joseph, March 1,
about the sufferings of this severe campaign in Poland. "The staff-
officers have not taken off their clothes for two months, and some not for
four, I have myself been a fortnight without taking off my boots.... We
are deep in the snow and mud, without wine, brandy, or bread, living on
meat and potatoes, making long marches and counter-marches, without any
comforts, and generally fighting with the bayonets under grape-shot; the
wounded have to be carried in open sleighs for fifty leagues.... We are
making war in all its excitement and horror." It is easy to see that
Josephine, who knew all this, had good grounds for anxiety. Paris was
empty and gloomy; every face was sad. France is easily tired of
everything, even of glory. The auditors of the Council of State, who were
sent to Osterode to carry to the Emperor the reports of the different
ministers, returned to Paris in deep distress at the sights they had seen,
and spread alarm in official circles. Napoleon consequently decided that
those reports should be brought to him by staff-officers, who were more
inured to scenes of distress.
From headquarters at Osterode the Emperor sent eleven letters to the
Empress between February 23 and April 1, 1807, but he said nothing of
importance in them. Thus: "Try to pass your time agreeably; don't be
anxious. I am in a wretched village where I shall be some time; it's not
so pleasant as a large city. I tell you again, I have never been so well;
you will find me much stouter.... I have ordered what you want for
Malmaison; be happy and cheerful; that's what I desire. I am waiting for
good weather, which must come soon. I love you, and want to hear that you
are contented and cheerful. You will hear a good deal of nonsense about
the battle of Eylau; the bulletin tells everything; its report of the
losses is rather exaggerated than cut down." At the same time he somewhat
reproved his wife: "I am sorry to hear that there is a renewal of the
mischievous talk such as there was in your drawing-room at Mayence; put a
stop to it. I shall be much annoyed if you don't find some clue. You let
yourself be distressed by the talk of people who ought to cheer you up. I
recommend to you a little firmness, and to learn how to put everybody in
his place. My dear, you must not go to the small theatres in private
boxes; it does not suit your rank; you ought to go only to the four large
theatres and always sit in the Imperial box. If you want to please me, you
must live as you did when I was in Paris. Then you did not go to the small
theatres or such places. You ought always to go to the Imperial box. For
your life at home, you must have regular receptions; that is the only way
of winning my approval. Greatness has its inconveniences. An Empress can't
go about everywhere like a commoner."
The greatness which the Emperor spoke about was no consolation to
Josephine. She was unhappier beneath the gilded ceilings of the Tuileries
than a peasant woman in a hovel. She besought her husband to let her join
him in Poland, and wrote to him despairing letters.
Napoleon answered from Osterode, March 27: "My dear, I am much pained by
your letters. You must not die: you are well and have no real cause of
grief. I think you ought to go to Saint Cloud in May. but you ought to
spend April in Paris.... You must not think of travelling this summer; all
that is impossible. You couldn't be racing through inns and camps. I am as
anxious as you can be to see you and be quiet. I understand other things
than war; but duty is before everything. All my life I have sacrificed
everything--peace, interest, happiness--to my destiny." These phrases in
no way consoled Josephine who knew very well that her husband, in spite of
his assumption of Spartan austerity; occasionally indulged in
distractions.
In the month of March something occurred which somewhat moderated the
Empress's sufferings. Her daughter-in-law, the Vice-Queen of Italy, gave
birth at Milan, on the 17th, to a daughter who was named Josephine
Maximilienne Augusta. She it was who was to marry, in 1827, Oscar, Crown
Prince and later King of Sweden. "You will hear with pleasure," the
Empress wrote Queen Hortense, "of the Princess Augusta's happy delivery.
Eugene is delighted with his daughter; his only complaint is that she
sleeps too much, so that he can't see her as much as he would like."
Josephine would gladly have gone to Milan to congratulate her son and to
kiss her granddaughter, but her grandeur kept her in Paris, where the
prolongation of her husband's absence and the torments of too well
justified jealousy plunged her into the deepest gloom.
Napoleon became tired of the monotonous and excessively disagreeable stay
at Osterode, where he could not receive the Polish lady to whom he became
continually more and more attached. Early in April he installed himself at
Finkenstein, in a pretty castle belonging to a Prussian crown official,
and there he was very comfortably quartered with his staff and military
household. It was from thence that he wrote, April 2, the following short
letter to Josephine: "My dear, I send you a line. I have just moved my
headquarters to a very pretty castle, like that of Bessières, where I have
a number of open fireplaces, which is very pleasant for me, as I get up
often in the night; I like to see the fire. My health is perfect, the
weather is fine, but still cold. The thermometer is but a few degrees from
freezing. Good by, my dear. Ever yours." As soon as Napoleon was settled
in this castle his first thought was to send for the Polish lady, for whom
he had fitted up an apartment near his own. She left at Warsaw her old
husband, who never consented to see her again, and spent three weeks with
the Emperor. "They took all their meals together," says Constant. "I was
the only one in attendance, so I was able to overhear their talk which was
always amiable, lively, and eager on the part of the Emperor, always
tender, affectionate and melancholy on the part of Madame V. When His
Majesty was away Madame V. spent all her time in reading or looking
through the blinds of the Emperor's room at the parades and drills going
on in the courtyard of the castle, which he often directed in person."
Constant, who felt bound to admire his master's choice, adds with some
feeling: "The Emperor appeared, to appreciate perfectly the interesting
qualities of this angelic woman, whose gentle, unselfish character left on
me an impression that can never fade... Her life, like her nature, was
calm and uniform. Her character fascinated the Emperor and bound him down
to her." This loving idyl, a sort of interlude in the tragedy of war, may
have suited Constant's taste, but it was hardly of a nature to please
Josephine, who, like most jealous people, knew almost always what she
wanted to know, and from the Tuileries found means to watch what was going
on in this distant castle.
Napoleon's letters to Josephine during the reign of Madame V. were shorter
and more stupid than usual. They were merely a few lines on the weather,
the Emperor's health, or his desire to hear that his wife was "cheerful
and happy." But, alas! cheerfulness and happiness were not for her! Too
astute to be hoodwinked, she understood that her husband still had a
friendly feeling for her but that his love was dead. In the eyes of a
jealous woman, friendship is a slight thing. What does she care for the
esteem and attentions of a friend who was once her lover? To all the good
services of friendship she would a thousand times prefer the anger, fury,
violence, of love.
XXII.
THE DEATH OF THE YOUNG NAPOLEON.
Queen Hortense was no happier in her Holland palaces than was the Empress
in the Tuileries. She had to endure all the grief, deception, and misery
of an ill-assorted marriage. The incompatibility of disposition which
existed between her husband and herself from the first days of their
married life, made itself continually more felt. King Louis blamed his
wife not merely for her faults, but also for her good qualities. He was
sometimes annoyed because she was gracious, amiable, charming; and the
general sympathy she aroused in Holland, as in France, excited the fears
of this irritable and sullen husband. Hortense looked upon herself as a
victim. She had a lively imagination, and exaggerated her grief to
herself, suffering more keenly on account of her excitement, which was
often very great. One day she said to Madame de Rémusat, her intimate and
admiring friend, that her life was so painful and apparently so hopeless
that when she was at one of her villas near the sea, and looked out on the
ocean where were the English fleets blockading her ports, she wished that
chance might bring a ship to where she was, and she might be carried off a
prisoner.