flung himself into his brother's arms, saying that doubtless he was
embracing him for the last time, and left for Rome with his head high. He
was obliged to yield only on one point, by sending to Paris his oldest
daughter, Charlotte Marie, the issue of his first marriage with Christine
Boyer. (She was born at Saint Maximini in February, 1795, and in 1815
married Prince Marius Gabrielli.) But the young girl had all her father's
independent spirit. In Paris she was entrusted to the care of her
grandmother, Madame Letitia, and she spoke so severely about the Imperial
family in her letters, which were opened, that she was sent back to her
father in Rome almost as soon as she had arrived in France. As for the
idea of an annulment of the marriage or a divorce, Lucien absolutely
rejected it. He preferred his wife to all the wealth, all the honors, all
the kingdoms of the world. Jerome had yielded. Lucien did not yield.
Napoleon left Mantua after his interview with his brother, and returned to
Milan, where, December 17, he witnessed some naval sports in the arena of
the circus, which was turned into a lake. There too, December 20, in the
grand, hall of the palace, he adopted Prince Eugene as his son and
declared him his heir to the crown of Italy. At the same time he issued
these two decrees: "Wishing to give especial proof of our satisfaction
with our good city of Venice, we have conferred, and by these letters-
patent here present do confer, upon our dearly loved son, Prince Eugene
Napoleon, our heir presumptive to the crown of Italy, the title of Prince
of Venice." "Wishing to give especial proof of our satisfaction with our
good city of Bologna, we have conferred, and by these letters-patent here
present do confer, the title of Princess of Bologna upon our dearly loved
granddaughter, the Princess Josephine." Napoleon left Milan, December 24,
to return to Paris by way of Turin.
The letters which the Emperor wrote to his wife during this trip were very
empty and unimportant, wholly unlike those he had written in 1798. Only a
few need be quoted. "Milan, November, 25, 1807. I have been here, my dear,
two days. I am glad I did not bring you. You would have suffered terribly
crossing Mount Cenis where a storm detained me twenty-four hours. I found
Eugene very well; I am much pleased with him. The Princess is ill; I went
to see her at Monza: she has had a miscarriage, but is improving. Good by,
my dear." "Venice, November 30, 1807. I have your letter of the 22d. I
have been for two days in Venice. The weather is very bad, which has not
prevented my going through the lagoons to see the different forts. I am
glad to see that you are amusing yourself in Paris. The King of Bavaria
and his family and the Princess Elisa are also here. After December 2,
which I shall spend here, I shall be on my way back, and glad to see you.
Good by, my dear." "Udine, December 11, 1807. I have your letter of the
3d, and I see you are much pleased with the Jardin des Plantes. I am at
the furthest limit of my journey; it is possible that I shall be soon in
Paris where I shall be glad to see you again. The weather has not been
very cold here, but very wet. I have taken advantage of the last fine
weather of the season, for I suppose that at Christmas the winter will be
here. Good by, my dear. Ever Yours."
During the Emperor's absence the triumphal return of the Guard brought a
slight diversion to the Empress's anxiety and distress of mind. Though
unhappy as a wife, she was at least happy as a Frenchwoman. She, alas! had
a presentiment of divorce, but not of the invasion and dismemberment of
France. At noon, November 25, the twelve thousand old soldiers of the
Guard, bronzed, covered with glorious wounds, some already gray, made
their solemn entry into Paris. An arch of triumph, broader and higher than
the Porte Saint Martin, had been built at the gate of La Villette. The
Prefect of the Seine and the municipal authorities there awaited the
veterans.
The prefect welcomed the brave soldiers: "Heroes of Jena, of Eylan, of
Friediand," he said, "conquerors of peace, immortal thanks are due you,
for the country you have conquered! Your own country will ever remember
your triumphs; your names will be handed down to the remotest posterity on
bronze and marble, and the story of your exploits, firing the courage of
our latest descendants, will be recalled, and you, by the example you have
set, will still protect this vast Empire which, you have so gloriously
defended with your valor... Hail! war-like eagles, symbols of the power of
our magnanimous Emperor; carry over all the earth, with his great name,
the glory of the French name, and may the crowns with which the city of
Paris has been allowed to decorate you be everywhere a proof at once
august and formidable of the union of monarch, people, and army!"
Marshal Bessières, who was in, command, replied: "The most perfect harmony
will always exist between the populace of this great city and the soldiers
of the Imperial guard, and if their eagles should march again, recalling
their oath to defend, them to the death, they would remember that the
wreaths adorning them redouble the obligation." After these two speeches
the standard bearer left the ranks and bent down the flags on which the
magistrates placed golden crowns bearing this inscription: "The city of
Paris to the Grand Army." Then the troops marched past in the following
order: the fusiliers, the riflemen, grenadiers, the light cavalry, the
Mamelukes, dragoons, the horse grenadiers, and the picked body of gens des
armes. While they passed beneath the arch of triumph, a large band and
chorus performed a cantata, with words by Arnault and music by Méhul.
Passing through the dense crowds that lined the way, the guard came to the
Tuileries, passing beneath the arch of the Carrousel, where the eagles
were set down. Then it entered the palace garden, leaving its arms there,
and proceeded to the Champs Elysées, where a banquet for twelve thousand
men was laid. The tables were arranged under tents on each side of the
Champs Elysées, along their whole extent, from the Place de la Concorde to
the gate de l'Etoile. The tent of the staff was in the middle, half-way
up. Marshal Bessières proposed a toast to the city of Paris, and the
Prefect of the Seine one to the Emperor and King, and another to the Grand
Army.
The next day there were three performances in every theatre. The pit, the
orchestra, and principal rows of boxes and galleries were reserved for the
Imperial Guard. The opera gave _The Triumph of Trajan_. The Français gave
_Gaston and Bayard_. "That historical play," said the _Moniteur_, "which
presents so noble and true a picture of French honor, of warlike
victories, of chivalric enthusiasm,--never did this tragedy have
spectators better fitted to appreciate it." In the minor theatres various
plays on the events of the day were given. The performance at the opera
was magnificent; the _Moniteur_ described it with its usual lyrical
enthusiasm: "This picked band of braves, who, in their swift conquests, in
their distant marches, have seen such, diverse climates, visited so many
shores, and in so few months have seen the springs and the mouths of so
many rivers, know also the banks of the Tiber; hence in the scenery they
at ones recognized Rome; in the triumphal march, in the eager throng, in
the vast populace, bursting through the ranks of the Roman soldiers, and
flinging themselves beneath the hoofs of their horses, they saw the
touching picture of the reception they had met the day before. Their
emotion baffles description. The Imperial Guard gazing at Trajan's triumph
was itself an admirable spectacle." The opera was but a series of
ingenious allusions to Napoleon's glory. Trajan was represented as
burning, with his own hand, papers containing the secret of a conspiracy,
recalling Napoleon's throwing into the fire the letters by which, he could
have rained M. Hatzfeld; and when the Roman Emperor appeared in his
chariot, drawn by four white horses, it was not Trajan who was applauded,
but Napoleon.
December 14, at the Military School, Marshal Bessières, to celebrate the
victories of the Grand Army, and to thank the city of Paris for its
reception of the Imperial Guard, gave a grand entertainment which the
Empress honored with her presence. The Invalides was brilliantly
illuminated and connected with the Military School by a long row of
lights. In the middle of the Champ de Mars was a vast hemisphere, on which
was a pedestal holding a colossal statue of the Emperor, surrounded by
allegoric figures. The trophies set aside for each one of the Grand Army
were marked with the corps number. The Imperial Guard was under arms, and
formed an interesting part of the spectators, and of the spectacle as
well. Bengal fires lit up the warlike scene. The heights across the Seine
were also ablaze with lights. The Empress arrived at the Military School
at about eight in the evening. The entertainment began with a ballet
performed by dancers from the opera. Then there were fireworks. The Champ
de Mars was one sea of flame, and the Imperial Guard fired blank
cartridges for half an hour. Then there was a grand ball with a fine
supper; after which the dances continued till morning.
This worldly and military entertainment, at which the Empress queen
appeared in all her glory, may be regarded as the crowning point of her
splendors. And here, at the end of 1807, we close this study. We have left
to narrate in a final volume only the last seven years of Josephine's
life. We have already recounted nearly the whole career of this attractive
woman, of this justly famous sovereign. We have described her infancy in
Martinique, in her modest, patriarchal home, where she was born, June 23,
1763. We have admired her as a young girl, loving flowers, music, and
nature, beneath the clear sky of the Antilles, amid banana and orange
trees, tropical flowers, and birds of paradise, where the fortune-telling
negress said to her: "You will be a queen." We have seen her in France,
marrying, December 13, 1779, the young and brilliant Viscount Alexandre de
Beauharnais, by whom she had one son, the future Viceroy of Italy, and one
daughter, the future Queen of Holland. We have seen her going through that
period of illusions, so well called the Golden Age of the Revolution,
receiving in her drawing-room in the rue de l'Université the flower of the
liberal nobility and leaders of the Constituent Assembly, then suddenly
passing from the Golden to the Iron Age, shuddering at the dangers to
which war, and above all the Terror exposed her husband, the general in
chief of the Army of the Rhine, the leader of the democracy, rewarded for
his patriotism and his devotion to the Republic by the scaffold. She
herself, during her husband's captivity, was imprisoned in the Carmes
April, 1794; for one hundred and eight days of inexpressible anguish and
torment, she occupied in this dungeon the Room of the Swords as it was
called, because the walls still bore traces of the three swords which the
men of September had leaned against them after the massacre of the one
hundred and twenty priests who were in the prison. Beauharnais, the man of
the old régime, who had embraced the new ideas with so much ardor, this
grand lord who got himself treated like a _sans-culotte_ was guillotined
four days before Robespierre, whose death would have saved him. His young
widow left prison, reduced to extreme want, and took refuge with her
father-in-law, at Fontainebleau; then she made her appearance in the
motley society which, first showed itself in the drawing-room of Madame
Tallien, then at the Luxembourg under Barras. Rivalling Madame Tallien and
Madame Récamier in popularity, she smiled through her tears, like
Andromache in Homer. Her means becoming greater, thanks to the support of
men in authority, she bought in the rue Chantereine, afterwards rue de la
Victoire, a little house belonging to Talma, the tragedian. There she
received with her customary courtesy the few survivors of French
aristocracy who said behind well-closed doors: "Let us talk about the old
court; let us take a turn at Versailles."
Bonaparte, commander of the Army of the Interior, after the 13th
Vendémiaire, when he saved the expiring Convention, had just ordered the
disarmament of the sections and the delivery of all arms found in private
houses, when a boy of fourteen called upon him to ask to have back the
sword of his father, who had commanded the armies of the Republic. This
boy was Eugene de Beauharnais, afterwards Viceroy of Italy. Bonaparte,
touched by this action, received him graciously. The next day Madame de
Beauharnais called upon him to thank him. He was much struck by her charms
and proposed to her; she accepted him and they were married March 9, 1796.
The Viscountess of Beauharnais became Citizeness Bonaparte. No sooner
married, than the young husband, who was only twenty-six, tore himself
from her arms and started for the army of Italy. Then Napoleon's love for
Josephine was much greater than hers for him. It was he who was jealous,
he who wrote burning letters; he it was who was all enthusiasm, ardor, and
ablaze with passion. It was only with reluctance that Josephine decided to
leave Paris, where she was happy, but in Italy she found a real royalty.
At Milan she took possession of the Serbelloni Palace, where she did the
honors most admirably and received the homage of the proud aristocracy of
Milan. She followed her husband to the war, for he could not bear to be
separated from her, and one day when, beset with dangers, she was crying,
he exclaimed: "Wurmser shall pay dearly for the tears he causes you."
After Arcole, Madame Bonaparte resembled a sovereign. She singularly aided
her husband to play the double part which was soon to carry him to the
highest rank. When it was a question of repelling royalism, the young
conqueror relied on men like Augereau; when it was necessary to attract
men of the old régime, Josephine was the bond of union between him and the
French or Italian aristocracy. On her return to Paris, June 2, 1798, she
shared her husband's glories. The little house in the rue Chantereine
became more famous than the grandest palaces.
Bonaparte left for Egypt, embarking at Toulon, May 19, 1798, after taking
tender leave of Josephine. During her husband's absence, she bought the
estate of Malmaison, an unknown spot which soon became famous. She
skilfully defended Bonaparte's interests with the Directory, and in her
drawing-room met celebrities of every kind. But malicious persons soon
sent to Egypt hostile rumors, and her impetuous husband, wild with jealous
wrath, spoke of nothing but separation and divorce. He reached Paris
unexpectedly, October 16, 1799, and not finding his wife there, started
off to meet her on a different road from hers, wild with jealousy. His
brothers, Josephine's enemies, deceived him, and at first he refused to
see her again; but, softened by the supplications of Eugene and Hortense
de Beauharnais, he pardoned his wife and opened his door to her; she
defended herself, and he let himself be convinced, so that, instead of a
divorce, there was a complete reconciliation. Josephine was of use to her
husband in the preparations for the 18th Brumaire; she helped him to lull
the vigilance of the Republicans and to rise to the highest rank.
Citizeness Bonaparte had become the wife of the First Consul. Like the
ladies of the old régime, she was addressed as Madame until she should be
called Empress, or Your Majesty. She was at the head of the Consular
Court, rich in youth, glory, and hope. At the Tuileries she took
possession of the apartments of Marie Antoinette. At Malmaison she enjoyed
the pleasures of the country. The hero of Marengo looked upon her as his
good angel, his good genius. Their happiness was interrupted by the
infernal machine, but this gloomy incident was soon forgotten. Under
Josephine's guidance Parisian society soon resumed its former brilliancy.
Monarchical customs reappeared. The Concordat effected a reconciliation of
the church with the government, and the wife of the First Consul,
surrounded by a real court, heard a _Te Deum_ in the rood-loft of Notre
Dame. At heart she was a Royalist by her memories and her feelings,
although she was made by fate an Empress. The crown, so far from tempting
her, filled her with fear. She yearned to descend as her husband yearned
to rise. The proclamation of the Consulate for life, the prelude of the
Empire, filled her with gloom and apprehension, Neither the pomp of Saint
Cloud, nor the triumphal trip in Belgium. robbed her of her wise and
modest ideas. She much preferred Malmaison to any splendid palace, and
looked back with regret at the time when she was simply Citizeness
Bonaparte. Grandeur, so far from turning her head, only made her less
ambitious, She gave her husband excellent advice, which, unfortunately, he
did not follow. Had he listened to her, he would not have had the Duke of
Enghien killed, he would have been modest in good fortune, and would have
remained the first citizen of a great Republic.
Crowned at Notre Dame by the hands of Napoleon, Josephine played a
sovereign's part with as much ease as if she had been born on the steps of
the throne. The greatest names of the old régime figured in her house. She
adorned magnificent festivities by her presence. In Italy, whither she
accompanied her husband, she received as Queen the same homage she had
received as Empress. Yet, amid all this splendor, she was not happy. The
terrible wars in which Napoleon engaged filled her with anxiety. At
Strassburg, during the Austerlitz campaign, at Mayence during that of Jena
and that of Poland, she was a victim of the greatest distress of mind and
nervous terror. Then, too, her husband's infidelities filled her with
despair. Towards the end of 1807 the spectre of divorce arose before her.
The loss of a crown would be a trifling matter, but the sight of another
woman reigning as lawful wife over Napoleon's heart was a thought to which
she could not reconcile herself. From that moment she knew no peace or
happiness. She was like a convicted criminal awaiting sentence at any
moment, and she had to hide her terrible grief from every one. She always
imagined that in the homage paid her by force of habit, there was
something false and ironical. She thought of herself only as disgraced,
betrayed, repudiated. All that was left of her crown was its mark on her
brow. Few peasant women in their huts were ever as thoroughly unhappy as
was this sovereign in her palace.
We have seen Josephine in her springtime, in her summer; it remains for us
to describe only the autumn of this wonderful and melancholy career. This
last study will be profoundly sad. "In the season which despoils nature,"
said Madame Swetchine, "there is no breeze, no puff of air so light that
it fails to detach the leaf from the tree that bore it. In the autumn of
the heart there is no movement that does not carry away a happiness or a
hope." The great afflictions of Josephine's later years were the divorce,
the invasion, and the long agony. Driven from the Tuileries forever, she
took refuge at Malmaison one rainy, cold, December night, recalling,
doubtless, the starlit evenings when the conqueror of Italy sought calm
and happiness in that favorite spot. And after draining the cup of
bitterness, the deserted wife exclaimed: "It sometimes seems to me as if I
were dead and there was nothing left of me except a sort of vague power of
feeling that I no longer exist." She could truly say with Queen Margaret
of Navarre: "I have borne more than my share of the weariness which is the
common lot of man." A still harder trial awaited her. Napoleon was
unhappy, and she was forbidden to comfort him! He was exiled, and she was
forbidden to follow him! The Empire she had seen so magnificent she was to
see conquered, invaded, dismembered. No one was to mourn the woes of her
country more than she. She was to die of grief, and when, May 29, 1814,
she had breathed her last after uttering in her death agony these three
words which sum up the anguish of her soul: "Napoleon! Elba! Marie
Louise!" Mademoiselle Avrillon, the First Lady of her Bedchamber, was to
say, "I have seen the Empress Josephine's sleeplessness and her terrible
dreams. I have known her to pass whole days buried in the gloomiest
thought. I know what I have seen and heard, and I am sure that grief
killed her!" Was there ever a life of greater vicissitudes? It was a
career full of smiles and tears, presenting every contrast of light and
shade, of joy and grief, reproducing all the splendor and all the misery
that can be crowded into human existence! It was a career, as fascinating
as it was strange, which could only have been seen in those pathetic and
disturbed epochs, when one surprise follows another, and the actors are
perhaps even more astonished than the spectators at the shifting scenes
and the incidents of the drama, in which events always take an unexpected
turn, when men and things suffer shocks unknown to previous generations,
and when history reads like the wildest romance.