BOOK III. THE EMPRESS AND THE DIVORCED.

Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE

AN HISTORICAL SKETCH OF THE DAYS OF NAPOLEON

By Louise Muhlbach

Author Of: Daughter Of An Empress, Marie Antoinette, Joseph II and His

Court, Frederick The Great and His Family, Berlin And Sans-Souci, Etc.

Translated from the German by Rev. W. Binet, A M.

CONTENTS.

BOOK I.

THE VISCOUNTESS BEAUHARNAIS.

I. Introduction

II. The Young Maid

III. The Betrothal

IV. The Young Bonaparte

V. The Unhappy Marriage

VI. Trianon and Marie Antoinette

VII. Lieutenant Napoleon Bonaparte

VIII. A Page from History

IX. Josephine’s Return

X. The Days of the Revolution

XI. The 10th of August and the Letter of Napoleon Bonaparte

XII. The Execution of the Queen

XIII. The Arrest

XIV. In Prison

XV. Deliverance

BOOK II.

THE WIFE OF GENERAL BONAPARTE.

XVI. Bonaparte in Corsica

XVII. Napoleon Bonaparte before Toulon

XVIII. Bonaparte’s Imprisonment

XIX. The 13th Vendemiaire

XX. The Widow Josephine Beauharnais

XXI. The New Paris

XXII. The First Interview

XXIII. Marriage

XXIV. Bonaparte’s Love-Letters

XXV. Josephine in Italy

XXVI. Bonaparte and Josephine in Milan

XXVII. The Court of Montebello

XXVIII. The Peace of Campo Formio

XXIX. Days of Triumph

BOOK III.

THE EMPRESS AND THE DIVORCED.

XXX. Plombieres and Malmaison

XXXI. The First Faithlessness

XXXII. The 18th Brumaire

XXXIII. The Tuileries

XXXIV. The Infernal Machine

XXXV. The Cashmeres and the Letter

XXXVI. Malmaison

XXXVII. Flowers and Music

XXXVIII. Prelude to the Empire

XXXIX. The Pope in Paris

XL. The Coronation

XLI. Days of Happiness

XLII. Divorce

XLIII. The Divorced

XLIV. Death

BOOK I. THE VISCOUNTESS BEAUHARNAIS.

CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION.

“I win the battles, Josephine wins me the hearts.” These words of

Napoleon are the most beautiful epitaph of the Empress Josephine, the

much-loved, the much-regretted, and the much-slandered one. Even while

Napoleon won battles, while with lofty pride he placed his foot on the

neck of the conquered, took away from princes their crowns, and from

nations their liberty--while Europe trembling bowed before him, and

despite her admiration cursed him--while hatred heaved up the hearts of

all nations against him--even then none could refuse admiration to the

tender, lovely woman who, with the gracious smile of goodness, walked

at his side; none could refuse love to the wife of the conqueror, whose

countenance of brass received light and lustre from the beautiful eyes

of Josephine, as Memnon’s statue from the rays of the sun.

She was not beautiful according to those high and exalted rules of

beauty which we admire in the statues of the gods of old, but her whole

being was surrounded with such a charm, goodness, and grace, that the

rules of beauty were forgotten. Josephine’s beauty was believed in,

and the heart was ravished by the spell of such a gracious, womanly

apparition. Goethe’s words, which the Princess Eleonore utters in

reference to Antonio, were not applicable to Josephine:

“All the gods have with one consent brought gifts to his cradle, but,

alas! the Graces have remained absent, and where the gifts of these

lovely ones fail, though much was given and much received, yet on such a

bosom is no resting-place.”

No, the Graces were not absent from the cradle of Josephine; they, more

than all the other gods, had brought their gifts to Josephine. They had

encircled her with the girdle of gracefulness, they had imparted to her

look, to her smile, to her figure, attraction and charm, and given

her that beauty which is greater and more enduring than that of youth,

namely loveliness, that only real beauty. Josephine possessed the beauty

of grace, and this quality remained when youth, happiness, and grandeur,

had deserted her. This beauty of grace struck the Emperor Alexander as

he came to Malmaison to salute the dethroned empress. He had entered

Paris in triumph, and laid his foot on the neck of him whom he once had

called his friend, yet before the divorced wife of the dethroned emperor

the czar, full of admiration and respect, bowed his head and made her

homage as to a queen; for, though she was dethroned, on her head shone

the crown in imperishable beauty and glory, the crown of loveliness, of

faithfulness, and of womanhood.

She was not witty in the special sense of a so-called “witty woman.”

She composed no verses, she wrote no philosophical dissertations, she

painted not, she was no politician, she was no practising artist, but

she possessed the deep and fine intuition of all that which is beautiful

and noble: she was the protectress of the arts and sciences. She knew

that disciples were not wanting to the arts, but that often a Maecenas

is needed. She left it to her cousin, the Countess Fanny Beauharnais, to

be called an artist; hers was a loftier destiny, and she fulfilled that

destiny through her whole life--she was a Maecenas, the protectress of

the arts and sciences.

As Hamlet says of his father, “He was a man, take him for all in all, I

shall not look upon his like again;” thus Josephine’s fame consists not

that she was a princess, an empress anointed by the hands of the pope

himself, but that she was a noble and true wife, loving yet more than

she was loved, entirely given up in unswerving loyalty to him who

rejected her; languishing for very sorrow on account of his misfortune,

and dying for very grief as vanished away the star of his happiness.

Thousands in her place, rejected, forgotten, cast away, as she

was--thousands would have rejoiced in the righteousness of the fate

which struck and threw in the dust the man who, for earthly grandeur,

had abandoned the beloved one and disowned her love. Josephine wept over

him, lamented over his calamities, and had but a wish to be allowed to

share them with him. Josephine died broken-hearted--the misfortunes of

her beloved, who no more loved her, the misfortunes of Napoleon, broke

her heart.

She was a woman, “take her for all in all”--a noble, a beautiful woman,

a loving woman, and such as belongs to no peculiar class, to no peculiar

nation, to no peculiar special history; she belongs to the world, to

humanity, to universal history. In the presence of such an apparition

all national hatred is silent, all differences of political opinion are

silent. Like a great, powerful drama drawn from the universal history of

man and represented before our eyes, so her life passes before us; and

surprised, wondering, we gaze on, indifferent whether the heroine of

such a tragedy be Creole, French, or to what nation she may owe her

birth. She belongs to the world, to history, and if we Germans have no

love for the Emperor Napoleon, the tyrant of the world, the Caesar of

brass who bowed the people down into the dust, and trod under foot

their rights and liberties--if we Germans have no love for the conqueror

Napoleon, because he won so many battles from us, yet this does not

debar us from loving Josephine, who during her lifetime won hearts to

Napoleon, and whose beautiful death for love’s sake filled with tears

the eyes of those whose lips knew but words of hatred and cursing

against the emperor.

To write the life of Josephine does not mean to write the life of a

Frenchwoman, the life of the wife of the man who brought over Germany

so much adversity, shame, and suffering, but it means to write a woman’s

life which, as a fated tragedy or like a mighty picture, rises before

our vision. It is to unfold a portion of the world’s history before our

eyes--and the world’s history is there for our common instruction and

progress, for our enlightenment and encouragement.

I am not afraid, therefore, of being accused of lacking patriotism,

because I have undertaken to write the life of a woman who is not a

German, who was the wife of Germany’s greatest enemy and oppressor. It

is, indeed, a portion of the universal drama which is unfolded in the

life of this woman, and amid so much blood, so much dishonor, so many

tears, so much humiliation, so much pride, arrogance, and treachery, of

this renowned period of the world’s history, shines forth the figure

of Josephine as the bright star of womanhood, of love, of

faithfulness--stars need no birthright, no nationality, they belong to

all lands and nations.

CHAPTER II. THE YOUNG MAID.

On the 23d of July, 1763, to the Chevalier Tascher de la Pagerie,

ex-lieutenant of the royal troops, a resident of the insignificant

spot of the Trois Islets, on the island of Martinique, was borne by his

young, rich, and beautiful wife, a first child.

The loving parents, the relatives and friends had longed for this child,

but now that it was come, they bade it welcome without joy, and even

over the brow of the young father hung the shadow of a cloud as he

received the intelligence of the birth of his child. For it was a girl,

and not the wished-for boy who was to be the inheritor of the valuable

family-plantation, and the inheritor also of the ancient and respectable

name of Tascher de la Pagerie.

It was, however, useless to murmur against fate. What was irrevocable

had to be accepted, and welcome made to the daughter, who, instead of

the expected heir, would now lay claim to the rights of primogeniture.

As an inheritance reserved for him who had not come, the daughter

received the name which had been destined to the son. For two hundred

years the name of Joseph had been given to the eldest son of the family

of Tascher de la Pagerie, but now that there was none to whom the

Chevalier, Ex-lieutenant Joseph de la Pagerie could leave his name as a

legacy, the family had to be satisfied to give the name to his daughter,

and consequently she received at baptism the name of Joseph Marie Rosa.

There was, however, one being who gladly and willingly forgave the fault

of her birth, and who consecrated to the daughter the same love she

would have offered to the son. This being was the mother of the little

Joseph Marie Rosa.

“Contrary to all our wishes,” writes she to her husband’s sister, the

beautiful Madame Renaudin, in Paris--“contrary to all our wishes, God

has given me a daughter. My joy is not therefore diminished, for I look

upon my child as a new bond which binds me still closer to your brother,

my dear husband, and to you. Why should I have such a poor and meagre

opinion of the female sex, that a daughter should not be welcomed by

me? I am acquainted with many persons of our sex who concentrate in

themselves as many good qualities as one would only with difficulty find

in the other sex. Maternal love already blinds me and fosters in me the

hope that my daughter may be like them, and if even I cannot enjoy

this satisfaction, yet I am thankful to my child that by means of her

existence I am gathering so much happiness.”

Indeed, extraordinary joy, since the birth of the child, reigned in the

house of M. Tascher de la Pagerie; joy reigned all over Martinique,

for the long war between France and England was ended, and a few months

before the birth of little Joseph Marie Rosa, the peace which secured

to France the possession of her maritime colonies had been signed.

Martinique, so often attacked, bombarded, besieged by English

ships--Martinique was again the unconditional property of France, and

on the birthday of the little Marie Joseph Rosa the French fleet entered

into the harbor of Port Royal, landed a French garrison for the island,

and brought a new governor in the person of the Marquis de Fenelon, the

nephew of the famous Bishop de Fenelon.

Joyously and quietly passed away the first years of the life of the

little Joseph, or little Josephine, as her kind parents called her. Only

once, in the third year of her life, was Josephine’s infancy troubled

by a fright. A terrible hurricane, such as is known to exist only in the

Antilles, broke over Martinique. The historians of that period know not

how to depict the awful and calamitous events of this hurricane, which,

at the same time, seemed to shake the whole earth with its convulsions.

In Naples, in Sicily, in the Molucca Islands, volcanoes broke out in

fearful eruptions; for three days the earth trembled in Constantinople.

But it was over Martinique that the hurricane raged in the most

appalling manner. In less than four hours the howling northwest’ wind,

accompanied by forked lightning, rolling thunder, heavy water-spouts,

and tremendous earth-tremblings, had hurled down into fragments all the

houses of the town, all the sugar-plantations, and all the negro cabins.

Here and there the earth opened, flames darted out and spread round

about a horrible vapor of sulphur, which suffocated human beings. Trees

were uprooted, and the sugar and coffee plantations destroyed. The

sea roared and upheaved, sprang from its bounds, and shivered as mere

glass-work barks and even some of the larger ships lying in the harbor

of Port Royal. Five hundred men perished, and a much larger number

were severely wounded. Distress and poverty were the result of this

astounding convulsion of nature.

The estate of M. Tascher de la Pagerie was made desolate. His residence,

his sugar-plantations, were but a heap of ruins and rubbish, and as

a gift of Providence he looked upon the one refuge left him in his

sugar-refinery, which was miraculously spared by the hurricane. There M.

Tascher saved himself, with Josephine and her younger sister, and there

his wife bore him a third child. But Heaven even now did not fulfil

the long-cherished wishes of the parents, for it was to a daughter that

Madame de la Pagerie gave birth. The parents were, however, weary with

murmuring against fate, which accomplished not their wish; and so to

prove to fate that this daughter was welcome, they named the child born

amid the horrors of this terrific hurricane, Desiree, the Desired.

Peaceful, happy years followed;--peaceful and happy, in the midst of the

family, passed on the years of Josephine’s infancy. She had every thing

which could be procured. Beloved by her parents, by her two sisters,

worshipped by her servants and slaves, she lived amid a beautiful,

splendid, and sublime nature, in the very midst of wealth and affluence.

Her father, casting away all ambition, was satisfied to cultivate his

wide and immense domains, and to remain among his one hundred and fifty

slaves as master and ruler, to whom unconditional and cheerful obedience

was rendered. Her mother sought and wished for no other happiness than

the peaceful quietude of the household joys. Her husband, her children,

her home, constituted the world where she breathed, in which alone

centred her thoughts, her wishes, and her hopes. To mould her daughters

into good housekeepers and wives, and if possible to secure for them

in due time, by means of a brilliant and advantageous marriage, a happy

future--this was the only ambition of this gentle and virtuous woman.

Above all things, it was necessary to procure to the daughters an

education suited to the claims of high social position, and which would

fit her daughters to act on the world’s stage the part which their

birth, their wealth, and beauty, reserved for them. The tender mother

consented to part with her darling, with her eldest daughter; and

Josephine, not yet twelve years old, was brought, for completing her

education, to the convent of our Lady de la Providence in Port Royal.

There she learned all which in the Antilles was considered necessary

for the education of a lady of rank; there she obtained that light,

superficial, rudimentary instruction, which was then thought sufficient

for a woman; there she was taught to write her mother tongue with a

certain fluency and without too many blunders; there she was instructed

in the use of the needle, to execute artistic pieces of embroidery;

there she learned something in arithmetic and in music; yea, so as to

give to the wealthy daughter of M. Tascher de la Pagerie a full and

complete education, the pious sisters of the convent consented that

twice a week a dancing-master should come to the convent to give to

Josephine lessons in dancing, the favorite amusement of the Creoles.

[Footnote: “Histoire de l’Imperatrice Josephine,” par Joseph Aubenas.

vol. i., p. 36.]

These dancing-lessons completed the education of Josephine, and,

barely fifteen years old, she returned to her parents and sisters as an

accomplished young lady, to perform the honors of the house alongside

of her mother, to learn from her to preside with grace and ease over

a large mansion, and above all things to be a good mistress, a

benefactress, and a protectress to her slaves. Under her mother’s

guidance, Josephine visited the negro cabins to minister unto the sick,

to bring comfort and nourishment to the old and to the weak, to pray

with the dying, to take under her loving guardianship the new-born babes

of the negro women, to instruct in the catechism the grown-up children,

to excite them to industry, to encourage them through kindness and

friendliness, to protect them, and to be a mediator when for some

offence they were condemned to severe punishment.

It was a wonderfully peaceful and beautiful life that of the young

Josephine, amid a bountiful nature, in that soft, sunny clime which

clothed her whole being with that tender, pleasing grace, that lovely

quietude, that yielding complacency, and at the same time with that

fiery, passionate nature of the Creoles. Ordinarily dressed only with

the “gaule,” a wide, loose garment of white muslin, falling loosely

about the waist, where no belt gathered its folds, the beautiful head

wrapped up in the many-colored madras, which around the temples was

folded up into graceful knots holding together her chestnut-brown

hair--in this dress Josephine would swing for hours in her hammock

made of homespun silk and ornamented with borders of feathers from the

variegated iridescent birds of Cayenne.

Round about her were her young female slaves, watching with their

brilliant dark eyes their young mistress, ever ready to read every

wish upon that dreamy, smiling countenance, and by their swarthy tinge

heightening the soft, tender whiteness of her own complexion.

Then, wearied with the stillness and with her dreams, Josephine would

spring up from the hammock, dart into the house with all the lightness

of the gazelle to enliven the family with her own joyousness, her merry

pleasantry, and accompanied by her guitar to sing unto them with her

lovely youthful voice the songs of the Creoles. As the glowing sun

was at its setting, away she hastened with her slaves into the garden,

directed their labors, and with her own hands tended her own cherished

flowers, which commingled together in admirable admixture from all

climes under the genial skies of the Antilles. In the evening, the

family was gathered together in the light of the moon, which imparted

to the nights the brightness of day and streamed upon them her soft

blue rays, upon the fragrant terrace, in front of the house, where the

faithful slaves carefully watched the little group close one to another

and guarded their masters from the approaches of poisonous serpents,

that insidious progeny of the night.

On Sundays after Josephine had religiously and faithfully listened to an

early mass, she gladly attended in the evening the “barraboula” of the

negroes, dancing their African dances in the glare of torches and to the

monotonous sound of the tam-tam.

On festivals, she assisted her mother to put all things in order, and

to preside at the great banquets given to relatives and friends, who

afterward were visited in their turn, and then the slaves carried their

masters in hammocks, or else, what was far more acceptable, the young

maidens mounted small Spanish horses, full of courage and daring,

and whose firm, quick step made a ride to Porto Rico simply a rushing

gallop.

Amidst this dreamy, sunny, joyous existence of the young maiden gleamed

one day, as a lightning-flash, a prophetic ray of Josephine’s future

greatness.

This happened one afternoon as she was walking alone and thoughtful

through the plantation. A group of negresses, in the centre of which was

an old and unknown woman, attracted her attention. Josephine approached.

It was an old negro woman from a neighboring plantation, and she

was telling the fortune of the young negro women of M. Tascher de la

Pagerie. No sooner did the old woman cast her eyes on Josephine than

she seemed to shrink into one mass, whilst an expression of horror and

wonder stole over her face. She vehemently seized the hand of the young

maiden, examined it carefully, and then lifted up her large, astonished

eyes with a searching expression to the face of Josephine.

“You must see something very wonderful in my face and in my hand?”

inquired Josephine, laughing.

“Yes, something very wonderful,” repeated the negro woman, still

intently staring at her.

“Is it a good or a bad fortune which awaits me?”

The old prophetess slowly shook her head.

“Who can tell,” said she, gravely, “what is a good or a bad fortune

for human beings? In your hand I see evil, but in your face

happiness--great, lofty happiness.”

“Well,” cried out Josephine, laughing, “you are cautious, and your

oracle is not very clear.”

The old woman lifted up her eyes to heaven with a strange expression.

“I dare not,” said she, “express myself more clearly.”

“Speak on, whatever the result!” exclaimed Josephine, whose curiosity

was excited by the very diffidence of the fortune-teller. “Say what you

see in my future life. I wish it, I order you to do so.”

“Well, if you order it, I must obey,” said she, with solemnity. “Listen,

then. I read in your countenance that you are called to high destinies.

You will soon be married. But your marriage will not be a happy one. You

will soon be a young widow, and then--”

“Well, and then?” asked Josephine, passionately, as the old woman

hesitated and remained silent.

“Well, and then you will be Queen of France--more than a queen!” shouted

the prophetess, with a loud voice. “You will live glorious, brilliant

days, but at the last misfortune will come and carry you to your grave

in a day of rebellion.”

Afraid of the pictures which her prophetic vision had contemplated in

the future, the old hag forced her way through the circle of negro women

around, and rushed away through the field as fast as her feet could bear

her on.

Josephine, laughing, turned to her astonished women, who had followed

with their eyes the flight of the prophetess, but who now directed their

dark eyes with an expression of awe and bewilderment to their young

mistress, of whom the fortune-teller had said she would one day be Queen

of France. Josephine endeavored to overthrow the faith of her swarthy

servants in the fortune-teller, and, by pointing to the ridiculous

prophecy in reference to herself, and which predicted an impossible

future, she tried to prove to them what a folly it was to rely on the

words of those who made a profession of foretelling the future.

But against her will the prophetic words of the old woman echoed in the

heart of the young maiden. She could not return home to her family

and talk, laugh, and dance, as she had been accustomed to do with her

sisters. Followed by her slaves, she went into her garden and sank in

a hammock, hung amid the gigantic leaves of a palm-tree, and, while the

negro girls danced and sang round her, the young maid was dreaming about

the future, and her beating heart asked if it were not possible that the

prophecy of the negro woman might one day be realized.

She, the daughter of M. Tascher de la Pagerie--she a future “Queen

of France! More than a queen!” Oh, it was mere folly to think on such

things, and to busy herself with the ludicrous prophecies of the old

woman.

And Josephine laughed at her own credulity, and the slaves sang and

danced, and against her will the thoughts of the young maiden returned

to the prophecy again and again.

What the old fortune-teller had said, was it so very ridiculous, so

impossible? Could not that prophecy become a reality? Was it, then, the

first time that a daughter of the Island of Martinique had been exalted

to grandeur and lofty honors?

Josephine asked these questions to herself, as dreaming and thoughtful

she swung in the hammock and gazed toward the horizon upon the sea,

which, in its blue depths and brilliancy, hung there as if heaven had

lowered itself down to earth. That sea was a pathway to France, and

already once before had its waves wafted a daughter of the Island of

Martinique to a throne.

Thus ran the thoughts of Josephine. She thought of Franchise d’Aubigne,

and of her wondrous story. A poor wanderer, fleeing from France to

search for happiness beyond the seas in a foreign land, M. d’Aubigne

had landed in Martinique with his young wife. There Franchise was born,

there passed away the first years of her life. Once, when a child of

three years old, she was bitten by a venomous serpent, and her life was

saved only through the devotion of her black nurse, who sucked alike

poison and death from the wound. Another time, as she was on a voyage

with her parents, the vessel was in danger of being captured by a

corsair; and a third time a powerful whirlwind carried into the waves of

the sea the little Francoise, who was walking on the shore, but a large

black dog, her companion and favorite, sprang after her, seized her

dress with its teeth, and carried the child back to the shore, where

sobbing for joy her mother received her.

Fate had reserved great things for Francoise, and with all manner of

horrors it submitted the child to probation to make of it a strong and

noble woman.

A severer blow came when her father, losing in gambling all the property

which he had gathered in Martinique, died suddenly, leaving his family

in poverty and want. Another blow more severe still came when on her

return to France, whither her mother was going with her, she lost this

last prop of her youth and childhood. Madame d’Aubigne died, and her

body was committed to the waves; and, as a destitute orphan, Francoise

d’Aubigne touched the soil of France.

And what became of the poor orphan of the Creole of Martinique?

She became the wife of a king, and nearly a queen! For Francoise

d’Aubigne, the widow of Scarron, the governess of the children of Louis

XIV, had caused the mother of these children, the beautiful Madame de

Montespan, to be cast away, and she became the friend, the beloved,

the secret spouse of the king: and the lofty Louis, who could say of

himself, “L’etat c’est moi” he, with all the power of his will, with all

his authority, was the humble vassal of Franchise d’Aubigne, Marquise de

Maintenon!

This was the first princess whom Martinique had given to the world!

Was it not possible that the prophecies of the old negro woman could be

realized? could not once more a daughter of the Island of Martinique be

exalted into a princess?

“You will be Queen of France!” the negress had said.

No, it was mere folly to believe in such a ridiculous prophecy. The

throne of France was now occupied. Alongside of her consort, the

good, the well-beloved Louis XVI, the young and beautiful Queen Marie

Antoinette, the daughter of the mighty Empress Maria Theresa, sat on the

throne. She was young, she was beloved throughout France, and she had

already, to the great delight of her husband and of his people, borne an

heir to the throne of France.

The throne of the lilies stood then on firm and sure foundations,

and the prophecies of the old negress belonged only to the kingdom of

fables. [Footnote: This prophecy, nearly as related above, was told by

the Empress Josephine herself to her maids of honor in the castle of

Navarra.--See “Memoires sur l’Imperatrice Josephine, la Ville, la Cour

et les Salons de Paris sous l’Empire, par Madame Georgette Ducrest.”]

CHAPTER III. THE BETROTHAL.

Six months had barely elapsed since Josephine’s return from the convent

when the family Tascher de la Pagerie received from their relatives in

Paris letters which were to be of the greatest importance for the whole

family.

The beautiful Madame de Renaudin, sister of M. Tascher de la Pagerie,

had settled in Paris after having rid herself of an unhappy marriage

with a man, coarse and addicted to gambling, and after having, through

a legal separation, reobtained her freedom. She lived there in the

closest, intimacy with the Marquis de Beauharnais, who, for many

years, at an earlier period, had resided as governor on the Island of

Martinique, and there had bound himself to the whole family of Tascher

de la Pagerie by the ties of a cordial friendship. His wife, during her

residence in Martinique, had been the most tender friend of Madame de

Renaudin, and when the marchioness bore a second son to her husband,

Madame de Renaudin had stood as godmother, and promised to love and

protect the child of her friend as if she were his mother.

Chance brought on the opportunity of accomplishing this promise and of

fulfilling the oath made to God before the altar. The Marchioness de

Beauharnais returned to France in the year 1763 with her husband and

her two sons, but died there a short time after; and Madame de Renaudin,

true to her oath, hastened to replace the natural guardian, the mother.

Perhaps she had but followed the dictates of her heart, perhaps against

her will a sentiment of joy had passed over her at the death of the

poor marchioness, for, by this death, one at least of the two obstacles

intervening between Madame de Renaudin and the Marquis de Beauharnais

had been removed. Both married, both of the Catholic religion, death

alone could make their hands free, and confer upon them the right of

joining hands together for all their days.

They loved one another, they had ceased long ago to make a secret of it;

they avowed it to each other and to their dependants, for their brave,

loyal, and noble hearts would not stoop to falsehood and deception, and

they had the courage to acknowledge what their sentiments were.

Death had then made free the hand of the Marquis de Beauharnais, but

life held yet in bondage the hand of the Baroness de Renaudin.

As long as her husband lived, she could not, though legally divorced

from him, conscientiously think of a second marriage.

But she possessed the courage and the loyalty of true love; she had seen

and experienced enough of the world to despise its judgments, and with

cheerful determination do what in her conscience she held to be good and

right.

Before God’s altar she had promised to the deceased Marchioness de

Beauharnais to be a mother to her son; she loved the child and she loved

the father of this child, and, as she was now free, as she had no duties

which might restrain her footsteps, she followed the voice of her heart

and braved public opinion.

She had purchased not far from Paris, at Noisy-le-Grand, a country

residence, and there passed the summer with the Marquis de Beauharnais,

with his two sons and their tutor.

The marquis owned a superb hotel in Paris, in Thevenot Street, and

there, during winter, he resided with his two sons and the Baroness de

Renaudin, the mother, the guardian of his two orphan sons, the friend,

the confidante, the companion of his quiet life, entirely devoted to

study, to the arts, to the sciences, and to household pleasures.

Thus the years passed away; the two sons of the Marquis de Beauharnais

had grown up under the care of their maternal friend: they had

been through their collegiate course, had been one year students at

Heidelberg, had returned, had been through the drill of soldier and

officer, a mere form which custom then imposed on young men of high

birth; and the younger son Alexander, the godchild of the Baroness de

Renaudin, had scarcely passed his sixteenth year when he received his

commission as sub-lieutenant.

A year afterward his elder brother married one of his cousins, the

Countess Claude Beauharnais, and the sight of this youthful happy love

excited envy in the heart of the young lieutenant of seventeen years,

and awoke in him a longing for a similar blessedness. Freely and without

reserve he communicated his wishes to his father, begged of him to

choose him a wife, and promised to take readily and cheerfully as such

her whom his father or his sponsor, his second mother, would select for

him.

A few months later reached Martinique the letters which, as already

said, were to be of the utmost importance to the family of M. Tascher de

la Pagerie.

The first of these letters was from the Marquis de Beauharnais, and

addressed to the parents of Josephine, but with a considerate and

delicate tact the marquis had not written the letter with his own hand,

but had dictated it to his son Alexander, so as to prove to the family

of his friend De la Pagerie that the son was in perfect unison of

sentiment with the father, and that the latter only expressed what the

son desired and approved.

“I cannot express,” wrote the marquis, “how much satisfaction I have

in being at this moment able to give you a proof of the inclination and

friendship which I always have had for you. As you will perceive, this

satisfaction is not merely on the surface.

“My two sons,” continues he, “are now enjoying an annual income of forty

thousand livres. It is in your power to give me your daughter to enjoy

this income with my son, the chevalier. The esteem and affection he

feels for Madame de Renaudin makes him passionately desire to be united

with her niece. I can assure you that I am only gratifying his wishes

when I pray you to give me for him your second daughter, whose age

corresponds at best with his. I sincerely wish that your eldest daughter

were a few years younger, for then she would certainly have had the

preference, the more so that she is described to me under the most

advantageous colors. But I confess my son, who is but seventeen and a

half years old, thinks that a young lady of fifteen is too near him

in age. This is one of those cases in which reasonable and reflecting

parents will accommodate themselves to circumstances.”

M. de Beauharnais adds that his son possesses all the qualities

necessary to make a woman happy. At the same time he declares that, as

regards his future daughter-in-law, he has no claims to a dowry, for

his son already possesses an income of forty thousand livres from his

mother’s legacy, and that after his father’s death he will inherit

besides an annual income of twenty-five thousand livres. He then

entreats M. de la Pagerie, as soon as practicable, to send his daughter

to France, and, if possible, to bring her himself. The marquis then

addresses himself directly to the wife of M. de la Pagerie, and repeats

to her in nearly the same words his proposal, and endeavors also to

excuse to her the choice of the second daughter.

“The most flattering things have been told me,” writes he, “of your

eldest daughter, but my son finds her, with her fifteen years, too old

for him. My son is worthy of becoming your son-in-law; Nature has gifted

him with good and fine parts, and his income is sufficiently large to

share it with a wife qualified to render him happy. Such a one I trust

to find in your second daughter; may she resemble you, madame, and I can

no longer doubt of my son’s happiness! I feel extremely happy to see my

long-cherished wishes satisfied! I can not express to you how great

will be my joy to see riveted forever, by means of this union of our two

families, the inclination and the friendship which have already so long

chained us together. I trust that Mademoiselle de la Pagerie will not

refuse her consent. Allow me to embrace her and already to greet her as

my own beloved daughter.” [Footnote: Aubenas, “Histoire de l’Imperatrice

Josephine,” vol. i., p. 78.]

To this letter was addressed a note from Madame de Renaudin to her

brother and to her sister-in-law. She openly acknowledges that she

it was who desired this union, and who had brought the matter to its

present stage, and she endeavors to meet the objection that it would

appear strange for a young lady to undertake a long journey in search of

a future husband, whilst it would be more expedient that the bridegroom

should make the journey to his bride, to receive her at the hands of

her parents, and bring her with him to a new home. But this bride of

thirteen years must first be trained for her future destiny; she is

not to be in the house of her future father-in-law, but in the house of

Madame de Renaudin, her aunt, and she is there to receive the completion

of her education and that higher culture which her parents, even with

all the necessary means, could not give her in Martinique.

“We are of opinion,” she writes, “that the young people must see one

another and please each other, before we bring this matter to a close,

for they are both too dear to us to desire to coerce them against their

inclination. Your daughter will find in me a true and kind mother, and

I am sure that she will find the happiness of her future life in the

contemplated union, for the chevalier is well qualified to make a wife

happy. All that I can say of him exhausts by no means the praise he

deserves. He has a pleasant countenance, an excellent figure, wit,

genius, knowledge, and, what is more than this, all the noble qualities

of heart and soul are united in him, and he must consequently be loved

by all who know him.”

Meanwhile, before these letters reached Martinique, chance had already

otherwise decided the fate of Mary, the second daughter of M. de la

Pagerie. With one sentence it had destroyed all the family schemes.

After three days of confinement to a bed of sickness, Mary had died of a

violent fever, and when the letter, in which the Marquis de Beauharnais

asked for her hand, reached her father, she had been buried three

months.

M. Tascher de la Pagerie hastened to announce her death to the Marquis

and to Madame de Renaudin; and to prove to them how much he also had at

heart a union of the two families, he offered to his son, the chevalier,

the hand of his third daughter, the little twelve-year-old Desiree.

Undoubtedly it would have been more gratifying to him if the choice of

the marquis had fallen upon his eldest daughter, and he makes this known

very clearly in his answer to Madame de Renaudin.

“My eldest daughter,” writes he, “Josephine, who is lately returned from

the convent, and who has often desired me to take her to France, will,

believe me, be somewhat sensitive at the preference given to her younger

sisters. Josephine has a beautiful head, beautiful eyes and arms, and

also a wonderful talent for music. During her stay in the convent I

procured her a guitar-teacher; she has made the best of the instruction

received, and she has a glorious voice. It is a pity she has not the

opportunity of completing her education in France; and were I to have my

wish, I would bring her to you instead of my other two daughters.”

Meanwhile the Marquis de Beauharnais, as well as his son, found that the

youngest daughter of M. de la Pagerie was too young for their impatient

desire to bring to a favorable issue these important family concerns,

and that the eldest of the daughters ought to have the preference. The

son of the marquis especially pronounced himself decidedly in favor of

Josephine, and father and son, as well as Madame de Renaudin, turned

imploringly to M. Tascher de la Pagerie, praying that he would bring

them his eldest daughter.

Now, for the first time, when the choice of the Beauharnais family

had irrevocably fallen upon Josephine, now for the first time was this

proposed marriage made known to her, and her consent asked.

Josephine, whose young heart was like a blank sheet of paper, whereon

love had as yet written no name, Josephine rejoiced at the prospect

of accomplishing the secret wish of her maiden heart, to go to

Paris--Paris, the burning desire of all Creoles--Paris, after all the

narratives and descriptions, which had been made to Josephine, rose

before the soul of the young maiden as a golden morning dream, a

charming fairy world; and full of gratitude she already loved her future

husband, to whom she owed the happiness of becoming acquainted with the

city of wonders and pleasures.

She therefore acquiesced without regret at being separated from

her parents and from her sister, from the home of all her sweet

reminiscences of youth, and joyously, in August of the year 1779, she

embarked on board the vessel which was to take her with her father to

France.

In the middle of October they both, after a stormy passage, touched

the soil of France and announced to their relatives their safe arrival.

Alexandre de Beauharnais, full of impatient longings to see his unknown

young bride, hastened to Brest to bid her and her father welcome, and to

accompany them to Paris.

The first meeting of the young couple decided their future. Josephine,

smiling and blushing, avowed to her father that she was willing and

ready to marry M. Alexandre Beanharnais; and, the very first day of

his meeting with Josephine, Alexandre wrote to his father that he was

enchanted with the choice made, and that he felt strongly convinced

that, at the side of so charming, sweet, and lovely a being, he would

lead a happy and sunny life.

The love of the children had crowned all the schemes of the parents,

and on the 13th of December, 1779, the marriage of the young couple took

place. On the 13th of December, Mademoiselle Josephine Tascher de la

Pagerie became the Viscountess Josephine de Beauharnais.

CHAPTER IV. THE YOUNG BONAPARTE.

In the same year, 1779, in which Josephine de la Pagerie for the first

time left Martinique for Prance, a vessel which had sailed from Corsica

brought to France a boy who, not only as regards Josephine’s life,

but also as regards all Europe, yea, the whole world, was to be of the

highest importance, and who, with the iron step of fatality, was to

walk through Europe to subvert thrones and raise up new ones; to tread

nations in the dust, and to lift up others from the dust; to break

tyranny’s chains in which people languished, so as to impose upon them

his own chains.

This boy was Napoleon Bonaparte, the son of the advocate Charles de

Bonaparte.

From Ajaccio, the principal town of Corsica, came the ship which brought

to France the boy, his father, and his two elder brothers. In Ajaccio

the family of the Bonapartes had been settled for more than a century.

There also Napoleon had passed the first years of his life, in the

family circle with his parents, and in joyous amusements with his five

brothers and sisters.

His father, Charles de Bonaparte, belonged to one of the noble families

of Corsica, and was one of the most influential men on the island. His

mother, Letitia Ramolina, was well known throughout the island for her

beauty, and the only woman who could have been her rival, for she was

her equal in beauty, youth, and grace, was her dearest friend, the

beautiful Panonia de Comnene, afterward the mother of the Duchess

d’Abrantes.

The beautiful Letitia Ramolina was married to Charles de Bonaparte the

same year that her friend Panonia de Comnene became the wife of M.

de Permont, a high French official in Ajaccio. Corsica was then the

undisputed property of the kingdom of France, and, however proud the

Corsicans were of their island, yet they were satisfied to be called

subjects of France, and to have their beautiful island considered as a

province of France.

Napoleon Bonaparte was the fifth child of his parents, the favorite of

his beautiful mother Letitia, who was the life of the household, the

ruler of the family. She governed the house, she educated the children;

she knew, with the genuine ability of a housekeeper, of a mother, how to

spend with careful frugality the moderate income of her husband; how

to economize, and yet how to give to each what was needed. As to the

father, in the hours of leisure which business, political debates, and

amusements allowed him to give to his home and family, his children were

an agreeable recreation, an interesting pastime; and when the children,

carried away by the sparkling fire of youth, shouted or cried too loud,

the father endeavored to palliate their misdemeanor, and obtain their

pardon from their mother. Then Letitia’s eyes were fastened with a

flaming glance upon her husband, and, imperatively bidding him leave the

children, she would say: “Let them alone. Their education concerns you

not. I am the one to keep the eyes upon them.”

She trained them up with the severity of a father and with the

tenderness of a mother. Inexorable against every vice of heart and

character, she was lenient and indulgent toward petty offences which

sprang up from the inconsiderateness and spiritedness of youth. Every

tendency to vulgar sentiments, to mean envy or selfishness, she strove

to uproot by galling indignation; but every thing which was great and

lofty, all sentiments of honor, of courage, of large-heartedness, of

generosity, of kindness, she nursed and cherished in the hearts of her

children. It was a glorious sight to contemplate this young mother

when with her beautiful, rosy countenance glowing with enthusiasm and

blessedness, she stood among her children, and in fiery, expressive

manner spoke to the listening group of the great and brave of old, of

the deeds of a Caesar, of a Hannibal; when she spoke of Brutus, who,

though he loved Caesar, yet, greater than Caesar, and a more exalted

Roman in his love for the republic, sacrificed his love to the

fatherland; or when she, with that burning glow which all Corsicans, the

women as well as the men, cherish for their home and for the historical

greatness of their dear island, told them of the bravery and self-denial

even unto death with which the Corsicans for centuries had fought for

the freedom of their island; how, faithful to the ancient sacred law of

blood, they never let the misdeed pass unpunished; they never feared the

foe, however powerful he might be, but revenged on him the evil which he

had committed against sister or brother, father or mother.

And when Letitia thus spoke to her children in the beautiful and

harmonious language of her country, the eyes of the little Napoleon

were all aflame, his childish countenance suddenly assumed a grave

expression, and on the little body of the child was seen a man’s head,

glowing with power, energy, and pride.

These narratives of his mother, these enthusiastic stories of heroes

of the past, which the boy, with loud-beating heart, with countenance

blanched by mental excitement, gathered from the beautiful lips of his

mother, were the highest pleasure of the little Napoleon, and often in

future years has the emperor amid his glory thought of those days never

to be forgotten, when the child’s heart and soul hung on his mother’s

lips, and listened to her wondrous stories of heroes.

These narratives of Letitia, this enthusiasm which her glowing language

awoke in the heart of the child, this whole education which Letitia gave

to her children, became the corner-stone of their future. As a sower,

Letitia scattered the seed from which hero and warrior were to spring

forth, and the grain which fell into the heart of her little Napoleon

found a good soil, and grew and prospered, and became a laurel-tree,

which adorned the whole family of the Bonapartes with the blooming crown

of immortality.

Great men are ever much more the sons of their mother than of the

father, while seldom have great men seen their own greatness survive in

their sons. This is a wonderful secret of Nature, which perhaps cannot

be explained, but which cannot be denied.

Goethe was the true son of his talented and noble mother, but he could

leave as a legacy to his son only the fame of a name, and not his

genius. Henry IV., the son of a noble, spiritual and large-hearted

Jeanne de Navarre, could not leave to France, which worshipped and loved

her king, could not leave to his people, a successor who resembled him,

and who would inherit his sharp-sightedness, his prudence, his courage,

and his greatness of soul. His son and successor was Louis XIII., a king

whose misfortune it was ever to be overruled, ever to be humbled, ever

to stand in the shade of two superior natures, which excited his envy,

but which he was never competent to overcome; ever overshadowed by the

past glories which his father’s fame threw upon him, overshadowed by the

ruler and mentor of his choice, his minister, the Cardinal de Richelieu,

who darkened his whole sad existence.

Napoleon was the son of his mother, the large-hearted and high-minded

Letitia Ramolina. But how distant was the son of the hero, who, from a

poor second lieutenant, had forced his way to the throne of France! how

distant the poor little Duke de Reichstadt from his great father! Even

over the life of this son of an eminent father weighed a shadow--the

shadow of his father’s greatness. Under this shadow which the column of

Vendome cast from Paris to the imperial city of Vienna, which the steep

rock of St. Helena cast even upon the castle of Schonbrunn, under this

shadow died the Duke de Reichstadt, the unfortunate son of his eminent

father.

The little Napoleon was always a shy, reserved, quiet boy. For hours

long he could hide in some obscure corner of the house or of the garden,

and sit there with head bent low and eyes closed, half asleep and half

dreaming; but when he opened his eyes, what a life in those looks! What

animation, what exuberance in his whole being, when awaking from his

childish dreams he mixed again with his brothers, sisters, and friends!

Letitia’s words and example had penetrated the soul of the child with

the highest emotions of honor and human dignity, and the little boy of

seven years exhibited oftentimes the sentiments of honor, pride, and

obstinacy of a man. Every bodily correction to which he was submitted

made him turn pale and tremble, not from pain but for shame, filled him

with indignation, and was apt to bring on sickness. In Corsica still

prevailed the custom of severe discipline for children, and in all the

classes of the school the rod was applied as a means of punishment and

reformation. To beat one’s wife was considered in Corsica, as everywhere

else, an unpardonable brutality; but parents as well as teachers whipped

children to mould them into noble, refined, honorable men.

The little Napoleon would not adapt himself to the blessings of this

education, and the mere threats of the rod-switching deprived the child

of his senses and threw him into convulsions. But though the little

Napoleon was gloomy, monosyllabic, and quiet, yet was he from early

childhood the favorite of all who knew him, and he already wielded over

brothers, sisters, and companions, a wonderful influence.

When a boy of four years old, Letitia sent him to a sort of play-school,

where boys and girls amused themselves together and learned the ABC. The

young Napoleon was soon the soul of the little company. The boys obeyed

him, and submitted to his will; the girls trembled before him, and yet

with a smile they pressed toward him merely to be near him and to have

a place at his side. And the four-year child already practised a tender

chivalry. One of his little school-companions had made an impression on

his heart; he honored her with special favors, sat at her side during

the lessons, and when they left school to return home, the little

Napoleon never missed, with complete gravity of countenance, to offer

his arm to his favorite of five years of age and to accompany her to her

home. But the sight of this gallant, with his diminutive, compact,

and broad figure, over which the large head, with its earnestness of

expression, seemed so incongruous, and which moved on with so much

gravity, while the socks fell from the naked calves over the heels--all

this excited the merriment of the other children; and when, arm-in-arm

with his little schoolmate, he thus moved on, the other urchins in

great glee shouted after him: “Napoleone di mezza calzetta dall’ amore

a Giacominetta!” (“Napoleon in socks is the lover of the little

Giacominetta!”)

The boy endured these taunts with the stoic composure of a philosopher,

but never after did he offer his arm to the little Giacominetta, and

never afterward did his socks hang down over his heels.

When from this “mixed school” he passed into a boys’ school, the little

Napoleon distinguished himself above all the other boys by his ambition,

his deep jealousy, his perseverance at learning and studying, and he

soon became the favorite of the Abbe Recco, [Footnote: Napoleon, in his

testament, written at St. Helena, willed a fixed sum of money to this

Professor Recco, in gratitude for the instruction given him in his

youth.] who taught at the royal college of Ajaccio as professor. A few

times every week the worthy professor would gather his pupils in a large

hall, to read them lectures upon ancient history, and especially upon

the history of Rome; and, in order to give to this hall a worthy and

significant ornament, he had it adorned on either side with two large

and costly banners, one of which had the initials S. P. Q. E., and

represented the standard of ancient Rome; facing it and on the opposite

side of the hall was the standard of Carthage.

Under the shadows of these standards were ranged the seats for the

scholars, and in the vacant centre of the large hall was the professor’s

chair, from which the Abbe Recco dictated to his pupils the history of

the heroic deeds of ancient Rome.

The elder children sat under the larger standard, under the standard of

Rome, and the junior boys immediately opposite, under the standard of

Carthage; and as Napoleon Bonaparte was the youngest scholar of the

institution, he sat near the Carthaginian standard, whilst his brother

Joseph, his senior by five years, had his seat facing him on the Roman

side. Though at the commencement of the lectures Napoleon’s delight had

been great, and though he had listened with enthusiasm to the history

of the struggles, and to the martial achievements of the ancient Romans,

the little Napoleon soon manifested an unmistaken repugnance to attend

these lectures. He would turn pale, as with his brother he entered the

hall, and with head bowed low, and dark, angry countenance, took his

seat. A few days afterward he declared to his brother Joseph, his lips

drawn in by anguish, that he would no more attend the lectures.

“And why not?” asked Joseph, astonished. “Do you take no interest in the

Roman history? Can you not follow the lecture?”

The little Napoleon darted upon his brother a look of inexpressible

contempt. “I would be a simpleton if the history of heroes did not

interest me,” said he, “and I understand everything the good Professor

Recco says--I understand it so well that I often know beforehand what

his warriors and heroes will do.”

“Well, then, since you have such a lively interest in the history of the

Romans, why will you no more follow the lectures?”

“No, I will not, I cannot,” murmured Napoleon, sadly.

“Tell me, at least, the reason, Napoleon,” said his brother.

The boy looked straight before him, for a long time hesitating and

undecided; then he threw up his head in a very decided manner, and gazed

on his brother with flaming eyes.

“Yes,” cried he, passionately, “I will tell you! I can no longer endure

the shame to sit down under the standard of the conquered and humiliated

Carthaginians. I do not deserve to be so disgraced.”

“But, Napoleon,” said Joseph, laughing, “why trouble yourself about the

standard of the old Carthaginians? One is just as well under it as under

the Roman standard.”

“Is it, then, the same to you under which standard you sit? Do you not

consider it as a great honor to sit under the standard of the victorious

Romans?”

“I look upon the one as being without honor, and upon the other as being

without shame,” said Joseph, smiling.

“If it is so,” cried out the little Napoleon, throwing himself on his

brother’s neck, “if it is for you no great sacrifice, then, I implore

you to save me, to make me happy, for you can do it! Let us change

seats; give me your place under the standard of Rome, and take my place

instead.”

Joseph declared himself ready to do so, and when the two brothers came

next time to the lecture, Napoleon, with uplifted head and triumphant

countenance, took his seat under the standard of victorious Rome.

But soon the expression of joy faded away from his face, and his

features were overcast, and with a restless, sad look, he repeatedly

turned himself toward his brother Joseph, who sat facing him under the

standard of the conquered race.

Silent and sad he went home with Joseph, and when his mother questioned

him about the cause of his sorrow, he confessed, with tears in his

eyes, that he was a heartless egotist, that he had been unjust and cruel

toward Joseph, that he had cheated his brother of his place of honor and

had seated himself in it.

It required the most earnest assurances of Joseph that he placed no

value whatever on the seat; it required all the persuasiveness and

authority of Letitia to appease the boy, and to prevail upon him to

resume the conquered seat. [Footnote: “Memoires du Roi Joseph,” vol. i.,

p.40.]

As the course of instruction which the boys had received in Ajaccio was

not sufficient for the times, and for the capacities of his sons, their

father passed over to France with Joseph and Napoleon, to take advantage

of the favorable resources for a more complete education.

Napoleon saw the time of departure approach with an apparently

indifferent mind, only his face was somewhat paler, he was still more

monosyllabic and more reserved than before; and his eyes, full of an

indescribable expression of tenderness and admiration, followed all the

movements of his mother, as if to print deeply in his soul the beloved

image, so as to take it with him beyond the seas, in all its freshness

and beauty.

He wept not as he bade her farewell; not a word of sorrow or regret

did he speak, but he embraced his mother with impassioned fondness,

he kissed her hands, her forehead, her large black eyes, he sank down

before her and kissed her feet, then sprang up, and, after casting upon

her whole figure a deep, glowing look, he rushed away to embark at once,

without waiting for brother or father, who were yet bidding a touching

farewell to relatives and friends.

Letitia gazed after her Napoleon with glowing and wide-open eyes; she

wept not, she complained not, but she pressed her two hands on her heart

as if to keep it from breaking asunder, from bleeding to death; then she

called all her children around her, and, folding them up in her arms,

exclaimed: “Join your hands and pray with me that our little Napoleon

may return home to us a noble and great man.”

As soon as they had prosperously landed in France, the father placed

his two sons in the college of Autun, and then travelled farther on

to Paris, there to obtain, through the influence of his patrons and

friends, a place for his daughter Marianne (afterward Elise) in St.

Cyr, an institution for the daughters of noblemen, and also a place for

Napoleon in the military school of Brienne. His efforts were crowned

with success; and whilst Joseph remained at college in Autun, Napoleon

had to part with him and go to Brienne.

When the brothers bade farewell one to another, Joseph wept bitterly,

and his sighs and tears choked the tender words of farewell which his

quivering lips would have uttered.

Napoleon was quiet, and as his eye moistened with a tear, he endeavored

to hide it, and turned aside ashamed of himself and nearly indignant,

for he did not wish the Abbe Simon, one of the professors of the

college, who was present at the parting of the brothers, to see his

unmanly tenderness.

But the Abbe Simon had seen that tear, and when Napoleon was gone he

said to Joseph: “Napoleon has shed but one tear, but that tear proves

his deep sorrow as much as all your tears.” [Footnote: “Memoires du Roi

Joseph,” vol. i., p.26.]

Taciturn and quiet as he had been in Ajaccio, the little Napoleon was

equally so at the military school of Brienne, where he remained from

his eleventh to his sixteenth year. His character had always something

sombre and hidden; his eye seemed turned more inwardly than outwardly;

and his fellowship with his books seemed to procure him a more pleasant

recreation than the company of his schoolmates, whose childish joys

and pleasures he despised or pretended to do so, because his limited

pecuniary resources did not allow him to share with them pleasures of an

expensive nature.

But, though still and reserved, he always was friendly and courteous to

his comrades, grateful for every mark of friendship and kindness, and

always ready to protect the young and feeble against the overbearing

and the strong, censuring with grave authority every injustice, and with

Spartan harshness throwing his contempt into the very face of him who,

according to his standard, had offended against honor, the lofty spirit

and the dignity of a freeman.

It could not fail that soon Napoleon should win over his schoolmates

a marked moral influence; that they would listen to him as if he were

their superior; that they should feel something akin to fear in presence

of the flashing eyes of this little boy of barely fourteen years, whose

pale, expressive countenance, when illumined with anger, almost seemed

to them more terrible than that of the irritated face of the teacher,

and whom they therefore more willingly and more unconditionally obeyed

than the principal of the establishment.

One day the latter had forbidden the scholars to go to the fair in a

neighboring locality, because they had lately been guilty of excesses

on a similar occasion; and, so as to be sure that the scholars would not

trespass against his orders, the principal had the outside gate in the

front yard locked.

This last circumstance kindled Napoleon’s anger; he considered it as an

insult that the scholars should be treated as prisoners.

“Had we been ordered in the name of the law to remain here,” cried

he, “then honor itself would have claimed from us to remain, for law

commands obedience to our superiors. But since we are treated as slaves,

who are by main force compelled to submission, then honor claims from us

to prove to our oppressors that we are free beings, and that we desire

to remain such. We are treated as prisoners of war, kept under lock and

bolt, but no one has demanded our word of honor that we will make no

effort to escape this subjection. Whosoever has a brave heart and a soul

full of honor’s love, let him follow me!”

All the youngsters followed him without hesitation. More submissive to

this pale, small boy of fourteen years, than to the severe, strong,

and exalted principal, none dared oppose him as he stood in the garden,

facing a remote place in the wall, and giving orders to undermine it,

so as to make an outlet. All obeyed the given orders, all were animated

with burning zeal, with cheerful alacrity; and after an hour of earnest

labor the work was done, and the passage under the wall completed.

The scholars wanted to rush with jubilant cries through the opening, and

gain their freedom outside of the wall, but Napoleon held them back.

“I will go first,” said he. “I have been your leader throughout this

expedition, now I will be the first to pass out, that upon me may fall

the punishment when we are discovered.”

The young men fell back silently and respectfully, while, proud and

stately as a field-marshal who gives the signal for the battle, Napoleon

passed through their ranks, to be the first from the crowd to go through

the newly-made passage.

It could not fail that the daring of these “prisoners of war” should be

discovered, that the principal should be the very same day informed that

the young men had, notwithstanding his strict orders, notwithstanding

the closed gate, made a way for themselves, and had visited the

prohibited fair, while the principal believed them to be in the garden.

A strict inquiry took place the next morning. With threatening tones,

the principal ordered the young men to name him who had guided them

to so unheard-of a deed, who had misled them into disobedience and

insubordination. But all were still; none wished to be a traitor, not

even when the principal promised to all full pardon, full impunity, if

they would but name the instigator of their guilty action.

But as no one spoke, as no one would name him, Napoleon gave himself up

as the culpable one.

“I alone am guilty,” cried he, proudly. “I alone deserve punishment.

These have done only what I commanded them--they have but followed my

orders, nothing more. The guilt and the punishment are mine alone.”

The principal, glad to know the guilty one, kept his promise, and,

forgiving the rest, decided to punish only the one who acknowledged

himself to have been the leader.

Napoleon was, therefore, sentenced to the severest and most degrading

punishment known in the institution--to the so-called “monk’s penalty.”

That is to say, the future young soldier, in the coarse woollen garment

of a mendicant friar, was on his knees, to devour his meal from an

earthen vessel in the middle of the dining-room, while all the other

boys were seated at the table.

A deathly pallor overspread the face of the boy when he heard this

sentence. He had been for many days imprisoned in a cell with bread and

water, and he had without a murmur submitted to this correction, endured

already on a former occasion, but this degrading punishment broke his

courage.

Stunned, as it were, and barely conscious, he allowed the costume of the

punishment to be put on, but when he had been led into the dining-room,

where all the scholars were gathered for the noonday meal, when he was

forced upon his knees, he sank down to the ground with a heavy sigh, and

was seized with violent convulsions.

The rector himself, moved with deepest sympathy for the wounded spirit

of the boy, hastened to raise up Napoleon. At the same moment rushed

into the hall one of the teachers of the institution, M. Patrault, who

had just been informed of the execution which was about to be carried

out on Napoleon. With tears in his eyes, he hastened to Napoleon, and

with trembling hands tore from his shoulders the detestable garment, and

broke out at the same time in loud complaints that his best scholar,

his first mathematician, was to be dishonored and treated in an unworthy

manner.

Napoleon, however, was not always the reserved, grave boy who took

no part in the recreations and pleasures of the rest of his young

schoolmates. Whenever these amusements were of a more serious, of a

higher nature, Napoleon gladly and willingly took a part in them. Now

and then in the institution, on festivals, theatrical representations

took place, and on these occasions the citizens of Brienne were allowed

to be present.

But to maintain respectable order, every one who desired to be present

at the representation had to procure a card of admission signed by the

principal. On the day of the exhibition, at the different doors of the

institution, were posted guards who received the admission cards, and

whose strict orders were to let no one pass in without them. These

posts, which were filled by the scholars, were under the supervision

of superior and inferior officers, and were confided only to the most

distinguished and most praiseworthy students.

One day, Voltaire’s tragedy, “The Death of Caesar,” was exhibited.

Napoleon had the post of honor of a first lieutenant for this festivity,

and with grave earnestness he filled the duties of his office.

Suddenly at the entrance of the garden arose a loud noise and vehement

recriminations of threatening and abusive voices.

It was Margaret Haute, the porter’s wife, who wanted to come in, though

she had no card of admission. She was well known to all the students,

for at the gate of the institution she had a little stall of fruits,

eggs, milk, and cakes, and all the boys purchased from her every day,

and liked to jest and joke with the pleasant and obliging woman.

Margaret Haute had therefore considered it of no importance to procure a

card of admission, which thing she considered to be superfluous for such

an important and well-known personage as herself. The greater was her

astonishment and anger when admission was refused, and she therefore

began to clamor loudly, hoping by this means to attract some of the

scholars, who would recognize her and procure her admittance. Meanwhile

the post guardian dared not act without superior orders, and the

inferior officer hastened to communicate the important event to the

first lieutenant, Napoleon de Bonaparte, and receive his decision.

Napoleon, who ordinarily was kind to the fruit-vender, and gladly

jested with the humorous and coarse woman, listened to the report of

the lieutenant with furrowed brow and dark countenance, and with severe

dignity gave his orders: “Remove that woman, who takes upon herself

to introduce licentiousness into the camp.” [Footnote: Afterward, when

First Consul, Napoleon sent for this woman and her husband to come to

Paris, and he gave them the lucrative position of porter at the castle

of Malmaison, which charge they retained unto their death.]

CHAPTER V. THE UNHAPPY MARRIAGE.

While the boy Napoleon de Bonaparte pursued his studies as a student in

Brienne, she, who was one day to share his greatness and his fame, had

already appeared on the world’s stage as the wife of another. Josephine

Tascher de la Pagerie was already received in the highest society of

Paris as the Viscountess de Beauharnais.

Every thing seemed to promise to the young couple a happy, secure

future, free from care. They were both young, wealthy, of good family,

and though the parents had planned this marriage and joined together

the hands of the young couple, yet it was their good fortune that love

should tie and strengthen the bond which mere expediency had formed.

Yes, they loved one another, these young married people of sixteen and

eighteen. How could it have been otherwise, when they both met each

other with the candid and honest desire to make one another happy; when

each of them had been so well adapted to the other that their brilliant,

good, and beautiful qualities were so prominent that their eyes were

blinded to the possibility of imperfections and vices which perchance

remained in the obscure background of their virtue and of their

amiableness?

Josephine had entered upon her marriage with a pure maiden heart, and

soon this heart glowed with enthusiasm for her young husband, who in

reality was well qualified to excite enthusiasm in a young maid and

instil into her a passionate attachment. Alexandre de Beauharnais was

one of the most brilliant and most beloved personages at the court

of Versailles. His face had all the beauty of regularity; his figure,

marked by a lofty, even if somewhat heavy form, was tall, well knit,

and of wonderful elasticity and energy; his manners were noble and

prepossessing, fine and natural. Even in a court so distinguished as

that of Versailles for many remarkable chevaliers, the Viscount de

Beauharnais was considered as one of the most lovely and most gifted:

even the young Queen Marie Antoinette honored him with special

distinction. She had called him the most beautiful dancer of Versailles,

and consequently it was very natural that up to the time of his marriage

he should be invited to every court-ball, and there should each time

enjoy the pleasure of being requested to dance with the queen.

This flattering distinction of the Queen Marie Antoinette had naturally

made the young viscount the mark of attention of all these beautiful,

young, and coquettish ladies of Versailles. They used to say of him,

that in the dancing-room he was a zephyr, fluttering from flower to

flower, but at the head of his regiment he was a Bayard, dreaming only

of war and carnage.

It was, therefore, quite natural that so brilliant and so preferred

a cavalier, a young man of so many varied accomplishments, a being

so impassioned, so gallant, should soon become the object of the most

tender and passionate fondness from a young wife, who in her quiet

native land had seen none to compare with him, and who became for her

the ideal of beauty, chivalry, elegance, and whom, in her devoted and

admiring love, she used to call her own Achilles.

Josephine loved her husband; she loved him with all the devotedness and

fire of a creole; she loved him and breathed but for him, and to be with

him seemed to her life’s golden, blessed dream. Added to all this,

came the joys and raptures of a Parisian life--these new, unknown,

diversified pleasures of society, these manifold distractions and

entertainments of the great city. Josephine abandoned herself to all

this with the joy and wantonness of an innocent, unsuspicious being.

With all these glorious things round about her, she felt as if

surrounded by a sea of blessedness and pleasure, and she plunged into it

with the quiet daring of innocency, which foresees not what breakers and

abysses this sea encloses under the shining surface.

But these breakers were there, and against them was the happiness of

Josephine’s love soon to be dashed to pieces.

She loved her young husband with her whole heart, with all her soul. But

he, the young, the flattered Viscount Alexandre de Beauharnais, he also

loved his young wife, whom the wish and will of his superiors had placed

at his side.

He had not chosen her because he loved her, but only because he had

thought it expedient and advisable to become married, and because the

unknown Mademoiselle de la Pagerie had been offered to him as “a good

settlement.” Perhaps, also, he had contracted this marriage to get rid

all at once of those manifold ties, intrigues, and attachments which his

open, unrestrained life of youth had woven around him, for his marriage

with the young creole had put an end to many love-intrigues which

perchance threatened to be inconvenient and burdensome.

At first charmed by her foreign, unaccustomed appearance, transported by

her ingenuous grace, her sweet, lovely amiableness and freshness, he had

fully decided to love his young wife, and, with all the triumphant pride

of a lover, he had led Josephine into society, into the saloons.

But his eye was not blinded by the ravishment of a real and true love,

and in the drawing-room he saw what, in the solitude of the residence

of Noisy, where the young couple had retired for a few weeks after their

marriage, he might never have missed--he saw that Josephine possessed

not the lofty elegance and the exquisite manners of the ladies of the

Parisian saloons. She always was a charming, artless, graceful young

woman, but she lacked the striking advantages of a real drawing-room

lady; she lacked that perfect self-possession, that pliancy of

refinement, that sparkling wit, and that penetration, which then

characterized the ladies of the higher Parisian society, and which the

young viscount had but lately so fondly and passionately admired in the

beautiful and celebrated Baroness de B.

The viscount saw all these deficiencies of his young wife’s social

education, and this darkened his brow and brought on his cheek the flush

of shame. He was cruel enough to reproach Josephine, in somewhat harsh

and imperious tones, of her lack of higher culture, and thus the first

matrimonial difference clouded the skies of marriage happiness, which

the young unsuspecting wife had believed would ever be bright with

sunshine.

Josephine, however, loved her young husband too fondly not to cheerfully

comply with all his wishes, not to strive to replace what he reproached

her to be lacking.

On a sudden she left the brilliant, enchanting Paris, which had

entranced her with its many joys and its many distractions, and, as her

husband had to be for some time at Blois with his regiment, she went

to Noisy, to her aunt’s residence, so as to labor at her higher mental

culture, at the side of the lovely and intellectual Madame de Renaudin.

Josephine had hitherto, as a simple, sentimental young lady, played the

guitar, and chirped with it, in her fresh but uncultivated voice, her

sweet songs of love. She gave up the guitar, the favorite instrument of

the creoles, and exchanged it for the harp, for which attainment as well

as for the art of singing she procured the best and ablest masters. Even

a dancing-master had to come to Noisy to give to the young viscountess

that perfection of art which would enable her, without fear, to dance at

a ball alongside of the Viscount de Beauharnais, “the beautiful dancer

of Versailles.” With her aunt she read the works of the writers and

poets who were then praised and loved, and with wonderful predilection

she also studied botany, to which science she ever clung during her

life, and which threw on her existence gleams of joy when the sun of her

happiness had long set.

Josephine, who out of pure love for her husband learned and studied

zealously, communicated to the viscount, in her letters, every

advancement she made in her studies; and she was proud and happy when he

applauded her efforts, and when in his letters he praised her assiduity

and her progress.

But evidently these letters of the viscount contained nothing of that

love and ardor which the young fiery creole longed for from her

husband; they were not the utterances of a young, anxious lover, of an

enthusiastic, worshipping husband; but they were addressed to Josephine

with the quiet, cool benignity of a considerate friend, of a mentor, of

a tutor who knows full well how much above his pupil soars his own mind,

and with what supreme deference this pupil must look up to him.

“I am delighted,” wrote he once--“delighted at your zeal to acquire

knowledge and culture; this zeal, which we must ever cherish, is ever

the source of purest enjoyments, and possesses the glorious advantage,

when we follow its dictates, of never producing any grief. If you

persevere in the resolution you have taken, if you continue to labor

with unabated zeal at your personal improvement, be assured that the

knowledge you will have acquired will exalt you highly above all others;

and whereas science and modesty will be combined in you, you will

succeed in becoming an accomplished woman. The talents which you

cultivate have their pleasant side, and if you devote to them a portion

of the day, you will unite the agreeable to the useful.” [Footnote:

“Histoire de l’Imperatrice Josephine,” vol. i., p. 110.]

This is what Alexandre de Beauharnais wanted. His wife, through her

knowledge, was to be highly exalted above all others. She was to study

the sciences, and become what is now called a learned woman, but what

was then termed a philosophical woman.

The ambition of the ardent viscount required that his young wife should

be the rival of his learned, verse-writing aunt, the Baroness Fanny

de Beauharnais; that Josephine, if not the most beautiful and most

intellectual woman of Paris, should be the most accomplished.

But these extravagant expectations did not, unfortunately, coincide

entirely with the tastes and mental tendencies of Josephine. No one was

less qualified than she to be a philosophical woman, and to make the

sciences a serious study. It was far from her ambition to desire to

shine by her knowledge; and the learned and scientific Baroness de

Beauharnais only excited fear and antagonism on account of her stiff and

pretentious pedantry, which seemed to Josephine to have but little in

harmony with a woman’s being.

Josephine loved the sciences and the arts, but she did not wish to

convert herself into their devoted priestess. She wished merely to adorn

herself with their blossoms, to take delight in their fragrance, and to

rejoice in their beauty. With instinctive sentiment she did not wish to

have the grace and youthful freshness of her womanly appearance marred

by knowledge; her heart longed not for the ambition of being called a

learned woman; she only wished to be a beloved wife.

But the viscount, instead of recognizing and cherishing the tender and

sacred treasures which reposed in the heart of his young wife, ridiculed

her for her sensitiveness; allowed himself, through displeasure at her

uncultivated mind, to utter unreasonable reproaches, and to act harshly

toward his wife; and her tears were not calculated to conciliate him

or to gain his heart. He treated Josephine with a sort of contemptuous

compassion, with a mocking superiority, and her young, deeply-wounded

soul, intimidated and bleeding, shrank back into itself. Josephine

became taciturn, embarrassed, and mute, in her husband’s presence; she

preferred being silent, rather than by her conversation, which might not

appear intellectual and piquant enough for the viscount, to annoy and

irritate him.

Confidence and harmony had flown away from the household of the young

couple. From his timid, silent wife, with tears in her eyes and a mute

complaint on her trembling lips, the husband rushed away into the world,

into society, to the boisterous joys of a garrison’s life, or else to

the dangerous, intoxicating amusements which the refined world of the

drawing-rooms offered him.

Scarcely after a two years’ marriage, the young bridegroom was again the

zephyr of the drawing-room; and, breaking asunder the bonds with which

the marriage and the household had bound him, he fluttered again from

flower to flower, was once more the gallant cavalier of the belles,

forgot duty and wife, to pay his attentions and bring his homage to the

ladies of the court.

But this neglect which she now experienced from her husband, this

evident preference for other women, suddenly awoke Josephine from her

painful resignation, from her quiet melancholy. The young, patient,

retreating wife was changed at once into an irritated lioness, and,

amid the refinements of the French polish, with all its gilded

accompaniments, uprose the glowing, impassioned, threatening creole.

Josephine, wounded both in her vanity and in her love--Josephine wished

not and could not bear, as a passive, silent sufferer, the neglect of

her husband; he had insulted her as a woman, and the wrath of a woman

rose within her. She screened not her jealousy from her husband; she

reproached him for preferring other women to his wife, for neglecting

her for the sake of others, and she required that to her alone he should

do homage, that to her alone he should consecrate love and allegiance.

She wept, she complained, when she learned that, whilst she was left

at home unnoticed, he had been here and there in the company of other

women; she allowed herself to be so carried away by jealousy as to make

violent reproaches against her husband.

But tears and reproaches are not in the least calculated to bring back

to a wife the heart of a husband, and jealousy recalls not a husband’s

love, when that love has unfolded his pinions and flown away. It only

causes the poor butterfly to feel that marriage had tied its wings

with a thread, and that it constantly recalls him away, with the severe

admonitions of duty, from the beautiful flowers toward which he desires

to fly.

The complaints and reproaches of Josephine, however much they proved her

love, had precisely the contrary effect from what she expected. Through

them she wanted to bring back her husband to her love, but she repelled

him further still; he flew away from her complaints to the merry society

of his friends, male and female, and left Josephine alone at Noisy to

weep over her wretchedness.

Notwithstanding all this, they were both to be again reunited one to

another in a new bond of love and happiness. On the 3d of September,

1781, Josephine presented to her husband a son, the heir of his name,

and for whom the father had already so long craved. Alexandre came to

Noisy to be present at the birth of his child, and with true, sincere

affection he embraced son and mother, and swore everlasting love and

fidelity to both.

But circumstances were stronger than the will of this young man of

twenty-two years. The monotonous life of Noisy, the quietude which

prevailed in the house on account of the young mother, could not long

retain captive the fiery young man. He endured this life of solitude, of

watching at the bedside, of listening to the child’s cries, for a whole

week, and then was drawn away with irresistible attraction to Paris;

the father’s tenderness could no longer restrain the glowing ardor, the

impassioned longings for distraction in the young man; and the viscount

left Noisy to lead once more in Paris or with his garrison the free,

unrestrained dissipations of his earlier days.

Josephine was comfortless. She had hoped the son would retain the

father, but he left her alone, alone with the child, and with all the

torments of her jealousy.

It is true, he came back now and then to see his son, his little Eugene,

and also to make amends to the young, sick, and suffering mother, by a

few days’ presence, for the many days of absence.

But Josephine, irritated, jealous, too young, too inexperienced to

reflect, Josephine committed the fault of receiving her husband every

time he came, with reproaches and complaints, and of meeting him

with violent scenes of jealousy and of offended dignity. The viscount

himself, so young, so impassioned, had not the patience to go with

calm indifference through the purgatory of such scenes. His proud heart

rebelled against the chains with which marriage would bind him; he was

angry with this woman who dared reproach him; he was the more vexed

that his conscience told him she was unjust toward him, that he was the

innocent one. He returned her complaints with deriding scorn; he allowed

himself to be carried away by her reproaches to the manifestation of

violent anger; and the tempest of matrimonial discord raged through this

house, which at first seemed to have been built for a temple of peace

and happiness.

The parents of the young couple saw with deep, heartfelt concern the gap

deepening between them both, and which every day widened more and more,

and as their warnings and wishes now remained fruitless, they resolved

to try if a long absence might not heal the wounds which they both had

inflicted upon their own hearts. At the request of his father and of

Madame de Renaudin, the viscount undertook a long journey to Italy, from

which he returned only after nearly nine months’ absence.

What the relatives had hoped from this journey seemed to be realized.

The viscount returned home to his Josephine with a penitent, tender

heart; and Josephine, enchanted with his tenderness, with the pliant

loveliness of his whole being--Josephine, with a smile of blessedness

and with happy dreams of the future, rested once more on the bosom of

the man whom, even in her angry moods, she had never ceased to love.

But after a few months passed in happiness and harmony, the viscount

was once more obliged to separate himself from his wife, to meet his

regiment, which was now in Verdun. Absence soon broke the slender

threads which had bound together the hearts of husband and wife.

Alexandre abandoned himself to his tendencies to dissipation, and

Josephine to her jealousy. During the frequent visits which the viscount

paid to his wife in Noisy, he was received with tears and reproaches,

which always ended in violent scenes of anger and bitterness.

Such an existence, full of ever-recurring storms and ceaseless discord,

weighed heavily on the hearts of both husband and wife, and made them

long for an issue from this Labyrinth of an unhappy marriage. Yet

neither of them dreamed of a separation; not only their son, the little

Eugene, kept them from such thoughts, but also the new hopes which

Josephine carried in her bosom would have made such thoughts appear

criminal. It was necessary to endeavor to bear life as well as one

could, and not allow one’s self to be too much lacerated by its thorns,

even if there was no further hope of gathering its roses.

Alexandre de Beauharnais, even if he lacked the skill of being a

faithful, devoted husband, was a noble and goodnatured man, whose

generous heart wanted to punish himself alone for the error of this

marriage, which weighed so heavily on husband and wife; and, in order

to procure peace to both, he resolved to become an exile, to tear away

pitilessly the attractive ties which society, friends, and women, had

woven around him. If he could not be a good husband, he might at least

be a good soldier; and, whereas his heart could not adopt the resolution

of devoting itself with exclusive affection to his wife, he resolved

to devote himself entirely to that love to which he had never been

disloyal, the love of fame. His ambitious nature longed for honors

and distinction; his restless, youthful courage craved for action and

battle-fields; and, as no opportunity offered itself on land, Alexandre

de Beauharnais decided to search on the seas for what was denied him on

land.

The Marquis de Bouille, governor of Martinique, had just arrived in

France, to propose to the government a new expedition against the

British colonies in the Antilles. Already this fearless and enterprising

man, since he had been in Martinique, with the forces at his disposal,

with the help of the young creoles, and supported by the squadrons which

lay in Port Royal, had conquered Dominique, Grenada, St. Vincent, St.

Christophe, Mievres, and Montserrat, and now he contemplated an attack

upon the rich and important island of Jamaica, whose conquest he trusted

would force the English into peace.

Alexandre de Beauharnais wanted nothing more attractive than to join

this important and daring enterprise of the Marquis de Bouille. With

recommendations from his uncle, the Duke de la Rochefoucauld, the

viscount hastened to the Marquis de Bouille, begged of him instantly the

privilege of serving under him, and offered his services as adjutant.

The marquis received with kindness a young man so earnestly recommended,

and gave him the hope of fulfilling his wishes. These hopes were not,

however, realized; and the viscount, no longer able to endure the burden

of uncertainty and of domestic discord, decided to leave France on his

own responsibility, to sail for Martinique, and there to enlist as a

simple volunteer, under the orders of the governor.

In September, 1782, he left Noisy for Brest, there to embark for

Martinique. At the hour of departure the love, which for so long had

been hidden under the dark cloud of jealousy and discord, awoke in all

its glow and energy in the hearts of the young couple. With streaming

eyes Josephine embraced her husband, and in the most touching tones

entreated him to remain with her, entreated him not to tear the father

away from the son, who already recognized him and stretched his little

hands toward him, nor from the child yet unborn in her bosom. Carried

away by so much intensity of affection, by such a fond, all-pardoning

love, Alexandre was deeply moved; he regretted the past, and the

decision he had taken to leave his wife and his family. All the sweet

emotions of peace, of home, of paternal bliss, of married life, overcame

him in this hour of farewell with, resistless power, and in Josephine’s

arms he wept bitter tears of repentance, of love, of farewell.

But these tears, no more than his wife’s regrets, could make him waver

in his determination.

The word of separation had been spoken, and it had to be fulfilled. Amid

the anguish of parting, he felt for himself the necessity of breaking,

by means of a long absence, with the evil practices of the past, and to

make amends for the sad errors of his youth.

He left his home to win in a distant land the happiness which he had

in vain sought at the side of his wife, of his son, and of his family.

Before the ship upon which he was to embark for his journey weighed

anchor, he took a last farewell of his family in a letter addressed to

Madame de Renaudin.

“I have,” said he, “received the letter which tells of your good wishes

for the future, and I have read with the deepest interest the assurances

of your attachment. These assurances would still have been more

flattering to me, could they have convinced me that my actual course has

your approbation, and that you estimate rightly my determination, and

the sacrifice I am making. However, I have on my side conscience, which

applauds me for preferring, to the real, actual joys of a quiet

and pleasurable existence, the prospect, even if a remote one,

of preferment, which may secure me a distinguished position and a

distinction which may be of advantage to my children. The greater have

been my sacrifices, the more commendable it is to have made them; and if

chance only favors my determination, then the laurels I will win shall

make ample amends for all troubles and hardships, and shall change all

my anguish into joy!--Be kind enough, I pray you, to embrace for me,

my father, my wife, and Eugene!” [Forward: “Histoire de l’Imperatrice

Josephine,” vol. i, p. 133.]

It is evident that Alexandre de Beauharnais had gone to Martinique to

win fame and to fight for laurels. But chance favored not his resolves.

He had no sooner landed in Martinique, than the news spread that

negotiations had begun between England and France. M. de Bouille

received strict orders to make no attack on Jamaica; and a few weeks

after, on the 20th of January, 1783, the preliminaries of peace were

signed at Versailles. A few months later, peace was concluded, and all

the conquests made by the Marquis de Bouille were returned to England.

Alexandre de Beauharnais had then come in vain to Martinique. No fame

was to be won--no laurels could be gathered there.

Unfortunately, however, the viscount found another occupation for his

restless heart, for the vague cravings of his affections. He made the

acquaintance there with a young creole, who had been a widow for the

last six months, and who had returned to Martinique from France to

pass there her year’s mourning. But her heart had no mourning for her

deceased husband; it longed for Paris, it craved for the world and its

joys. She was yet, though a few years older than the viscount, a young

woman; she was beautiful--of that wondrous, enticing beauty peculiar to

the creoles; she was an accomplished mistress in the difficult art

of pleasing, and she formed the design of gaining the heart of the

impulsive Viscount Alexandre de Beauharnais. This design was not

undertaken because he seemed worthy of love, but because she wanted to

revenge herself on the family of Tascher de la Pagerie, which family had

been for a long time at enmity with her own, and had given free and

open expression against the too easy manners and light behavior of

the beautiful widow. She wanted to take vengeance for these insults by

seducing from M. de la Pagerie his own son-in-law, and by enjoying the

triumph of having charmed away the husband from his daughter.

The proverb says, “What woman will, woman can!” and what the beautiful

Madame de Gisard wanted was not so very hard to achieve. All she wished

was to hold complete sway over the heart of a young man who felt heavily

burdened with the fetters of marriage; who, now that the schemes of

ambition had failed, reproached his young wife that she was the cause of

his misfortune; that for her sake he had exiled himself from home, and

sentenced himself to the dulness and loneliness of a village-life in

Martinique. The society of the beautiful Madame de Gisard brought at

least novelty and distraction to this loneliness; she gave occupation

to the heart weary with connubial storms; she excited his fancy and his

desires.

Madame de Gisard knew how to use all these advantages; she wanted to

triumph over the family of De la Pagerie, she wanted to return to Paris

in the company of a young, handsome, and distinguished lover.

It was not enough to win the love of the viscount; she had to drive

him into the resolution of separating from his wife, of accusing her of

unfaithfulness and guilt, so as to have the right of casting her away,

in order that she herself might openly occupy her place. Madame de

Gisard had the requisite talent to carry out her plans, and to acquire

full control over the otherwise rebellious and proud heart of the young

man. She first began to lead him into open rupture with his father

and mother-in-law. Through respect for them, the viscount had avoided

appearing in public with Madame de Gisard, and betraying the intimacy

which existed between them. Madame de Gisard ridiculed his bashfulness

and submissive spirit; she considered this servility to the head of

the family as absurd, and she drove the viscount by means of scorn and

sarcasm to open revolt.

Then, after separating him from his wife’s family, she attacked the wife

herself. With all the cunning and smoothness of a seducing demon, she

encompassed the young man’s heart, and filled it with mistrust against

Josephine. She accused the forsaken one with levity and unfaithfulness;

she filled his heart with jealousy and rancor; she used all the means of

perfidy and calumny of which a woman is capable, and in which she finds

a refuge when her object is to ruin, and she succeeded completely.

Alexandre de Beauharnais was now entirely hers; he was gathering against

Josephine anger and vengeance; and even when he received the news that,

on the 13th of April, 1783, his young wife had given birth to a daughter

at Noisy, his soul was not moved by soft emotions, by milder sentiments

of reconciliation.

Madame de Gisard had taught him that henceforth he need no more be on

the defensive in reference to the reproaches of Josephine, but that he

now must be the aggressor; that, to justify his own guiltiness, he must

accuse his wife of guilt. She had offered herself as the price of his

reconquered freedom; and the viscount, overcome with love, anger, and

jealousy, was anxious to become worthy of this price.

He left Martinique and returned to Noisy, not to embrace and bless his

daughter Eugenie Hortense, but to bow down the mother’s head with the

curse of shame. He accused, without listening to any justification, and,

with all the vehemence of misguided passion, he asked for an immediate

separation, an immediate divorce. Vain were the expostulations, the

prayers of his father and of Madame de Renaudin. Vain were the tears,

the assurances of innocence from Josephine. The tears of an injured

woman, the prayers of his sorrowing relatives, were impotent against the

whisperings and the seducing smiles of the beautiful Madame de Gisard,

who had secretly accompanied him to France, and who had now over him an

unconditional sway.

The viscount brought before Parliament a complaint for separation from

his wife, and based it upon the most improbable and most shameless

accusations.

Josephine, who, for two years in loneliness and abandonment, had awaited

the return of her husband; Josephine, who had always hoped, through the

voice of her children, to recall her husband to herself, saw herself

suddenly threatened with a new, unexpected tempest. Two years of

suffering were finally to be rewarded by a scandalous process, which

exposed her person to the idle and malicious tongues of the Parisians.

She had, however, to submit to fate; she had to bow her head to the

storm, and trust for her justification to the mercy of God and to the

justice of the Parliament. During the time of the process she withdrew,

according to custom, into a convent, and for nearly one year hid herself

with her shame and her anguish in the abbey of Pantemont, in the street

Grenelle, St. Germain. However, she was not alone; her aunt, Madame

de Renaudin, accompanied her, and every day came the Marquis de

Beauharnais, her husband’s father, bringing her the children, who,

during the time of the unfortunate process, were to remain at Noisy,

under the guardianship of their grandfather and of a worthy governess.

The members of her husband’s family rivalled each other in their

manifestations of affection to a woman so much injured and so

incriminated, and openly before the world they declared themselves

against the viscount, who, blinded by passion and entirely in the chains

of this ensnaring woman, was justifying the innocency of his wife by

his own indiscreet demeanor--by the public exhibition of his passion

for Madame de Gisard, and thus caused the accusations launched against

Josephine to recoil upon his own head.

At last, after one year of debates, of careful considerations and

investigations, of receiving evidence, and of hearing witnesses, the

Parliament pronounced its decision.

Josephine was declared absolutely innocent of the crimes brought against

her, and was entirely acquitted of the accusation of unfaithfulness. The

Parliament pronounced the solemn decree: The accusation directed against

the Viscountess de Beauharnais was simply a malicious calumny. The

innocency of the accused wife was evident, and consequently the Viscount

de Beauharnais was bound to receive again his wife into his house.

However, the viscountess was permitted and allowed not to share the same

residence with her husband, and to separate herself from him. In this

case the viscount was condemned to pay to his wife an annual pension of

ten thousand francs, and to leave with her mother his daughter Eugenie

Hortense, while he, the father, should provide for the education of the

son.

Exonerated from the disgraceful imputation of faithlessness, Josephine

was again free to leave the convent and return to the life of the world.

It was her husband’s family which now prepared for the poor young

woman the most beautiful and most touching triumph. The father of her,

accuser, the Marquis de Beauharnais, as well as his elder son and wife,

the Duke and Duchess de la Rochefoucauld, and the Baroness Fanny de

Beauharnais, came in their state carriages to the abbey to receive

Josephine and lead her back to Paris. They had been joined by a great

number of the most respectable and most noble ladies of the Parisian

aristocracy, all in their state carriages, and in the splendor of their

armorial trappings and liveries, as if it were to accompany a queen

returning home.

Josephine shed tears of blessed joy when quitting her small, sombre

rooms in the abbey. She entered into the reception-room to bid farewell

to the prioress, and there met all these friends and relatives, who

saluted her with looks of deepest tenderness and sympathy, and embraced

her in their arms as one found again, as one long desired. This hour of

triumph indemnified her for the sorrows and sufferings of the unhappy

year which the poor wife of scarcely twenty years of age, and fleeing

from calumny and hatred, liar! sighed away in the desolate and lonesome

convent. She was free, she was justified; the disgrace was removed from

her head; she was again authorized to be the mother of her children; she

saw herself surrounded by loving parents, by true friends, and yet in

her heart there was a sting. Notwithstanding his cruelty, his harshness,

though he had abandoned and despised her, her heart could not be forced

into hating the husband for whom she had so much wept and suffered.

Her tears had impressed his image yet deeper in her heart. He was

the husband of her first love, the father of her children; how could

Josephine have hated him, how could her heart, so soft and true, cherish

animosity against him?

At the side of her husband’s father, and holding her daughter in

her arms, Josephine entered Paris. Behind them came a long train of

brilliant equipages, of relatives and friends. The passers-by stopped to

see the brilliant procession move before them, and to ask what it meant.

Some had recognized the viscountess, and they told to others of the

sufferings and of the acquittal of the poor young woman; and the people,

easily affected and sympathizing, rejoiced in the decision of the

Parliament, and with shouts and applause followed the carriage of the

young wife.

The marquis, her father-in-law, turned smilingly to Josephine.

“Do you see, my daughter,” said he, “what a triumph you enjoy, and how

much you are beloved and recognized?”

Josephine bent down toward the little Hortense and kissed her.

“Ah,” said she, in a low voice, “we are returning home, but the father

of my children will not bid us welcome. For a pressure of his hand,

for a kind word from him, I would gladly give the lofty triumph of this

hour.”

No, Alexandre de Beauharnais did not bid welcome to Josephine in his

father’s house, which they had occupied together. Ashamed and irritated,

he had sped away from Paris, and returned to his regiment at Verdun.

On the arm of the Marquis de Beauharnais, Josephine traversed the

apartments in which she had lived with her husband, and which she now

saw again as a widow, whom not death but life had separated from her

husband. Her father-in-law saw the tears standing in her eyes, and,

with the refined sympathy of a sensitive mind, he understood the painful

thoughts which agitated the soul of the young wife.

He fondly folded her in his arms, and laid his blessing hand on the head

of the little Hortense.

“I have lost my son Alexandre,” said he, “but I have found in his stead

a daughter. Yes, Josephine, you are and will remain my daughter, and to

you and to your children I will be a true father. My son has parted from

us, but we remain together in harmony and love, and as long as I live my

daughter Josephine will never want a protector.”

CHAPTER VI. TRIANON AND MARIE ANTOINETTE.

Whilst the Viscountess Josephine de Beauharnais, the empress of the

future, was living in enforced widowhood, the life of Marie Antoinette,

the queen of the present, resembled a serene, golden, sunny dream; her

countenance, beaming with youth, beauty, and grace, had never yet been

darkened with a cloud; her large blue eyes had not yet been dimmed with

tears.

In Fontainebleau, whither Josephine had retired with her father-in-law,

who through unfortunate events had lost the greatest part of his

fortune--in Fontainebleau lived the future Empress of France in sad

monotony; in Versailles, in Trianon, lived the present Queen of France

in the dazzling splendor of her glory, of her youth, and of her beauty.

In Trianon--this first gift of love from the king to his wife--the Queen

of France dreamed life away in a pleasant idyl, in a joyous pastoral

amusement; there, she tried to forget that she was queen, that is to

say, that she was the slave of etiquette; there she tried to indemnify

herself for the tediousness, the emptiness, the heartlessness of the

great festivals in the Tuileries and in Versailles.

In Trianon, Marie Antoinette desired to be the domestic wife, the

pleasant, youthful woman, as in the Tuileries and at Versailles she was

the proud and lofty queen. Marie Antoinette felt her days obscured by

the splendors of royalty; the crown weighed heavily on her beautiful

head, which seemed made for a crown of myrtle and roses; life’s

earnestness had not yet cast its breath on those rosy cheeks and robbed

of youth’s charm the smile on those crimson lips.

And why should not Marie Antoinette have smiled and been joyous? Every

thing shone round about her; every thing seemed to promise an enduring

harvest of felicity, for the surface of France was calm and bright, and

the queen’s vision had not yet been made keen enough by experience to

penetrate below this shining surface and see the precipices already

hidden underneath.

These precipices were yet covered with flowers, and the skies floating

above them seemed yet cloudless. The French people appeared to retain

yet for the royal family that enthusiastic devotedness which they had

manifested for centuries; they fondly proclaimed to the queen, whenever

she appeared, their affection, their admiration; they were not weary

with the expressions of their rapture and their worship, and Marie

Antoinette was not weary of listening to these jubilant manifestations

with which she was received in the theatre, on the streets, in the

gardens of the Tuileries, on the terraces of Versailles; she was not

weary of returning thanks with a friendly nod or with a gracious smile.

All the Parisians seemed still to be, as once, at the arrival of the

Dauphin, they had been called by the Baron de Vesenval, “the queen’s

lovers,” and also to rival one another in manifesting their allegiance.

Even the fish-women of Paris shared the general enthusiasm; and when,

in 1781, the queen had given to her husband a son, and to his people

a future monarch, the ladies of “the Halls” were amongst the most

enthusiastic friends of the queen. They even came to Versailles to

congratulate the royal couple on the dauphin’s birth, to salute the

young dauphin as the heir to the crown of France, and to sing under the

window of the king some songs, one of which so pleased the king that

oftentimes afterward, in his quiet and happy hours, he used to sing

a verse of it with a smile on his lip. This Terse, which even Marie

Antoinette sang, ran thus:

“Ne craignez pas, cher papa,

D’ voir augmenter vot’ famille,

Le bon Dieu z’y pourvoira:

Faits-en taut qu’ Versailles en fourmille;

Yeut-il cent Bourbons cheu nos

Ya du pain, du laurier pour tous.”

[Footnote: Madaine ile Carapan, “Histoire de Marie Antoinette,” vol. i.,

p. 218.]

In Trianon, Marie Antoinette passed her happiest hours and days; there,

the queen changed herself into a shepherdess; there, vanished from her

the empty splendors of purple and ermine, of etiquette and ceremonial;

there, she enjoyed life in its purity, in its innocency, in its

naturalness; such was the ideal Marie Antoinette wished to realize in

Trianon.

A simple dress of white muslin, a light kerchief of gauze, a straw hat

with a gayly-colored ribbon, such was the attire of the queen and of the

princesses whom Marie Antoinette invited. For the only etiquette which

prevailed at Trianon was this: that no one from the court, even princes

or princesses, should come to Trianon without having received an

invitation from the queen to that effect. Even the king submitted to

this ceremonial, and had expressly promised his consort never to come to

Trianon without an invitation, and, so as to please the queen, no sooner

did she announce her intention of retiring to her country-residence,

than he was always the first who hastened to obtain the favor of an

invitation.

In Trianon, Louis ceased to be king as well as Marie Antoinette ceased

to be queen. There Louis XVI. was but the farmer of the lady of the

castle; the Count d’Artois was the miller, and the learned Count de

Provence, the schoolmaster. For each of them had been erected in

the gardens of Trianon a separate house suited to their respective

avocations.

The farmer Louis had his farm-house built in Swiss style, with a balcony

of finely-carved wood at the gable-end, and with stalls attached to the

house, and where bellowed the stately red cows of Switzerland; behind

the house was a small garden in which the variegated convolvulus and the

daisy shed their fragrance.

The Count d’Artois had, near the stream which flowed through the park,

his miller’s house, with an enormous wheel, made of wooden spokes joined

together, and which moved lustily in the water, and adorned the clear

brook with wavelets of foam.

The Count de Provence had, under the shadow of a mulberry-tree,

his house, with a large school-room in it; and oftentimes the whole

court-society were converted into scholars of both sexes, who took their

seats on the benches of the school-room, whilst the Count de Provence,

in a long coat with lead buttons and with an immense rod in his hand,

ascended the cathedra and delivered to his school-children a humorous

and piquant lecture, all sparkling with wit.

The princesses also had in this “grove of Paradise,” as Marie Antoinette

called the woods of Trianon, their cottages, where they milked cows,

made butter, and searched for eggs in the hens’ nests. In the midst of

all these cottages and Swiss houses stood the cottage of the farming

Marie Antoinette; it was the finest and the most beautiful one of all,

adorned with vases full of fragrant blossoms and surrounded by flowering

plants and by cozy bowers of verdure. This cottage was the highest

delight of the queen’s life, the enchanting toy of her happiness. Even

the little castle of Trianon, however simple and modest, seemed too

splendid for the taste of the pastoral queen. For in Trianon one

was always reminded that the lady of this castle was a queen; there,

servants were in livery; there, officials and names and titles were to

be found, even when etiquette was forbidden entrance into the halls of

the little castle of Trianon. Marie Antoinette was no more queen there,

it is true, but she was the lady of the palace to whom the highest

respect was shown, and who therefore had been constrained expressly and

strictly to order that at her entrance into the drawing-rooms the ladies

would not interrupt the piece begun on the piano, nor stand up if seated

at their embroidery, and that the gentlemen would keep on undisturbed

their billiard-party or their game at trictrac.

But in her cottage all rank disappeared; there, was no distinction;

there, ceased the glory of name and title, and no sooner was the castle

abandoned for the cottages than each named the other with some Arcadic,

pastoral appellation, and each busied himself with his rural avocations.

How lustily the laughter, how merrily the song sounded from these

cottages amid these bowers and groves; how the countenance of the

farming-lady was lighted up with happiness and joy; with what delight

rested upon her the eye of the farmer Louis, who in his blue blouse,

with a straw hat on his head, with a rosy, fleshy, good-natured face,

was exactly fitted for his part, and who found it no difficult task to

hide under the farmer’s garment the purple of the king!

How often was Marie Antoinette seen in her simple white dress, her

glowing countenance shaded by a straw hat, bounding through the garden

as light as a gazelle, and going from the barn to the milk-room,

followed by the company she had invited to drink of her milk and eat of

her fresh eggs! How often, when the farmer Louis had secreted himself

in a grove for the sake of reading, how often was he discovered there by

the queen, torn away from his book and drawn to a dejeuner on the

grass! When that was over, and Louis had gone back to his book, Marie

Antoinette hastened to her cows to see them milked, or she went into the

rocking-boat to fish, or else reposed on the lawn, busy as a peasant,

with her spindle.

But this quiet occupation detained not long the lively, spirited

farming-lady; with a loud voice, she called to her maids or companions

from the cottages, and then began those merry, unrestrained amusements

which the queen had introduced into society, and which since then have

been introduced not only into the drawing-rooms of the upper classes,

but also into the more austere circles of the wealthy burghers.

Then the queen with her court played at blindman’s bluff, at pampam,

or at a game invented by the Duke de Chartres, the future Duke Philippe

d’Orleans, Egalite, and which game was called “descamper,” a sort of

hide-and-seek amusement, in which the ladies hid themselves in the shady

bushes and groves, to be there discovered by the gentlemen, and then

to endeavor by flight to save themselves, for if once caught and seized

they had to purchase their liberty with a kiss.

When evening came all left the cottages for the little castle, and

the pastoral recreations gave way to the higher enjoyments of refined

society. Marie Antoinette was not in the castle of Trianon queen again,

but she was not either the simple lady of the farm, she was the lady of

the castle, and--the first amateur in the theatrical company which twice

a week exhibited their pieces in the theatre of Trianon.

These theatrical performances were quite as much the queen’s delight as

her pastoral occupations in her farm cottages, and Marie Antoinette

was unwearied in learning and studying her parts. She had chosen for

teachers two pensioned actors, Caillot and Dazincourt, who had to come

every day to Trianon to teach to the noble group of actors the

small operas, vaudevilles, and dramas, which had been chosen for

representation, and in which the queen naturally always played the

part of first amateur, while the princesses, the wives of the Counts de

Provence and Artois, the two Countesses de Polignac, undertook the other

parts, even those of gentlemen, when the two brothers of the king, the

only male members of this theatrical company, could not assume all the

gentlemen’s parts.

At first the audience at these representations was very limited. Only

the king, the princes and the princesses of the royal household, not

engaged in the performance, constituted the audience; but afterward it

was found that to encourage the actors a little, a larger audience

was needed; then the boxes were filled with the governesses of the

princesses, the queen’s waiting-women, whose sisters and daughters with

a few other select ladies had been invited.

It was natural that those who had been thus preferred, and who enjoyed

the privilege of seeing the Queen of France, the princes and princesses,

appear as actors, should be full of admiration and applause at the

talents displayed by the royal troupe; and as they alone formed the

select audience, whose presence had for object to animate the artistes,

they had also assumed the duty to excite and to vitalise the zeal

and the fire of the players by their enthusiasm and by their liberal

praises.

This applause of a grateful public blinded the royal actors as to their

real merits, and excited in them the ambition to exhibit their artistic

talents before a larger audience and to be admired. Consequently, the

queen granted to the officers of the lifeguard and to the masters of the

king’s stalls and to their brothers, admittance into the theatre; the

gentlemen and ladies of the court had seats in the gilt boxes; a larger

number of ladies were invited, and soon from all sides came requests for

tickets of admission to the theatrical performances in the Trianon.

The same privileges which had been allowed to a few could not be, and

it was not desirable that they should be, granted to all; those who were

purposely refused revenged themselves of this refusal by an unsparing

criticism on the performers and by bitter sarcasm at the Queen of

France, who so far forgot her dignity as to play comedies before her

subjects, and who played her part not always in such a manner as to give

to a sharp criticism no reason for blame.

The queen possessed, it is true, the desire, but not the ability, to be

an actress or a songstress. When she played the part of a comedian, no

one felt tempted to laugh; but contrariwise it might often happen that,

when her part was tragical, impressive and touching even to tears, the

faces of her auditors brightened with involuntary laughter.

Once even it happened that a person from the audience, when the queen

had not yet left the stage, cried aloud, and perhaps with the intention

of being heard by her: “One must confess that royal acting is bad

acting!”

Though she understood the words, yet the smile on her lips vanished not

away; and as the Countess Diana de Polignac wished to persuade her to

allow the impertinent one who had spoken these words, to be sought out

and punished, the queen, shrugging her shoulders answered: “My friend, I

say as Madame de Maintenon: ‘I am upon the stage, and must therefore be

willing to be applauded or hissed.’”

Yes, she had to endure the applause or the hissing. Unfortunately, the

number of those who hissed grew every day. The queen had provoked public

expression since she bade it defiance. On the day she banished etiquette

from its watchful duty at the apartments of the Queen of France, the

public expression with its train of slanders and maliciousness entered

in through the open portals. The queen was blamed for her theatricals as

well as for her simple, unadorned toilet, yet she was imitated in these

two things, as even before the costly and luxurious toilet, the high

head-gears of the queen, and also blindman’s buff and descamper, had

been imitated. Every woman now wanted such a simple negligee, such a

headdress, such a feather as Marie Antoinette. As once before, Madame

Bertin, the celebrated milliner of the queen, had been circumvented to

furnish a pattern of the queen’s coiffure, so now all the ladies rushed

upon her in flocks to procure the small caps, fichus, and mantelets,

after the queen’s model. The robes with long trains, the court-dresses

of heavy silk, jewels and gold ornaments, were on a sudden despised;

every thing which could add brilliancy and dignity to the toilet was

banished, the greatest simplicity and nonchalance were now the fashion;

every lady strove, if possible, to resemble a shepherdess of Watteau,

and it was soon impossible to distinguish a duchess from an actress.

Not only the ladies but also the gentlemen were carried away by this

flood of novelty. They gave up the boots with red heels, the embroidered

garments, as already before they had given up laces, bandelets, gold

fringes, and diamond buttons on the hats; they put on simple coats of

cloth as the burgher and the man of the people wore; they abandoned

their equipages, with their brilliant armorial trappings and the golden

liveries, and found satisfaction in promenading the streets, with cane

in hand, and with boots instead of buckled shoes.

It is true these street promenadings of the nobility were not oftentimes

without inconvenience and molestation. As without the insignia of their

rank and position they mixed with the society of the streets, entered

into taverns and cafes, the people took them for what they seemed to be,

for their equals, and instead of respectfully making way for them,

the people claimed as much attention from them as they themselves were

willing to give. Often enough disputes and scuffles took place between

the disguised nobleman and the man of the people, the laborer, or the

commissionnaire, and at such experiments of hand to hand the victory was

not to the nobleman, but to the fist of the man, of the people.

The novelty of such scenes excited the fastidious aristocracy; it became

a sort of passion to mix with the people, to frequent the cabarets, to

strike some bargain at trade, to be the hero of a fist-fight, even if

it ended by the stout workmen throwing down the aristocrats who had

despised them. To be thrown down was no more considered by the nobility

as a disgrace, and they applauded these affrays as once they had

applauded duelling.

The aristocracy mixed with the people, adopted their manners and usages,

even much of their mode of thinking, of their democratic opinions, and,

by divesting themselves of their external dignity, of their halo, the

nobility threw down the barrier of separation which stood between them

and the democracy; that respect and esteem which the man of the people

had hitherto maintained toward the nobleman vanished away.

The principle of equality, which was to have such fatal consequences for

France, arose from the folly of the aristocracy; and Marie Antoinette

was the one who, with her taste for simplicity, with her opposition to

etiquette and ceremony, had called this principle into life.

Not only was the queen imitated in her simplicity, she was also imitated

in her love of comedy. These theatrical amusements of the queen were

a subject of reproach, and yet these private recreations of Marie

Antoinette were the fashion of the day. The taste for theatrical

representations made its way into all classes of society; soon there was

no nobleman, no banker, not even a respectable, well-to-do merchant,

who had not in his house a small theatre, and who, with his family and

friends, endeavored not to emulate on his own narrow stage the manners

of the celebrated actors.

Before these days, a nobleman would have considered himself insulted and

dishonored if he had been supposed to have become a comedian, or even

to have assumed a comedian’s garb, were it but in the home-circle. The

queen by her example had now destroyed this prepossession, and it was

now so much bon ton to act a comedy that even men of gravity, even the

first magistrate of Paris, could so much forget the dignity of position

as to commit to memory and even to act some of the parts of a buffoon.

[Footnote: Montjoie, “Histoire de Marie Antoinette, Reine de France.”]

It was also soon considered to be highly fashionable to set one’s self

against the prejudice which had been hitherto fostered against

actors; and, whereas the queen took lessons in singing from Garat, the

opera-singer, and even sang duets with her, she threw down the wall of

partition which had hitherto separated the artistes of the stage from

good society.

Unfortunate queen, who, with the best qualities of the heart, was

preparing her own ruin; who understood not that the freedom and license

which she herself granted, would soon throw on the roof of the Tuileries

the firebrand which reduced to dust and ashes the throne of the

Bourbons!--unfortunate queen, who in her modesty would so gladly forget

her exaltation and her majesty, and who thereby taught her subjects to

make light of majesty and to despise the throne!

She saw not yet the abyss opening under her feet; the flowers of Trianon

hid it from her view! She heard not the distant mutterings of the public

mind, which, like the raging wave of the storm, swelled up nearer and

nearer the throne to crush it one day under the howling thunders of the

unshackled elements of the unloosed rage of the people!

The skies, arching over the fragrant blossoms of the charming Trianon,

and over the cottages of the farming queen, were yet serene and

cloudless, and the voice of public opinion was yet drowned in the joyous

laughter which echoed from the cottages of Trianon, or in the sweet

harmonies which waved in the concert-hall, when the queen, with Garat,

or with the Baron de Vaudreuil, the most welcome favorite of the ladies,

and the most accomplished courtier of his day, sang her duets.

Repose and peace prevailed yet in Trianon, and the loyal subjects of the

King of France made their pilgrimages to Trianon, there to admire the

idyls of the queen and to watch for the favorable opportunity of espying

the queen, Marie Antoinette, in her rustic costume, with a basket of

eggs on her arm, or the spindle in hand, and to be greeted by her with

a salutation, a friendly word. For Marie Antoinette in Trianon was only

the lady of the mansion, or the farming-lady--so much so, that she had

allowed the very last duties of etiquette, which separated the subject

from the queen, to be abandoned, that even when with her gay company she

was in Trianon, the gates of the park and of the castle were not closed

to visitors, but were opened to any one who had secured from the keeper

a card of admission; the benefit arising from these cards was applied by

order of the queen to the relief of the poor of Versailles. It is true,

one condition of small importance was attached, “by order of the queen,”

to the obtaining of such a card. It was necessary to belong to the

nobility, or to the higher magistracy, so as to be entitled to purchase

a card of admission into the Trianon, and this sole insignificant

condition contained the germ of much evil and of bitter hatred. The

merchant, the spicier, was conscious of a bitter insult in this order,

which banished him from Trianon, which made it impossible for him to

satisfy his curiosity, and to see the queen as a shepherdess, and the

king as a farmer. This order only whetted more and more the hatred and

the contempt for the preferred classes, for the aristocrats, and turned

the most important class of the population, the burgesses, into enemies

of the queen. For it was the queen who had given this order which kept

away from Trianon the tradesmen; it was the queen alone who ruled in

Trianon: and, to vent vengeance on the queen’s order, she was blamed

for assuming a right belonging only to the King of France. Only he, the

king, was entitled to give laws to France, only he could set on the very

front of the law this seal: “DE PAR LE ROI.”

And now the queen wanted to assume this privilege. In the castles of

pleasure presented by the king to the queen, in Trianon as well as in

St. Cloud, was seen at the entrance of the gardens a tablet, containing

the regulations under which admission was granted to the public, and

these two tablets began with the formula, “DE PAR LA HEINE!” This

unfortunate expression excited the ill-will and the anger of all France;

every one felt himself injured, every one was satisfied to see therein

an attack on the integrity of the monarchy, on the sovereignty of the

king.

“It is no more the king alone who enacts laws,” they said, “but the

queen also assumes this right; she makes use of the formalities of the

state, she issues laws without the approbation of the Parliament. The

queen wants to place our king aside and despoil us of our rights, so as

to take the king’s place!”

And these complaints, these reproaches became so vehement, so loud, that

their echoes resounded in the chambers of the king, so that even one of

the ministers could make observations to the king on that subject, and

say: “It is certainly immoral and impolitic for a queen of France to own

castles for her own private use” [Footnote: Campan, “Memoires,” vol. i.,

p. 274.]

The good Louis therefore ventured to speak to his consort on this

subject, and to ask of her to remove this expression which gave so much

offence, and which had so violently excited the public sentiment.

But the pure heart of Marie Antoinette rebelled against such a

supposition; her pride was stirred up that she, a queen, the daughter of

the Caesars, should make concession to public opinion; that she should

submit to this imaginary and invisible power, which dared despise her as

a queen, which she recognized not and would not recognize!

This power, the public opinion, stood yet behind Marie Antoinette as an

invisible, an unobserved phantom, which soon was to be transformed into

a cruel monster, whose giant hand would pitilessly crush the happiness

and the peace of the queen.

The prayers and expostulations of the king were in vain. Marie

Antoinette would not bow to the public sentiment; she would not depart

from her regulations, she would not strike off her “De par la reine” for

the sake of “De par le peuple”

“My name is there in its right place,” said she, with a countenance

beaming with resolution and pride; “these gardens and castles are my

property, and I can very well issue orders in them, without interfering

with state rights.”

And the “De par la reine” remained on the regulation-tablets in Trianon

as well as in St. Cloud; and the people, who, through birth or through

official position, were not entitled to enter Trianon, came thither at

least to read the tablets of rules at the gate of entrance, and to

fill up their hearts with scorn and contempt, and to utter loud curses

against this presumptuous and daring “De par la reine.”

And this woman, whose pride and imperiousness kept away and scorned away

the burgesses from the gates of Trianon, came to Trianon there to rest

from the unbending majesty of her sovereignty, and she herself used to

say to her ladies, with her own enchanting smile, “To forget that she

was queen.”

The numberless fairy-tales related about the enchanted castle of the

queen had found their way to Fontainebleau, and had been re-echoed in

the quiet, lonely house where lived the Marquis de Beauharnais and

his family. The marquis, always extremely attentive to procure for his

beloved daughter-in-law some distraction and some recreation, proposed

to Josephine to visit this Trianon, which furnished so much material

for admiration and slander, and to make thither with a few friends a

pleasure excursion.

Josephine gladly accepted the invitation; she longed for diversion and

society. Her young, glowing heart had been healed and strengthened after

the deep wound which the ever-beloved husband had inflicted; she had

submitted to her fate; she was a divorced woman, but Parliament had by

its judgment kept her honor free from every shadow; public opinion had

pronounced itself in her favor; the love of her parents, of the father

of him who had so shamefully accused her, so cruelly deserted her,

endeavored to make compensation for what she had lost. Josephine could

not trouble, with her sorrows, with her sad longings of soul, those who

so much busied themselves in cheering her up. She had, therefore, so

mastered herself as to appear content, as to dry here tears; and her

youth, the freshness and elasticity of her mind, had come to the help

of her efforts. She had at first smiled through effort, she soon did

it from the force of youthful pleasure; she had at first repressed her

tears by the power of her will, soon her tears were dried up and her

eyes irradiated again the fire of youth and hope, of the hope once

more to win her husband’s heart, to return her two graceful and beloved

children to their father, whom their youth needed, for whom every

evening she raised to the God of love the prayers which their mother

with low, trembling voice and tears in her eyes made them say after her.

Josephine, then, in company with her aunt Madame de Renaudin and

with her father-in-law the Marquis de Beauharnais, undertook this

pleasure-excursion to Trianon. The sight of these glorious parks, these

gardens so artistically laid out, charmed her and filled her with the

sweet reminiscences of the loved home, of the beautiful gardens in

Martinique, which she herself with her slaves had cultivated, in which

she had planted those beautiful flowers whose liveliness of color and

whose fragrance of blossom were here in hot-houses so much praised. The

love of plants and flowers had ever remained fresh amid the storms

and sorrows which in the last years had passed over her heart, and

oftentimes she had sought in the study of botany forgetfulness and

refreshment. With a vivacity and a joyfulness such as had not been seen

in her for a long time, Josephine wandered about this beautiful park,

these hot-houses and gardens, and, transported with joy and admiration,

she exclaimed: “Oh, how happy must the queen be to call this paradise

her own!”

The sound of approaching voices interrupted her in her observations and

in her admiration, which, perchance, was not entirely free from envy.

Through the foliage of the trees was seen a large company approaching

the queen’s farm-house, before which stood Josephine with her escort. At

the curve of the path near the grove where Josephine stood, appeared

a woman. A white muslin dress, not expanded by the stiff, ceremonious

hoop-petticoat, but falling down in ample folds, wrapped up her tall,

noble figure, a small lace kerchief covered the beautiful neck, and

in part the splendid shoulders. The deep-blond unpowdered hair hung

in heavy, curly locks on either side of the rosy cheeks; the head was

covered with a large, round straw hat, adorned with long, streaming silk

ribbons; on the arm, partly covered with a black knit glove, hung an

ornamented woven basket, which was completely filled with eggs.

“The queen!” murmured Josephine, trembling within herself, and,

frightened at this unexpected meeting, she wanted to withdraw behind the

grove, in the hope of being unnoticed by the farmer’s wife passing by.

But Marie Antoinette had already seen her, and on her beautiful, smiling

countenance was not for a moment expressed either surprise or concern at

this unexpected meeting with uninvited strangers. She was so accustomed

to see curiosity-seekers in her lovely Trianon, and to meet them,

disturbed not in the least her unaffected serenity. A moment only she

stood still, to allow her followers, the Duchesses de Polignac, the

Princess de Lamballe, and the two Counts de Coigny, to draw near; then

lightly and smilingly she walked toward the house near which Josephine

bewildered and blushing stood, whilst the marquis bowed profoundly and

reverentially.

The queen, who was about to pass by and enter into the house, stood

still. Her large dark-blue eye was for a moment fixed with questioning

expression upon Josephine, then a smile illumined her beautiful

countenance. She had recognized the Viscountess de Beauharnais, though

she had seen her only twice. Although, through her husband’s rank and

station, Josephine was entitled to appear at court, yet she had always,

with all the retreating anxiety of inexperienced youth, endeavored to

evade the solemnity of an official presentation. The young, lively,

unaffected Creole had cherished an invincible horror for the stiff

court-etiquette, for the ceremonial court-dress of gold brocade, with

the court-mantle strictly embroidered after the established pattern, and

which terminated in a long, heavy train, for the majestic head-gear of

feathers, flowers, laces, and veils, all towering up nearly a yard high,

and, above all things, for those rules and laws which regulated and

fixed every word, every step, every movement, at a solemn presentation

at court.

Marie Antoinette had had compassion on the timidity of the young

Creole, and to spare her the solemnity of a rigid presentation had twice

received at a private audience the young Viscountess de Beauharnais, and

had then received also her homage. [Footnote: Le Normand, “Histoire de

l’Imperatrice Josephine,” vol. i., p. 97.]

The youthful, charming appearance of Josephine, her peculiar and at

the same time ingenuous and graceful attitude, had not been without

impression on the queen; and with the most sympathizing interest, she

had heard of the sad disturbances which had clouded the matrimonial

happiness of the young Creole.

No longer, as before, had Marie Antoinette requested the Viscount de

Beauharnais, the beautiful dancer of Versailles, to dance with her;

and when Parliament had given its sentence, and openly and solemnly had

proclaimed the innocency of Josephine, the accused wife, the queen also

had loudly expressed her satisfaction at this judgment, and the Viscount

de Beauharnais was no more invited to the court festivities.

About to enter into the house, the queen had recognized the young

viscountess, and with a friendly movement of the head she beckoned her

to approach, welcomed the marquis, whom her short-sightedness had not at

once recognized, to her beloved Trianon, and she requested them both

to visit her little kingdom as often as they would wish, and to examine

every thing attentively.

In the goodness and generosity of her heart, the queen gladly desired

to make amends to the young, timid woman, who, embarrassed and blushing,

stood before her, for the sufferings she had endured, for the disgrace

under which she had had to bow her head; she wanted to give the accused

innocent one a reparation of honor such as Parliament and public

sentiment had already done.

She was consequently all goodness, all condescension, all confidence;

she spoke to Josephine, not as a queen to her favored subjects, but as

a young woman to a young woman, as to her equal. With sympathetic

friendliness she made inquiries concerning the welfare of the

viscountess and her family; she invited her to come often to Trianon,

and, with a flattering allusion to the vast knowledge of the viscountess

in botany, she asked her if she was satisfied with the arrangements of

garden and hot-houses.

Josephine, with the sensitiveness and fine tact natural to her, felt

that the trivial flattery of a courtier would but be a wretched and

inappropriate return for so much goodness and loving-kindness; she

felt that frankness and truth were the thanks due to the queen’s

large-heartedness.

She therefore answered the queen’s questions with impartial sincerity,

and, encouraged by the kindness of the queen, she openly and clearly

gave her opinion concerning the arrangement of the hot-houses, and drew

the attention of the queen to some precious and choice plants which she

had noticed in the hot-houses.

Marie Antoinette listened to her with lively interest, and at parting

extended to her in a friendly manner her beautiful hand.

“Come soon again, viscountess,” said she, with that beautiful smile

which ever won her true hearts; “you are worthy to enjoy the beauty

of my beloved Trianon, for you have eyes and sense for the beautiful.

Examine everything closely, and when we see one another again, tell

me what you have observed and what has pleased you. It will ever be a

pleasure to see you.” [Footnote: The very words of the queen.--See Le

Normand, “Histoire,” &c., vol. i., p. 135.]

But Josephine was no more to see the beautiful queen, so worthy of

compassion; and these kind words which Marie Antoinette had spoken to

her were the last which Josephine was ever to hear from her lips.

A few days after this visit to Trianon, Josephine received from her

parents in Martinique letters which had for their object to persuade her

with the tenderness of love, with all the reasons of wisdom, to

return to her home, to the house of her parents, to withdraw with

bold resolution from all the inconveniences and humiliations of her

precarious and dangerous situation, and, instead of living in humble

solitude as a divorced, despised woman, sooner to come to Martinique,

and there in her parents’ home be again the beloved and welcomed

daughter.

Josephine hesitated still. She could not come to the resolution of

abandoning the hope of a reunion with Alexandre de Beauharnais; she

dreamt yet of the happiness of seeing the beloved wanderer return to his

wife, to his children.

But her aunt and her father-in-law knew better than she that there was

no prospect of such an event; they knew that the viscount was still the

impassioned lover of the beautiful Madame de Gisard; that she held him

too tightly in her web to look for a possibility of his returning to his

legitimate affection.

If any thing could rouse him from this love-spell, and bring him back to

duty and reason, it would be that sudden, unexpected departure; it would

be the conviction which would necessarily be impressed upon him,

that Josephine desired to be forever separated from him; that she was

conscious of being divorced from him forever, and that, in the pride of

her insulted womanhood, she wished to withdraw herself and her daughter

from his approaches, and from the scandal which his passion for Madame

de Gisard was giving.

Such were the reasons with which her relatives, even the grandfather

of her two children, sought to persuade her to a voyage to

Martinique--bitter though the anguish would be for them to be deprived

of the presence of the gentle, lovely young woman, whose youthful

freshness and grace had like sunshine cheered the lonely house in

Fontainebleau; to see also part from them the little Hortense, whose

joyous voice of childhood had now and then recalled the faithless son

to the father’s house, and which was still a bond which united Josephine

with her husband and with his family.

Josephine had to give way before these arguments, however much her heart

bled. She had long felt how much of impropriety and of danger there was

in the situation of a young woman divorced from her husband, and how

much more dignified and expedient it would be for her to return to

her father’s home and to the bosom of her family. She therefore took a

decided resolution; she tore herself away from her relatives, from her

beloved son, whom she could not take with her, for he belonged to the

father. With a stream of painful tears she bade farewell to the love of

youth, to the joys of youth, from which naught remained but the wounds

of a despised heart, and the children who gazed at her with the beloved

eyes of their father.

In the month of July of the year 1788, Josephine, with her little

five-year-old daughter Hortense, left Fontainebleau, went to Havre,

whence she embarked for Martinique.

CHAPTER VII. LIEUTENANT NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

While the Viscountess Josephine de Beauharnais was, during long years of

resignation, enduring all the anguish, humiliations, and agonies of an

unhappy marriage, the first pain and sorrow had also clouded the days of

the young Corsican boy who, in the same year as Josephine, had embarked

from his native land for France.

In the beginning of the year 1785, Napoleon Bonaparte had lost his

father. In Montpellier, whither he had come for the cure of his diseased

breast, he died, away from home, from his Letitia and his children.

Only his eldest son Joseph stood near his dying couch, and, moreover,

a fortunate accident had brought to pass that the poor, lonely sufferer

should meet there a friendly home, where he was received with the most

considerate affection. Letitia’s companion of youth, the beautiful

Panonia Comnene, now Madame de Permont, resided in Montpellier with

her husband, who was settled there, and with all the faithfulness and

friendship of a Corsican, she nursed the sick husband of her Letitia.

But neither the skill of the renowned physicians of Montpellier, nor the

tender care of friends, nor the tears of the son, could keep alive the

unfortunate Charles de Bonaparte. For three days long he struggled with

death; for three days long his youth, his manhood’s powers, resisted the

mighty foe, which already held him in its chains; then he had to submit

to the conqueror. Exhausted with death’s pallor, Charles de Bonaparte

sank back on his couch, and as Death threw his dark shadows on his

face bathed in cold perspiration, Charles de Bonaparte, with stammering

tongue, in the last paroxysms of fancy, exclaimed: “It is in vain!

Nothing can save me! Even Napoleon’s sword, which one day is to triumph

over all Europe, even that sword cannot frighten away the dragon of

death which crouches on my breast!” [Footnote: See “Memoires du Roi

Joseph,” vol. i., p. 29.]

Wonderful vision of a dying man! The dimmed eye of the dying father

saw his son Napoleon’s sword, “which one day was to triumph over all

Europe;” as he prophesied its power, he sighed at the same time over the

impotency which holds all mankind in its bands, and leaves even the hero

as a powerless child in the hands of fate. The sword which was to be a

yoke to all Europe could not terrify from the breast of his father the

dragon of death!

Napoleon received the news of his father’s decease whilst at the

military school of Paris, where he had been placed for the last six

months, to the joy and satisfaction of his teachers as well as to that

of his schoolmates in Brienne. For the reserved, taciturn, proud boy,

who, rugged and blunt, stood aloof from his comrades, who even dared

speak rude and bitter words against his teachers and against the whole

military institution at Brienne, was oftentimes an inconvenience and a

burden as well to teachers as to schoolmates; and all felt relieved, as

from a depressing weight, when they no more feared the naming eyes of

the boy who observed every thing, who criticised every thing, and passed

judgment upon every thing.

But if he was not loved, it was impossible to refuse esteem to his

capacity, to his desire for learning; and the testimony which Monsieur

de Heralio, the principal of the institution of Brienne, sent with the

young Napoleon to Paris, was a tribute of respect and an acknowledgment

of merit. He portrayed him “as having an extremely capacious head,

especially skilled in mathematics, and of great powers and talents.” As

to his character, one of the professors of the institution had in the

testimonial written the remark: “A Corsican by birth and character. He

will do great things, if circumstances are favorable.”

But circumstances did not appear favorable, but contrariwise seemed to

bo roused in enmity against the poor Corsican boy. He had been scarcely

half a year in Paris when he lost his father, and this grief, of which

not a murmur escaped, which he kept within, devouring his heart, as

every thing else which affected him, made his existence still more

reserved, still more retired, and isolated him more and more. Moreover,

death had not only taken away the father, but also the support which

Napoleon received from him. The means of the Bonaparte family were very

meagre, and barely sufficed to the support of Signora Letitia and her

seven children. Napoleon could not and dared not require or accept

any help from his mother, on whom and on his brother Joseph it became

incumbent to educate and support the young family. He had to be

satisfied to live upon the bounty which the royal treasury furnished to

the young men at the military school.

But these limited means were to the ambitious boy a source of

humiliation and pain. The majority of his comrades consisted of young

aristocrats, who, provided with ample means, led a gay, luxurious,

dissipated life, had horses, servants, equipages, kept up one with

another expensive dinner-parties and dejeuners, and seized every

opportunity to organize a festivity or a pleasure-party. Every

departure, every admission of a scholar, was celebrated with brilliant

display; every birthday furnished the opportunity of a feast, and every

holiday became the welcomed occasion for a pleasure excursion which the

young men on horseback, and followed by their servants in livery, made

in the vicinity of Paris.

Napoleon could take no part in all these feastings and dissipations; and

as his proud heart could not acknowledge his poverty, he put on the mask

of a stoic, who, with contemptuous disregard, cast away vain pleasures

and amusements, and scorned those who with unrestrained zest abandoned

themselves to them.

He had scarcely been half a year in the military school when he gave

loud expression to his jealousy and envy; the young Napoleon, nearly

sixteen years old, undertook boldly to censure in the very presence of

the teachers the regulations of the institution. In a memorial which

he had composed, and which he presented to the second director of the

establishment, M. Berton, he gave utterance to his own views in the most

energetic and daring manner, imposing upon the professors the duty of

making a complete change in the institution; of limiting the number

of servants, so that the military pupils might learn to wait upon

themselves; of simplifying the noonday meal, so as to accustom them to

moderation; of forbidding banquets, dejeuners, and pleasure-excursions,

so that they might not become inured to a frivolous, extravagant mode of

life.

This mask of a censuring stoic, which he put on in the presence of

teachers and school-mates, he retained also with his few friends. Madame

de Permont, a short time after the death of Napoleon’s father, came with

her family to Paris, where her husband had obtained an important and

lucrative office; her son Albert attended the military school and was

soon the friend of Napoleon, as much as a friendship could be formed

between the young, lively M. de Permont, the son of wealthy and

distinguished parents, and the reserved, proud Napoleon Bonaparte, the

son of a poor, lonely widow.

However, Napoleon this time acquiesced in the wishes of his true friend,

and condescended to pass his holidays with Albert in the house of

Madame de Permont, the friend of his mother; and oftentimes his whole

countenance would brighten into a smile, when speaking with her of the

distant home, of the mother, and of the family. But as many times also

that countenance would darken when, gazing round, he tacitly compared

this costly, tastefully decorated mansion with the poor and sparingly

furnished house in which his noble and beautiful mother lived with her

six orphans, and who in her household duties had to wait upon herself;

when again he noticed with what solicitude and love Madame de Permont

had her children educated by masters from the court, by governesses

and by teachers at enormous salaries, whilst her friend Letitia had to

content herself with the very deficient institutions of learning to

be found in Corsica, because her means were not sufficient to bring to

Paris, to the educational establishment of St. Cyr, her young daughters,

like the parents of the beautiful Pauline.

The young Napoleon hated luxury, because he himself had not the means

of procuring it; he spoke contemptuously of servants, for his position

allowed him not to maintain them; he spoke against the expensive noonday

meal, because he had to be content with less; he scorned the amusements

of his school-mates, because, when they arranged their picnics and

festivities, his purse allowed him not to take a part in them.

One day in the military school, as one of the teachers was to bid it

farewell, the scholars organized a festivity, toward which each of them

was to contribute a tolerably large sum. It was perhaps not all accident

that precisely on that day M. de Permont, the father of Albert, came to

the military school to visit his son, and Napoleon, his son’s friend.

He found all the scholars in joyous excitement and motion; his son

Albert was, like the rest, intently busy with the preparations of the

feast, which was to take place in the garden, and to end in a great

display of fireworks. All faces beamed with delight, all eyes were

illumined, and the whole park re-echoed with jubilant cries and joyous

laughter.

But Napoleon Bonaparte was not among the gay company. M. de Permont

found him in a remote, lonesome path. He was walking up and down

with head bent low, his hands folded behind his back; as he saw M. de

Permont, his face became paler and gloomier, and a look nearly scornful

met the unwelcomed disturber.

“My young friend,” said M. de Permont, with a friendly smile, “I come to

bring you the small sum which you need to enable you to take a part in

the festivity. Here it is; take it, I pray you.”

But Napoleon, with a vehement movement of the hand, waved back the

offered money, a burning redness for a moment covered his face, then his

cheeks assumed that yellowish whiteness which in the child had always

indicated a violent emotion.

“No,” cried he, vehemently, “no, I have nothing to do with this

meaningless festivity. I thank you--I receive no alms.”

M. de Permont gazed with emotions of sympathizing sorrow in the pale

face of the poor young man for whom poverty was preparing so many

griefs, and in the generosity of his heart he had recourse to a

falsehood.

“This is no alms I offer you, Napoleon,” said he, gently, “but this

money belongs to you, it comes from your father. At his dying hour he

confided to me a small sum of money, with the express charge to keep it

for you and to give you a portion of it in pressing circumstances, when

your personal honor required it. I therefore bring you to-day the fourth

part of this sum, and retain the rest for another pressing occasion.”

With a penetrating, searching look. Napoleon gazed into the face of

the speaker, and the slight motions of a sarcastic smile played for an

instant around his thin, compressed lips.

“Well, then,” said he, after a pause, “since this money comes from my

father, I can use it; but had you simply wished to lend it to me,

I could not have received it. My mother has already too much

responsibility and care; I cannot increase them by an outlay, especially

when such an outlay is imposed upon me by the sheer folly of my

schoolmates.” [Footnote: Napoleon’s words.--See “Memoires de la Duchesse

d’Abrantes,” vol. i., p. 81.]

He then took the offered sum for which, as he thought, he was indebted

to no man, and hastened to pay his contribution to the festivity. But,

in respect to his principles, he took no part in the festivity, but

declaimed all the louder, and in a more biting tone, against the

criminal propensities for pleasure in the young men who, instead of

turning their attention to their studies, lavished away their precious

time in dissipation and frivolities.

These anxieties and humiliations of poverty Napoleon had doubly to

endure, not only for himself, but also for his sister Marianne (who

afterward called herself Elise). She had been, as already said, at her

father’s intercession and application, received in the royal educational

institute of St. Cyr, and there enjoyed the solid and brilliant

education of the pupils of the king. But the spirit of luxury and the

desire for pleasure had also penetrated into this institution, founded

by the pious and high-minded Madame de Maintenon, and the young ladies

of St. Cyr had among themselves picnics and festivals, as well as the

young men of the military school.

Napoleon, whose means, as long as he was in Brienne, never allowed him

to visit his beloved sister at St. Cyr, had now frequent opportunities

of seeing her, for Madame de Permont, in her royal friendship to the

Bonaparte family, took as lively an interest in the daughter as in the

son of her friend Letitia, and often drove to St. Cyr to visit the young

and beautiful Marianne.

A few days after the festival in the military school, a short vacation

had followed, and Napoleon passed it with his friend Albert in the house

of the family of Permont. To please young Napoleon, it was decided to

go to St. Cyr, and the glowing cheeks and the lively manner with which

Napoleon, during the journey, conversed with M. and Madame de Permont,

proved what satisfaction he anticipated in meeting his sister.

But Marianne Bonaparte did not seem to share this satisfaction. With

downcast countenance and sad mien she entered the reception-room and

saluted M. and Madame Permont, and even her brother, with a gloomy,

despairing look. As she was questioned about the cause of her sadness,

she broke into tears, and threw herself with vehement emotion into the

arms of Madame de Permont.

Vain were the prayers and expostulations of her mother’s friend to have

her reveal the cause of her sadness. Marianne only shook her head in a

negative manner, and ever a fresh flow of tears started from her eyes,

but she remained silent.

Napoleon, who at first, pale and silent, had looked on this outbreak of

sorrow, now excitedly approached his sister, and, laying his hand upon

her arm, said in angry tones: “Since you cry, you must also confess the

cause of your tears, or else we are afraid that you weep over some wrong

of which you are guilty. But woe to you if it is so! I am here in the

name of our father, and I will be without pity!” [Footnote: “Memoires de

la Duehesse d’Abrantes.”]

Marianne trembled, and cast a timid, anxious look upon her young

brother, whose voice had assumed such a peculiar, imperious

expression--whose eyes shone with the expression of a proud, angry

master.

“I am in no wise guilty, my brother,” murmured she, “and yet I am sad

and unhappy.”

And blushing, trembling, with broken words, interrupted by tears and

sighs, Marianne related that next day, a farewell festival was to take

place in the institution in honor of one of the pupils about to leave.

The whole class was taking a part in it, and each of the young ladies

had already paid her contribution.

“But I only am not able,” exclaimed Marianne, with a loud burst of

anguish, “I have but six francs; if I give them, nothing is left me, and

my pension is not paid until six weeks. But even were I to give all I

have, my miserable six francs would not be enough.”

Very unwillingly indeed had Napoleon, whilst Marianne thus spoke,

put his hand into his pocket, as if to draw out the money which his

sorrowing sister needed, but remembering his own poverty, his hand

dropped at his side; a deep glow of anger overspread his cheeks, and

wildly stamping down with the foot he turned away and walked to the

window, perhaps to allow none to notice the nervous agitation of his

countenance and his tears of vexation and shame.

But what Napoleon could not do, that did Madame de Permont. She gave to

the weeping young girl the twelve francs she needed to take a part in

the festivity, and Marianne, less proud and less disdainful than her

brother, accepted gladly, without opposition and without the need of a

falsehood, the little sum offered.

Napoleon allowed this to take place without contradiction, and hindered

not his sister to receive from Madame de Permont the alms which he

himself had so arrogantly refused.

But they had barely left the reception-room and entered the carriage,

than his suffering heart burst into a sarcastic philippic against the

contemptible administration of such royal establishments as St. Cyr and

the military school.

M. de Permont, who had at first patiently and with a smile listened to

these raving invectives, felt himself at last wounded by them; and the

supercilious and presumptuous manner in which the young man of barely

seventeen years spoke of the highest offices of the state, and of the

king himself, excited his anger.

“Hush, Napoleon!” said he, reluctantly. “It does not beseem you, who are

educated upon the king’s bounty, to speak thus.”

Napoleon shrank within himself as if he had been bitten by a serpent,

and a deadly pallor overspread his cheeks.

“I am not the pupil of the king, but of the state!” exclaimed he, in a

boisterous voice, trembling with passion.

“Ah, that is indeed a fine distinction which you have made there,

Napoleon,” said M. de Permont, laughing. “It is all the same whether you

are the pupil of the state or of the king; moreover, is not the king

the state also? However it may be, it beseems you not to speak of your

benefactor in such inappropriate terms.”

Napoleon concentrated all his efforts into self-control, and mastered

himself into a grave, quiet countenance.

“I will be silent,” said he, with an appearance of composure; “I will no

more say what might excite your displeasure. Only allow me to say,

were I master here, had I to decide upon the regulations of these

institutions, I would have them very different, and for the good of

all.”

“Were I master here!” The pupil of the military school, for whom poverty

was preparing so much humiliation, who had just now experienced a fresh

humiliation through his sister in the reception-room of St. Cyr, was

already thinking what he would do were he the ruler of France; and,

strange enough, these words seemed natural to his lips, and no one

thought of sneering or laughing at him when he thus spoke.

Meanwhile his harsh and repulsive behavior, his constant fault-finding

and censoriousness were by no means conducive to the friendship and

affection of those around him; he was a burden to all, he was an

inconvenience to all; and the teachers as well as the pupils of the

military school were all anxious to get rid of his presence.

As nothing else could be said to his reproach; as there was no denying

his assiduity, his capacities, and progress, there was but one means

of removing him from the institution--he had to be promoted. It was

necessary to recognize the young pupil of the military school as

competent to enter into the practical, active military service; it was

necessary to make a lieutenant out of the pupil.

Scarcely had one year passed since Napoleon had been received into the

military school of Paris, when he was nominated by the authorities of

the school for a vacancy in the rank of lieutenant, and he was promoted

to it in the artillery regiment of La Fere, then stationed at Valence.

In the year 1786 Napoleon left the military school to serve his country

and his king as second lieutenant, and to take the oath of allegiance.

Radiant with happiness and joy, proud alike of his promotion and of his

uniform, the young lieutenant went to the house of M. de Permont to show

himself to his friends in his new dignity and in his new splendors, and,

at their invitation, to pass a few days in their house before leaving

for Valence.

But, alas! his appearance realized not the wished-for result. As he

entered the saloon of Madame de Permont the whole family was gathered

there, and at the sight of Napoleon the two daughters, girls of six and

thirteen years, broke out into loud laughter. None are more alive than

children to the impression of what is ridiculous, and there was indeed

in the appearance of the young lieutenant something which well might

excite the laughing propensities of the lively little maidens. The

uniform appeared much too long and wide for the little meagre figure

of Napoleon, and his slender legs vanished in boots of such height and

breadth that he seemed more to swim than to walk with them.

These boots especially had excited the laughter of the little maidens;

and at every step which Napoleon, embarrassed as he was by the terrible

cannon-boots, made forward, the laughter only increased, so that the

expostulations and reproaches of Madame de Permont could not procure

silence.

Napoleon, who had entered the drawing-room with a face radiant with joy,

felt wounded by the children’s joyousness at his own cost. To be the

subject of scorn or sarcasm was then, as it was afterward, entirely

unbearable to him, and when he himself also tried to jest he knew not

how to receive the jests directed at him. After having saluted M. and

Madame de Permont, Napoleon turned to the eldest daughter Cecilia, who,

a few days before, had come from the boarding-school to remain a

short time at home, and who, laughing, had placed herself right before

monsieur the lieutenant.

“I find your laughter very silly and childish,” said he, eagerly.

The young maid, however, continued to laugh.

“M. Lieutenant,” said she, “since you carry such a mighty sword, you

no doubt wish to carry it as a lady’s knight, and therefore you must

consider it an honor when ladies jest with you.”

Napoleon gave a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.

“It is evident,” said he, scornfully, “that you are but a little

school-girl.”

These sarcastic words wounded the vanity of the young maiden, and

brought a glow of anger on her face.

“Well, yes,” cries she, angrily, “I am a school-girl, but you--you are

nothing else than a puss in boots!”

A general laugh followed; even Madame de Permont, ordinarily so good

and so considerate, could not suppress laughter. The witty words of the

little school-girl were too keen and too applicable that she should be

subjected to reproach.

Napoleon’s wrath was indescribable. His visage was overspread with a

yellow-greenish pallor, his lips were contracted nervously, and already

opened for a word of anger. But he suppressed that word with an effort;

for though not yet familiar with all the forms and usages of society,

his fine tact and the instinct of what was becoming told him that when

the conversation ran into personalities the best plan was to be silent,

and that he must not return personal remarks, since his opponent was one

of the fair sex. He therefore remained silent, and so controlled himself

as to join in the general laughter and to show himself heartily amused

at the unfortunate nickname of the little Cecilia.

And that every one might be convinced how much he himself had been

amused at this little scene, he brought, a few days afterward, to the

youngest daughter of Madame de Permont, a charming little toy which he

had had made purposely for her. This toy consisted of a small gilt and

richly-ornamented carriage of papier-mache, before which leaped along a

very lovely puss in boots.

To this present for the little Lolotte (afterward Duchess d’Abrantes),

was added for Cecilia an elegant and interesting edition of the tales

of “Puss in Boots,” and when Napoleon politely presented it to the young

maid he begged her to receive kindly this small souvenir from him.

“That is too much,” said Madame de Permont, shaking her head. “The toy

for Loulou would have been quite enough. But this present to Cecilia

shows that you took her jest in earnest, and were hurt by it.”

Napoleon, however, affirmed that he had not taken the jest in earnest,

that he had been no wise hurt by it; that he himself when he put on

his uniform had to laugh at the nickname of “puss in boots” which dear

Cecilia had given him.

He had, however, endeavored no more to deserve this nickname, and the

unlucky boots were replaced by much smaller and closer-fitting ones.

A few days after this little incident the young second lieutenant left

Paris and went to meet his regiment La Fere at Valence.

A life of labor and study, of hopes and dreams, now began for the young

lieutenant. He gave himself up entirely to his military service, and

pursued earnest, scientific studies in regard to it. Mathematics, the

science of war, geometry, and finally politics, were the objects of his

zeal; but alongside of these he read and studied earnestly the works of

Voltaire, Corneille, Racine, Montaigne, the Abbe Raynal, and, above all,

the works of Jean Jacques Rousseau, whose passionate and enthusiastic

disciple Napoleon Bonaparte was at that time. [Footnote: “Memoires du

Roi Joseph,” vol. i., p. 33.]

Amid so many grave occupations of the mind it would seem that the heart

with all its claims had to remain in the background. The smiling boy

Cupid, with his gracious raillery and his smarting griefs, seemed

to make no impression on that pale, grave, and taciturn artillery

lieutenant, and not to dare shoot an arrow toward that bosom which had

mailed itself in an impenetrable cuirass of misanthropy, stoicism, and

learning.

But yet between the links of this coat-of-mail an arrow must have

glided, for the young lieutenant suddenly became conscious that there

in his bosom a heart did beat, and that it was going in the midst of

his studies to interrupt his dreams of misanthropy. Yes, it had come to

this, that he abandoned his study to pay his court to a young lady, that

at her side he lost his gravity of mien, his gloomy taciturnity, and

became joyous, talkative, and merry, as beseemed a young man of his age.

The young lady who exercised so powerful an influence upon the young

Bonaparte was the daughter of the commanding officer at Valence, M. de

Colombier. He loved her, but his lips were yet too timid to confess

it, and of what need were words to these young people to understand one

another and to know what the one felt for the other?

In the morning they took long walks through the beautiful park; they

spoke one to another of their childhood, of their brothers and

sisters, and when the young maid with tears in her eyes listened to the

descriptions which Napoleon made to her of his country, of his father’s

house, and, above all things, of his mother--when she with animation

and enthusiasm declared that Letitia was a heroine greater than whom

antiquity had never seen, then Napoleon would take her two hands in his

and thank her with tremulous voice for the love which she consecrated to

his noble mother.

If in the morning they had to separate, as an indemnification an evening

walk in the light of the moon was agreed upon, and the young maid

promised heroically to come without uncertainty, however imperative was

her mother’s prohibition. And truly, when her mother was asleep, she

glided down into the park, and Napoleon welcomed her with a happy smile,

and arm in arm, happy as children, they wandered through the paths,

laughing at their own shadows, which the light of the moon in wondrous

distortion made to dance before them. They entered into a small bower,

which stood in the shadow of trees, and there the young Napoleon had

prepared for the young maid a very pleasing surprise. There on the table

was a basket full of her favorite fruit--full of the sweetest, finest

cherries. Louise thanked her young lover with a hand-pressure for the

tender attention, but she declared that she would touch none of the

cherries unless Napoleon enjoyed them with her, and to please his

beloved he had to obey.

They sat down on the seat before the bower and enjoyed the golden light

of the moon, the night air amid the lime-trees, the joy of being thus

secretly together, and with infinite delight they ate of the sweet juicy

cherries. But when the last cherry was eaten, the moon became darkened,

a rude night breeze shook the trees, and made the young maid tremble

with cold. She must not remain from home any longer, she must not

expose herself to the dangerous night air; thus argued the considerate

tenderness of the young lieutenant, and, kissing her hand, he bade

farewell to Louise, and watched until the tender ethereal figure had

vanished behind the little door which led from the park into the house.

[Footnote: “Memorial de St. Helene,” p. 30.]

The sweet idyl of his first love had, however, come to a sudden and

unexpected end. The young Second-Lieutenant Bonaparte was ordered to

Lyons with his regiment, and the first innocent romance of his heart was

ended.

But he never forgot the young maid, whom he then had so tenderly loved,

and in the later days of his grandeur he remembered her, and when he

learned that she had lost her husband, a M. de Bracieux, and lived in

very depressing circumstances, he appointed her maid of honor to his

sister Elise, and secured her a very handsome competency.

The dream of his first love had been dreamed away; and, perhaps

to forget it, Napoleon again in Lyons gave himself up with deepest

earnestness to study. The Academy of Sciences in Lyons had offered

a prize for the answer to the question: “What are the sentiments and

emotions which are to be instilled into men, so as to make them happy?”

Napoleon entered the lists for this prize, and, if his work did not

receive the prize, it furnished the occasion for the Abbe Raynal, who

had answered the question successfully, to become acquainted with

the young author, and to encourage him to persevere in his literary

pursuits, for which he had exhibited so much talent.

Napoleon then, with all the fire of his soul, began a new work, the

history of the revolutions in Corsica; and, in order to make accurate

researches in the archives of Ajaccio, he obtained leave of absence to

go thither. In the year 1788, Napoleon returned to his native isle to

his mother, to his brothers and sisters, all of whom he had not seen for

nine years, and was welcomed by them with the tenderest affection.

But the joys of the family could draw away the young man but little

from his studies and researches; and, however much he loved his mother,

brothers and sisters, now much grown up, yet he preferred being alone

with his elder brother Joseph, making long walks with him, and in solemn

exchange of thoughts and sentiments, communicating to him his studies,

his hopes, his dreams for the future.

To acquire distinction, fame, reputation with the actual world, and

immortality with the future--such was the object on which all the

wishes, all the hopes of Napoleon were concentrated; and in long hours

of conversation with Joseph he spoke of the lofty glory to carve out an

immortal name, to accomplish deeds before which admiring posterity would

bow.

Did Napoleon then think of purchasing for himself an immortal name as

writer, as historian? At least he studied very earnestly the archives of

Ajaccio, and sent a preliminary essay of his history of the revolutions

of Corsica to Raynal for examination. This renowned savant of his day

warmly congratulated the young author on his work, and asked him to send

a copy that he might show it to Mirabeau.

Napoleon complied with these wishes; and when, a few weeks after, he

received a letter from Raynal, after reading it, he, with radiant eyes

and a bright smile, handed it to his brother Joseph.

In this letter of Raynal were found these words: “Monsieur de Mirabeau

has in this little essay found traits which announce a genius of the

first rank. He entreats the young author to come to him in Paris.”

[Footnote: “Memoires du Roi Joseph,” vol. i., p. 33.]

But the young author could not at once obey the call of the Count de

Mirabeau. A sad family bereavement delayed him at the time in Corsica.

The brother of his grandfather, the aged Archdeacon Lucian, the faithful

counsellor and friend of Letitia and of her young family, was seized

with a mortal disease; the gout, which for years had tormented him, was

now to give him the fatal blow, and the whole family of the Bonapartes

was called to the bedside of the old man to receive his parting words.

Weeping, they all stood around his couch; weeping, Letitia bent over the

aged man, whose countenance was already signed with the hand of death.

Around kneeled the younger children of Letitia, for their great-uncle

had long been to them a kind father and protector; and on the other

side of the couch, facing Letitia and her brother, the Abbe Fesch, stood

Joseph and Napoleon, gazing with sad looks on their uncle.

His large, already obscured eyes wandered with a deep, searching glance

upon all the members of the Bonaparte family, and then at last remained

fixed with a wondrous brilliancy of expression on the pale, grave face

of Napoleon.

At this moment, the Abbe Fesch, with a voice trembling with emotion and

full of holy zeal, began to intone the prayers for the dead. But the old

priest ordered him with a voice full of impatience to be silent.

“I have prayed long enough in my life,” said he; “I have now but a few

moments to live, and I must give them to my family.”

The loud sobbings of Letitia and of her children interrupted him, and

called forth a last genial smile upon the already stiffening features.

“Letitia,” said he, in a loud, friendly tone, “Letitia, cease to shed

tears; I die happy, for I see you surrounded by all your children. My

life is no longer necessary to the children of my dear Charles; I

can therefore die. Joseph is at the head of the administration of

the country, and he will know how to take care of what belongs to his

family. You, Napoleon,” continued he, with a louder voice, “you will be

a great and exalted man.” [Footnote: “Tu poi. Napoleon, serai unomone”

such were the words of the dying man, assures us King Joseph in his

memoirs; whilst Las Casas, in his memorial of St. Helena, makes Napoleon

relate that his uncle had told him, “You, Napoleon, will be the head of

the family.”]

His eyes turned on Napoleon, he sank back on the cushions, and his dying

lips murmured yet once more, “Tu serai unomone!”

After the body of the worthy great-uncle had been laid in the grave,

Napoleon left Corsica to return to France and to his regiment, for the

time of his leave of absence had expired.

For the second time the lips of a dying man had prophesied him a great

and brilliant future. His dying father had said that one day the sword

of his son Napoleon would make all Europe bow under the yoke; his

great-uncle had prophesied he would be a great and exalted personage.

To these prophecies of the dying is to be added Mirabeau’s judgment,

which called Napoleon a genius of the first stamp.

But this great and glorious future was yet screened under dark

clouds from the eyes of the young lieutenant of artillery, and the

blood-dripping hand of the Revolution was first needed to tear away

these clouds and to convert the king’s lieutenant of artillery into the

Emperor of France!

CHAPTER VIII. A PAGE FROM HISTORY.

The dark clouds which hung yet over the future of Napoleon Bonaparte,

the lieutenant of artillery, were gathering in heavier and heavier

masses over all France, and already were overshadowing the throne of the

lilies.

Marie Antoinette had already abandoned the paradise of innocency in

Trianon, and when she came there now it was to weep in silence, to cast

away the mask from her face, and under the garb of the proud, imperious,

ambitious queen to exhibit the pallid, anxious countenance of the woman.

Alas! they were passed away, those days of festivity, those innocent

joys of Trianon; the royal farmer’s wife had no more the heart to carry

the spindle, to gather eggs from the hens’ nests, and to perform with

her friends the joyous idyls of a pastoral life.

The queen had procured for herself a few years of freedom and license by

banishing from Versailles and from the Tuileries the burdensome Madame

Etiquette, who hitherto had watched over every step of a Queen of

France, but in her place Madame Politique had entered into the palace,

and Marie Antoinette could not drive her away as she had done with

Madame Etiquette.

For Madame Politique came into the queen’s apartments, ushered in by a

powerful and irresistible suite. The failure of the crops throughout

the land, want, the cries of distress from a famishing people, the

disordered finances of the state--such was the suite which accompanied

Politique before the queen; pamphlets, pasquinades, sarcastic songs

on Marie Antoinette, whom no more the people called their queen,

but already the foreigner, L’Autrichienne--such were the gifts which

Politique brought for the queen.

The beautiful and innocent days of Trianon were gone, no longer could

Marie Antoinette forget that she was a queen! The burden of her lofty

position pressed upon her always; and, if now and then she sought to

adorn her head with roses, her crown pressed their thorns with deeper

pain into her brow.

Unfortunate queen! Even the circle of friends she had gathered round her

person only urged her on more and more into the circle which politics

had traced around her. In her innocency and thoughtlessness of heart she

imagined that, to a queen as to any other woman, it might be allowed

to have about her friends and confidants, to enjoy the pleasures of

society, and to amuse one another! But now she had to learn that a queen

dare not have confidants, friends, or social circles!

Her friends, in whose disinterestedness she had trusted, approached

her with demands, with prayers; they claimed power, influence, and

distinctions; they all wanted to rule through the queen; they all wanted

through her to impose laws to king and state; they wanted to name and

to depose ministers; they wanted their friendship to be rewarded with

embassies, ministerial offices, decorations, and titles.

And when Marie Antoinette refused compliance with their wishes, her

beautiful friends, the Duchesses de Polignac, wept, and her friends,

Messieurs Vesenval, Vaudreuil, Coigny, and Polignac, dared be angry and

murmur at her.

But when Marie Antoinette consented--when she used her influence with

the king, to satisfy the wishes of her friends, and to make ministers of

her facon--then the queen’s enemies, with loud, mad-dog cry, lifted up

the voice and complained and clamored that it was no more the king but

the queen who reigned; that she was the one who precipitated the nation

into wretchedness and want; that she gave millions to her friends,

whilst the people were perishing with hunger; that she sent millions to

her brother, the Emperor of Austria, whilst the country was only able

to pay the interest of her enormous debt; that she, in unrestrained

appetite and licentiousness, lived only for pleasure and festivities,

whilst France was depressed under misery and want.

And the queen’s enemies were mightier, more numerous, and more loyal one

to another than the queen’s friends, who were ever ready to pass into

the camp of her foes as soon as Marie Antoinette gratified not their

wishes and would not satisfy their political claims.

At the head of these enemies was the king’s brother, the Count de

Provence, who never forgave the queen for being an Austrian princess;

there were also the king’s aunts, who could never forgive her that the

king loved her, that by means of this love to his wife they should lose

the influence which these aunts, and especially Madame Adelaide, had

before exercised over him; there was the Duke d’Orleans, who had to

revenge himself for the disgust and dislike which Marie Antoinette

publicly expressed against this vicious and wild prince; there was the

Cardinal Prince de Rohan, whose criminal passion the queen had repelled

with contemptuous disgust, and who had paid for this passion one million

francs, with imprisonment, shame, and ridicule. For this passion for the

queen had blinded the cardinal, and made him believe in the possibility

of a return. In his blindness he had placed confidence in the

whisperings and false promises of the insidious intriguer Madame de

la Motte-Valois, who, in the queen’s name, asked from him a loan of a

million for the purchase of a jewelled ornament which highly pleased

the queen, and which she, notwithstanding her exhausted coffers, was

resolved to possess.

Yes, love had blinded Cardinal de Rohan, and with blind eyes he had

accepted as letters from the queen those which Madame de la Motte

brought him; and he could not see that the person who gave him a

rendezvous in the gardens of Versailles was not the queen, but only a

common, vicious woman, who had been clothed in the queen’s garments.

The queen had been travestied into a wench, and the highest

ecclesiastical dignitary of the land was the one who took this wench for

his queen, was the one who, with a rendezvous, a kiss on the hand, and

a rose, was rewarded for the million he had given to the jeweller for a

necklace of diamonds!

It is true, the deception was discovered; it is true, it was Marie

Antoinette herself who asked for a strict investigation, who with tears

of anger required from her consort that this horrible intrigue which had

been woven round her person should be investigated and judged publicly

before the Parliament; that the Cardinal de Rohan should be punished for

the criminal insult offered by him to the queen, since he thought her

capable of granting him a rendezvous, of exchanging with him letters of

tender passion, and of accepting gifts from him!

But the Parliament, which recognized the guilt of Madame de la Motte,

which ordered her to be whipped, branded, and driven out of the country

as an impostor and a thief, the Parliament declared the Cardinal de

Rohan innocent; all punishments were removed from him, and he was

re-established in all his dignities and rights. And the people, who in

enormous masses had besieged the Parliament buildings, welcomed this

decision of the judges with loud demonstrations and shouts of joy, and

carried the cardinal in triumph through the streets, and honored and

glorified him as a martyr and a saint.

This triumph of the cardinal was an affecting defeat to the queen; it

was the first awful testimony, spoken loudly and openly, by the popular

sentiment.

Hitherto her enemies had worked against her quietly, and in the darkness

of night; but now, in open day, they dared launch against her their

terrible accusations, and represent her imprudence as a crime, her

errors as shameful and premeditated wickedness. No one believed in the

queen’s innocency in this necklace transaction; and whereas Cardinal

de Rohan had been made a martyr, whereas Parliament had declared him

innocent, the queen consequently must be the guilty one, to whose

cupidity the cardinal and the unfortunate Madame de la Motte and also

the beautiful D’Olivia, who in this horrible farce had played the part

of the queen, had been sacrificed.

The name, the character, the reputation of the queen, had been trodden

down in the dust, and the Count de Provence, who himself composed

sarcastic songs and pasquinades against his royal sister-in-law, and

had copies of them circulated through the court, reflected not that in

calumniating the queen and exposing her to the scorn and ridicule of

the world he thereby shook the throne itself, and imperilled the awe and

respect which the people should have had for the monarchy. And all the

other mighty dignitaries and foes of Marie Antoinette did not calculate

that in exciting the storm of calumny against the Queen of France, they

also attacked the king and the aristocracy, and tore down the barrier

which hitherto had stood between the people and the nobility.

Hitherto pamphlets and sarcastic songs only had been directed against

the queen; but now, in the year 1787, all France was to re-echo a

pamphlet launched against the nobility and the whole aristocracy.

This pamphlet was “The Wedding of Figaro,” by Beaumarchais. The habits

of the aristocracy, of the higher classes, were in this drama castigated

and thrown to the scorn, ridicule, and laughter of all France. Every

thing which the people hitherto had held sacred, was laughed at in this

drama; all the laws of manners, of rank, of morality, were scorned

at, hissed at; and, under this hissing, appeared in full view and with

fearful veracity the rotten and poisoned condition of the so-called

upper classes of society.

It was in vain that the censor declared the publication illegal, and

prohibited the representation of “The Wedding of Figaro.” The opposition

took advantage of this measure, and since it could not be published,

hundreds of copies were circulated; and, if it could not be represented,

its reading was listened to. It soon became fashionable to attend at the

readings of “Figaro’s Wedding” and to possess a copy of the drama.

Even in the queen’s social circle, in the circle of the Polignacs, this

dangerous drama was patronized, and even the queen was requested to use

her influence upon the king for its representation.

This general clamor, this tempest of the public opinion, excited

even the king’s curiosity; and as everybody attended the readings of

Beaumarchais’ drama, the crowned heads had also to bow to the fashion.

Madame de Campan had to read before the king and the queen this renowned

“Wedding of Figaro,” so that the king might give his decision. The

good-natured countenance of the king darkened more and more, and during

Figaro’s monologue, in which the different institutions of the state

are ridiculed, especially when, with words full of poison and scorn, the

author alludes to state-prisons, the king rose angrily from his seat.

“It is a contemptible thing,” cried he, vehemently. “The Bastile must be

destroyed before the representation of this piece would not appear as a

dangerous inconsequence. This man ridicules every thing which in a state

ought to be esteemed and respected.”

“This piece will not then be represented?” asked Marie Antoinette, at

the close of the reading.

“No, certainly not!” exclaimed Louis, “you can be convinced of it; this

piece will not be represented.”

But the clamor, the longings for this representation were more and more

loudly expressed, and more and more pressing. It was in vain that the

king by his decree forbade its already-announced representation in the

theatre of the menus plaisirs. Beaumarchais cried aloud to the murmuring

audience, who complained very loudly against this tyranny, against

this oppression of the king, the consoling words: “Well, sirs, the king

desires that my drama be not represented here, but I swear that it will

be represented, perhaps even in the chancel of Notre Dame.”

It was soon apparent that Beaumarchais’ words and the wishes of the

public opinion were stronger than the words and the wishes of the king

and of his highest officers. The king himself felt it and acknowledged

it soon; he shrugged his shoulders compassionately when the chancellor

of the seal, adhering still to his opposition, would by no means consent

to the performance of the drama.

“You will see,” said Louis, with his own soft, good-natured smile--“you

will see that Beaumarchais’ credit is better than that of the great-seal

bearer.” [Footnote: “Memoires de Madame de Campan,” vol. i., p. 279.]

The king’s prophecy was correct--Beaumarchais had more credit than the

chancellor! His powerful patrons in high places, and all those who

made opposition to the king and queen, and at their head the Count de

Provence, banded together to have this piece publicly represented. The

king’s consent was elicited from him by the assurance made public

that Beaumarchais had stricken out of his drama all the offensive and

captious parts, and that it was now a mere innocent and somewhat tedious

piece.

The king gave his consent, and “The Wedding of Figaro” was represented

at the Theatre Francais.

The effect of this drama on the public was a thing unheard of; so

enthusiastic that Beaumarchais himself laughingly said: “There

is something yet more foolhardy than my piece, and that is, its

result”--that the renowned actress Sophie Arnold, in allusion to this,

that the opponents of this drama had prophesied that it would fall

through, exclaimed: “The piece will fall through to-day more than fifty

times one after another!”

But even this prophecy of the actress did not reach the full result,

and the sixtieth representation was as crowded as the first. All Paris

wanted to see it, so as to hiss the government, the nobility, clergy,

morality. There was a rush from the provinces to Paris for the sake of

attending the representation of “Figaro’s Wedding;” and even those who

hitherto had opposed the performance, pressed forward to see it.

One day Beaumarchais received a letter from the Duke de Villequier,

asking of him as a favor to give up for that evening his trellised

box in behalf of some ladies of the court, who desired to see “Figaro”

without being seen.

Beaumarchais answered: “My lord duke, I have no respect for ladies who

desire to see a performance which they consider improper, and who wish

to see it under cover. I cannot stoop to such fancies. I have given my

piece to the public to amuse and not to instruct them, not to procure to

tamed wenches (begueules mitigees) the satisfaction of thinking well of

the piece in a small trellised box, and then to say all manner of evil

against it in public. The pleasure of vice and the honors of

virtue, that is what the prudery of our age demands. My piece is not

double-faced. It must be accepted or repelled. I salute you, my lord

duke, and keep my box.” [Footnote: “Correspondance de Diderot et Grimm

avec un Souverain.”]

All Paris chuckled over this letter, which was circulated in hundreds

of copies, as the drama itself had circulated at first. Every one was

convinced that it was the queen who wanted to attend the representation

of “Figaro” in the trellised box; for it, was well known that the

queen, angry at monsieur for having been present with all his suite at

a representation in the box reserved for the court, had openly declared:

“Could she come to the conclusion of seeing this drama, she would only

see it through a small trellised box, and that without any ceremony.”

In laughing at the letter of Beaumarchais, the ridicule was directed

against the queen, who had been refused in so shameful a manner. But

Marie Antoinette did not wish to be laughed at. She still hoped to

overcome her enemies, and to win the public sentiment. She requested an

investigation, she insisted that the Duke de Villequier should openly

acknowledge for whom among the ladies of the court he had asked for the

box; that Beaumarchais should publicly confess that he had not dared

suppose his words were directed against the queen.

The whole matter was brought to an end by an arbitrary decree.

Beaumarchais was compelled publicly to acknowledge that his famous

letter was directed neither to a duke nor to a peer, but to one of his

friends, whose strange request he had thus answered in the first flush

of anger. But it is evident no one believed in this explanation, and

every one felt pleasure in referring to the queen the expression of

“begueule mitigee.”

Paris, which for a whole winter had laughed at a theatrical piece, and

was satiated with it, was now to assist at the first scene of a drama

whose tragical power and force were to tear France asunder, and whose

continuance was to be marked by blood and tears.

This important drama, whose opening followed closely Beaumarchais’

drama, exhibited its first scene at Versailles at the opening of the

States-General on the 5th of May, 1789. All Paris, all France watched

this event as the rise of a new sun, of a new era which was to break

upon France and bring her happiness, salvation, and strength. A new, an

unsuspected power entered with it upon the scene, the Tiers Etat;

the third class was, at the opening of the States-General, solemnly

recognized as a third power, alongside of the nobility and clergy.

With the third class, the people and the yeomen entered into the king’s

palace; one-half of the people were to make the laws instead of having

to submit to them.

It was Marie Antoinette who had endeavored with all her influence on the

king that the third class, hitherto barely recognized, barely

tolerated, should appear in a two-fold stronger representation at the

States-General; it was the queen also who had requested Necker’s recall.

Unfortunate woman, who bowed both pride and will to the wishes of public

opinion, who yet hoped to succeed in winning again the people’s love,

since she endeavored to meet the wishes of the people!

But this love had turned away from her forever; and whatever Marie

Antoinette might now do to exhibit her candid wishes, her devotedness

was not trusted in by the people, who looked upon her as an enemy, no

longer Queen of France, but simply an Austrian.

Even on this day of universal joy, on the day of the opening of the

States-General, there was no desire to hide from the queen the hatred

felt against her, but there was the resolve to show her that France,

even in her hour of happiness, ceased not to make opposition to her.

The opening of the States-General was to be preceded in Versailles

by divine service. In solemn procession the deputies arrived; and the

people who had streamed from Paris and from the whole region round

about, and who in compact masses filled the immense square in front of

the palace, and the whole street leading to the Church of St. Louis,

received the deputies with loud, unbroken shouts, and met the princes

and the king with applause. But no sooner was the queen in sight, than

the people remained dumb; and then, after this appalling pause, which

petrified the heart of the queen, the women with their true instinct of

hatred began to cry out, “Long live the Duke d’Orleans! Long live the

people’s friend, the good Duke d’Orleans!”

The name of the duke thus derisively thrown in the face of the

queen--for it was well known that she hated him, that she had forbidden

him to enter into her apartments--this name at this hour, thrown at

her by the people, struck the queen’s heart as the blow of a dagger;

a deathly pallor overspread her cheeks, and nearly fainting she had to

throw herself into the arms of the Princess de Lamballe, so as not to

sink down. [Footnote: See “Count Mirabeau,” by Theodore Mundt. Second

edition, vol. iii., p. 234.]

With the opening of the States-General, as already said, began the first

act of the great drama which France was going to represent before

the eyes of Europe terrified and horrified: with the opening of the

States-General the revolution had begun. Every one felt it; every

one knew it; the first man who had the courage to express it was

Mirabeau--Mirabeau, the deputy of the Third Estate, the count who was at

enmity with all those of his rank, who had solemnly parted with them to

devote himself to the people’s service and to liberty!

On the day of the opening, as he entered the hall in which the

States-General were convened, he gazed with scrutinizing and flaming

eyes on the representatives of the nobility, on those brilliant and

proud lords who, though his equals in rank, were now his inveterate

enemies. A proud, disdainful smile fluttered athwart his lips, which

ordinarily were pressed together with a sarcastic and contemptuous

expression. He then crossed the hall with the bearing of a conqueror,

and took his seat upon those benches from which was launched the

thunderbolt which was to dash to pieces the throne of the lilies.

A long-tried friend, who was also a friend of the government and of the

nobility, had seen this look of hatred and anger which Mirabeau had

cast upon the gallery of the aristocrats; he now approached Mirabeau

to salute him, and perhaps to pave a way of reconciliation between the

prodigal Count de Mirabeau and his associates in rank.

“Think,” said he, “my friend, that society is not to be won by threats,

but by flatteries; that, when once injured, it is difficult to effect a

reconciliation. You have been unjust toward society, and if you look

for forgiveness you must not be obstinate, but you must stoop to ask for

pardon.”

Mirabeau had listened with impatience, but at the word “pardon,” his

anger broke with terrible force. He sprang up, stamped violently on the

floor with his feet; his hair which, like a lion’s mane, mantled his

head, seemed to bristle up, his little eyes darted flashes, and his lips

were blanched and trembling, and with a thundering voice he exclaimed:

“I am not here to implore pardon for myself, but that others should sue

for mercy.”

Was Mirabeau himself willing to grant pardon? Had he come with a

reconciling heart into this assembly, where people and king were to

measure their rights one against the other?

As the good King Louis this day entered the hall, in all the pomp of

his royal dignity, to welcome the States-General with a solemn address,

Mirabeau’s eyes were fixed on him: “Behold the victim,” said he.

[Footnote: Theodore Mundt: “Graf Mirabeau,” vol. iv., p. 15.]

From this day the struggle began--the struggle of the monarchy against

the revolution, of the liberal party against the reaction, the struggle

of the people against the aristocracy, against every thing which

hitherto had been legitimate, welcomed, and sacred!

A new day had broken in, and the prophetic mind of the queen understood

that with it came the storm which was to scatter into fragments her

happiness and her peace.

CHAPTER IX. JOSEPHINE’S RETURN.

To rest!--to forget! This was what Josephine sought for in Martinique,

and what she found in the circle of her friends. She wanted to rest from

the pains and struggles which had agitated the last years of her life.

She wanted to forget that she still loved the Viscount de Beauharnais,

though rejected and accused, though he had treacherously abandoned her

for the sake of another woman.

But he was the father of her children, and there was Hortense with her

large blue eyes and her noble, lovely countenance to remind Josephine

of the father to whom Hortense bore so close a resemblance. Josephine’s

tender-heartedness would not suffer the innocent, childish heart of

Hortense to become alienated from her father, or to forget the esteem

and respect which as a daughter she owed to him. Josephine therefore

never allowed any one to utter a word of blame against her husband in

the presence of her daughter; she even imposed silence on her mother

when, in the just resentment of a parent who sees her child suffer, she

accused the man who had brought wretchedness on her Josephine, who at so

early an age had taught her life’s sorrows.

How joyous, beautiful, happy had her Josephine nearly ten years ago

left her home, her country, her family, to go to a foreign land which

attracted her with every thing which can charm a young girl--with the

love of a young and beautiful husband--with the luxury, the pleasures

and festivities of Paris!

And now after ten years Josephine returned to her father’s home, lonely,

abandoned, unhappy, blighted with the mildew which ever deteriorates the

character of a divorced woman; yet so young, with so many ruined hopes,

with so many wounds in the heart!

Josephine’s mother could not pardon him all this, and her countenance

became clouded whenever the little Hortense spoke of her father. And

the child spoke of him so often--for each evening and morning she had to

pray God in his behalf--and when she asked her mother where her brother

Eugene was, why he had not come with them to Martinique; Josephine

answered her, he had remained with his father, who loved him so much,

and who must have at least one of his children with him.

“Why then can he not, with Eugene, be with us?” asked the little

Hortense, thoughtfully. “Why does he remain in that hateful, stony

Paris, whilst he could live with us in the beautiful garden where so

many charming flowers and so many large trees are to be found? Why is

papa not with us, mamma?”

“Because he has occupations--because he cannot leave his regiment, my

child,” answered Josephine, carefully hiding her tears.

“If he cannot come to us, mamma, then let us go to him,” cried the

loving child. “Come, mamma, let us go on board a ship, and let us go to

our dear papa, and to my dear brother Eugene.”

“We must wait until your father sends for us, until he writes that we

must come,” said Josephine, with a sad smile. “Pray to God, my child,

that he may soon do it!”

And from this time the child prayed God every evening that her father

would soon send for her mother and for herself; and whenever she saw her

mother receive a letter she said: “Is it a letter from my papa? Does he

write for us to travel and to come to him?”

One day Josephine was enabled to answer this question to her daughter

with a proud and joyous yes.

Yes, the Viscount de Beauharnais had begged his wife to forget the past,

and to come back to him. He had, with all the contrition of penitence,

with the glow of an awakening love, prayed for pardon; he requested from

her large-heartedness to be once more reunited to him who had despised,

calumniated, and rejected her; he swore with sacred oaths to love her

alone, and to keep to her in unbroken faithfulness.

At first Josephine received these vows with a suspicious, sorrowful

smile; the wounds of her heart were not yet healed, the bitter

experiences of the past were yet too fresh in her mind; and Madame de la

Pagerie, Josephine’s mother, repelled with earnestness every thought

of reconciliation and reunion. She did not wish to lose her daughter a

second time, and see her go to meet a dubious and dangerous happiness;

she did not wish that Josephine, barely returned to the haven of rest

and peace, should once more risk herself on the open, tempestuous ocean

of life.

But the letters of the viscount were more and more pressing, more and

more tender. He had completely and forever broken with Madame de Gisard;

he did not wish to see her again, and henceforth he desired to be the

true, devoted husband of his Josephine.

Josephine read these assurances, these vows of love, with a joyous

smile, with a beating heart: all the crushed flowers of her youth raised

up their blossoms again in her heart; she began again to hope, to trust,

to believe once more in the possibility of happiness; she was ready to

listen to her husband’s call, and to hasten to him.

But her mother held her back. She believed not, she trusted not. Her

insulted maternal heart could not forget the humiliations and the

sufferings which this man who now called for Josephine had inflicted

upon her daughter. She could not pardon the viscount for having deserted

his young wife, and that for the sake of a coquette! She therefore

sought to inspire Josephine with mistrust; she told her that these vows

of the viscount were not to be relied upon; that he had not given up his

paramour to come back to Josephine, but that he was forsaken by her and

abandoned by her. Madame de Gisard had regretted to be only the paramour

of the Viscount de Beauharnais, and, as she could never hope to be his

legitimate wife, she had abandoned him, to marry a wealthy Englishman,

with whom she had left France to go with him to Italy.

At this news Josephine’s head would sink down, and, with tears in her

eyes and sorrow in her heart, she promised her mother no more to listen

to the voice of a faithless husband; no more to value the assurances of

a love which only returned to her because it was rejected elsewhere.

Meanwhile, not only the Viscount de Beauharnais prayed Josephine to

return, but also his father the marquis claimed this from his beloved

daughter-in-law; even Madame de Renaudin confirmed the entire conversion

of Alexandre, and conjured Josephine to hesitate no longer once more to

take possession of a heart which beat with so burning a sorrow and so

longing a love toward her. She pictured to her, besides, how necessary

she was to him; how much in these troublous and stormy days which had

just begun, he was in need of a quiet haven of domestic life, there to

rest after the labors and the conflicts of politics and of public life;

how many dangers surrounded him, and how soon it might happen that he

would need not only a household refuge but also a nurse who would bind

his wounds and keep watch near the bed of sickness.

For the times of quietness were gone; the brand which the States-General

had flung over France had lit a fire everywhere, in every city, in every

house, in every head; and the flaming speeches of the deputies of the

Third Estate only fanned the fire into higher flames.

The revolution was there, and nothing could keep back the torrent

of blood, fire, enthusiasm, and hatred. Already the Third Estate had

solemnly proclaimed its separation from Old France, from the ancient

monarchy of the lilies, since that monarchy had abandoned the large

assembly-hall where the States-General held their sessions, and in which

the nobility and the clergy still imagined they were able to maintain

the balance of power against the despised Third Estate. The Tiers Etat

had, in the ballroom, converted itself into the National Assembly, and

with enthusiasm had all these deputies of the third class sworn on the

17th of June, 1789, “never to part one from the other until they had

given a constitution to France.”

Alexandre de Beauharnais, deputy from Blois, had passed with his

colleagues into the ballroom, had with them taken the fatal oath; in

the decisive night of the 4th of August he, with burning enthusiasm,

had renounced all the privileges of the nobility, all his feudal rights;

and, breaking with the past, with all its family traditions and customs,

had passed, with all the passion and zest of his nine-and-twenty years,

into the hostile camp of the people and of liberty.

The revolution, which moved onward with such rash and destructive

strides, had drawn Alexandre de Beauharnais more and more into its

flood. It had converted the king’s major into an enthusiastic speaker

of the Jacobins, then into the secretary of the National Assembly, and

finally into its president.

The monarchy was not yet powerless; it fought still with all the

bitterness of despair, of the pains of death, against its foes; it still

found defenders in the National Assembly, in the faithful regiments of

the Swiss and of the guards, and in the hearts of a large portion of the

people. The passions of parties were let loose one against another; and

Alexandre de Beauharnais, the president of the National Assembly, stood

naturally in the first rank of those who were threatened by the attacks

of the royalists.

Yes, Alexandre de Beauharnais was in danger! Since Josephine knew this,

there was for her but one place which belonged to her, to which she

could lay claim--the place at her husband’s side.

How could she then have withstood his appeals, his prayers? How could

she then have remained in the solitude and stillness of Martinique, when

her husband was now in the fight, in the very struggle? She had, now

that fate claimed it, either to share her husband’s triumphs, or to

bring him comfort if he fell.

The intercessions of her family, even the tears of her mother, could no

longer retain Josephine; at the side of her husband, the father of her

two children, there was her place! No one could deprive her of it, if

she herself wished to occupy it.

She was entitled to it, she was still the wife of the Viscount de

Beauharnais. The Parliament, which had pronounced its verdict against

the demands of a divorce from the viscount, had, in declaring Josephine

innocent, condemned her husband to receive into his house his wife, if

she desired it; or else, in case she waived this right, to pay her a

fixed annual income.

Josephine had parted voluntarily from her husband, since she had not

returned to him, but had exiled herself with her father-in-law and her

aunt in Fontainebleau; but she had never laid claims to nor received the

income which Parliament had appointed. She had never assumed the rights

of a divorced wife, but she retained still all the privileges of a

married woman, who at God’s altar had bound herself to her husband for a

whole life, in a wedlock which, being performed according to the laws of

the Catholic Church, was indissoluble.

Now the viscount claimed his wife, and who dared keep her back if she

wished to follow this call? Who could stand between husband and wife,

when their hearts claimed and longed for this reunion?

The tears of Madame de la Pagerie had attempted it, but had not

succeeded! The soft, patient, pliant Josephine had suddenly become a

strong-minded, joyous, courageous woman; the inconveniences of a long

sea-voyage, the perils of the revolution, into whose open crater she

was to enter, affrighted her not. All the energies of her being began to

develop themselves under the first sunbeams of a renewed love! The years

of sorrow had passed away. Life, love called Josephine again, and she

listened to the call, jubilant and full of friendly trust of undimmed

hope!

In the first days of September, 1790, Josephine, with the little

Hortense, embarked from Martinique, and after a short, favorable

passage, landed in France, in the middle of October. [Footnote: If,

in the work “Queen Hortense, an Historical Sketch from the Days of

Napoleon,” I have given a few different details of Josephine’s return to

France and to her husband, I have followed the error common to all the

historians of that time, who represent Josephine returning despite her

husband’s will, who receives her into his house, and recognizes her as

his wife, only at the instant supplication of his family, and

especially of his children. It is only of late that all this has been

satisfactorily refuted, and that it has been proved that Josephine

returned only at the instance of her husband’s pressing demands. See

Aubenas, “Histoire de l’Imperatrice Josephine,” vol. i., p. 164.--L. M.]

Again a prophecy accompanied Josephine to France, and perhaps this

prophecy is to be blamed for her sudden departure and her unwavering

resolution to leave Martinique. The old negro woman who, once before

Josephine’s departure, had prophesied that she would wear a crown and be

more than a Queen of France--the old Euphemia was still living, and

was still considered as an infallible oracle. A few days before her

departure, Josephine, with all the superstitious faith of a Creole, went

to ask the old prophetess if her journey would be propitious.

The old Euphemia stared long and fixedly into Josephine’s smiling

countenance; then, as if overcome by a sudden thought, she exclaimed:

“Go! go as fast as possible, for death and danger threaten you! Already

are on the watch wicked and bloodthirsty fiends, who every moment are

ready to rush among us with fire and sword, and to destroy the colony in

their cruel wrath!”

“And shall I safely arrive in France?” asked Josephine. “Shall I again

see my husband?”

“You will see him again,” exclaimed the prophetess, “but hasten to go to

him.”

“Is he threatened with any danger?” demanded Josephine.

“Not yet!--not at once!” said the old negress. “They now applaud your

husband and recognize his services. But he has powerful enemies, and one

day they will threaten his life, and will lead him to the scaffold and

murder him!”

Before Josephine left Martinique, a portion of these prophecies of

the old negro woman were to be fulfilled. The wicked and bloodthirsty

fiends, of whom she said they were ready with fire and sword to rush

upon the colony--those fiends did light the firebrand and destroy the

peace of Martinique.

The resounding cries for freedom uttered in the National Assembly, and

which shook the whole continent, had rushed along across the ocean to

Martinique. The storm-wind of the revolution had on its wings borne the

wondrous story to Martinique--the wondrous story of man’s sacred rights,

which Lafayette had proclaimed in the National Assembly, the wondrous

story that man was born free, that he ought to remain free, that there

were to be no more slaves in the land of liberty, in France, and in her

colonies.

The storm-wind which brought this great news across the ocean to

Martinique scattered it into the negro-cabins, and at first they

listened to it with wondrous delight. Then the delirium of joy came over

them; jubilant they broke their chains, and in wild madness anticipated

their human rights, their personal freedom.

The revolution, with its terrible consequences of blood and horrors,

broke loose in Martinique, and, exulting in freedom, the slaves threw

the firebrand on the roof of their former masters, rushed with war’s

wild cry into their dwellings, and, in freedom’s name, punished those

who so long had punished them in tyranny’s name.

Amid the barbaric shouts of those dark free men, Josephine embarked on

board the ship which was to carry her and her little Hortense to France;

and the flames which rose from the roofs of the houses as so many

way-marks of fire for the new era, were Josephine’s last, sad farewell

from the home which she was never to see again. [Footnote: Le Normand,

“Memoires de l’Imperatrice Josephine,” vol. i., p. 147]

CHAPTER X. THE DAYS OF THE REVOLUTION.

Happiness had once more penetrated into the heart of Josephine. Love

again threw her sun-gleams upon her existence, and filled her whole

being with animation and joy. She was once more united to her husband,

who, with tears of joy and repentance, had again taken her to his heart.

She was once more with her relatives, who, in the day of distress, had

shown her so much love and faithfulness, and finally she had also her

son, her own dear Eugene, from whom she had been separated during the

sad years of their matrimonial disagreements.

How different was the husband she now found from him she had quitted! He

was now a man, an earnest, thoughtful man, with a fiery determination,

with decidedness of purpose, and yet thoughtful, following only what

reason approved, even if the heart had been the mover. The passions

of youth had died away. The excitable, thoughtless, pleasure-seeking

officer of the king had become a grave, industrious, indefatigable,

moral, austere servant of the people and of liberty. The songs of joy,

of equivocal jesting, of political satire, had died away on those lips

which only opened now in the clubs, in the National Assembly, to utter

inspired words in regard to liberty, fraternity, and equality.

The most beautiful dancer of Versailles had become the president of the

National Assembly, which made so many tears run, and awoke so much anger

and hatred in the king’s palace of Versailles. He at least belonged to

the constitutional fraction of the National Assembly; he was the

friend and guest of Mirabeau and of Lafayette; he was the opponent of

Robespierre, Marat, and Danton, and of all the fanatics of the Mountain

party, who already announced their bloody views, and claimed a republic

as the object of their conflicts.

Alexandre de Beauharnais was no republican, however enthusiastic he

might have been in favor of America’s struggle for freedom, however

deeply he had longed to go like Lafayette to America, for the sake of

assisting the Americans to break the chains which yoked them to England,

so as to build a republic for themselves. The enthusiasm of that

day, the enthusiasm for France had driven him upon the path of the

opposition; but while desiring freedom for the people, he still hoped

that the people’s freedom was compatible with the power and dignity of

the crown; that at the head of constitutional France the throne of a

constitutional king would be maintained. To bring to pass this reunion,

this balance of right between the monarchy and the people, such was the

object of the wishes of Alexandre de Beauharnais; this was the ultimate

aim of his struggles and longings.

Josephine looked upon these tumultuous conflicts of parties, upon this

wild storm of politics, with wondering, sad looks. With all the tact of

tender womanhood she held herself aloof from every personal interference

in these political party strifes. At the bottom of her heart a true and

zealous royalist, she guarded herself carefully from endeavoring to keep

her husband back from his chosen path, and to bring into her house and

family the party strifes of the political arena. She wanted and longed

for peace, unity, and rest, and in his home at least her husband would

have no debates to go through, no sentiments to fight against.

In silence and devotedness Josephine submitted to her husband’s will,

and left him to perform his political part, while she assumed the part

of wife, mother, of the representative of the household; and every

evening opened her drawing-room to her friends, and to her husband’s

associates in the same conflict.

What a mixed and extraordinary assemblage was seen in the

drawing-room of the president of the National Assembly! There were

the representatives of old France, the brilliant members of the old

nobility: the Duke de la Rochefoucauld, the Count de Montmorency, the

Marquis de Caulaincourt, the Prince de Salm-Cherbourg, the Princess von

Hohenzollern, Madame de Montesson, the wife of the old Duke d’Orleans;

and alongside of these names of the ancient regime, new names rose up.

There were the deputies of the National Assembly--Barnave, Mounier,

Thouvet, Lafayette, and the favorite of the people, the great Mirabeau.

Old France and Young France met here in this drawing-room of Josephine

on neutral grounds, and the beautiful viscountess, full of grace and

prudence, offered to them both the honors of her house. She listened

with modest bashfulness to the words of the great tribunes of the

people, and oftentimes with a smile or a soft word she reconciled the

royalists, those old friends who sought in this drawing-room for

the Viscountess de Beauharnais, and found there only the wife of the

president of the National Assembly.

The saloon of Josephine was soon spoken of, and seemed as a haven in

which the refined, elegant manners, the grace, the wit, the esprit, had

been saved from the stormy flood of political strife. Every one sought

the privilege of being admitted into this drawing-room, whose charming

mistress in her own gentleness and grace received the homage of all

parties, pleased every one by her loveliness, her charms, the fine,

exquisite tact with which she managed at all times the sentiments of the

company, and with which she knew how to guide the conversation so

that it would never dwindle into political debates or into impassioned

speeches.

However violent was the tempest of faction outside, Josephine endeavored

that in the interior of her home the serene peace of happiness should

prevail. For she was now happy again, and all the liveliness, all the

joys of youth, had again found entrance into her mind. The anguish

endured, the tears shed, had also brought their blessing; they had

strengthened and invigorated her heart; with their grave, solemn

memories they preserved Josephine, that child of the South, of the sun,

and of joy, from that light frivolity which otherwise is so often the

common heritage of the Creoles.

The viscount had now the satisfaction which ten years ago, at the

beginning of his married life, he had so intently longed for, the

satisfaction of seeing his wife occupied with grave studies, with the

culture of her own mind and talents. It was to him a ravishment to see

Josephine in her drawing-room in earnest conversation with Buffon, and

with all the aptitude of a naturalist speak of the organization and

formation of the different families of plants; he exulted in the open

praise paid to her when, with her fine, far-reaching voice, she sang

the songs of her home, which she herself accompanied on the harp; he was

proud when, in her saloon, with all the tact and assurance of a lady of

the world, she took the lead in the conversation, and could speak

with poets and authors, with artists and savants, and that, with

understanding and feeling, upon their latest works and creations; he

was made happy when, passing from serious gravity to the most innocent

gayety, she jested, laughed, and danced, as if she were yet the

sixteen-year-old child whom ten years ago he had made his wife, and from

whom he had then so cruelly exacted that she should demean herself as a

fine, experienced, and highly-refined lady.

Life had since undertaken to mould the young Creole into an elegant,

highly-accomplished woman, but fortunately life had been impotent to

change her heart, and that heart was ever beating in all the freshness

of youth, in all the joyous warmth and faithfulness of the young girl of

sixteen years who had come to France with so many ideal visions, so many

illusions, so many dreams and hopes. It is true this ideal had vanished

away, these illusions had burst into pieces like meteors in the skies;

the dreams and hopes of the young maiden heart had fallen into dust, but

the love, the confiding, faithful, hoping love, the love assured of the

future, had remained alive; it had overcome the storms and conflicts; it

had been Josephine’s consolation in the days of sorrow; it was now her

delight in these days of happiness.

Her whole heart, her undivided love, belonged to her husband, to her

children, and often from the society gathered in her reception-rooms,

she would slip away and hasten to the bed of her little Hortense to

bid good-night to the child, who never would sleep without bidding

good-night to its mother, who would kneel at the side of the crib with

little Hortense, and utter the evening prayer, asking of God to grant to

them all prosperity and peace!

But this peace which Josephine so earnestly longed for was soon to be

imperilled more and more, was to be banished from the interior of home

and family, from its most sacred asylum, by the revolution and its

stormy factions.

An important event, pregnant with results, suddenly moved all Paris, and

filled the minds of all with the most fearful anticipations.

The king, with his wife and children, had fled! Openly and irretrievably

he had separated himself from country and people; he had, by this

flight, solemnly expressed before all Europe the discord which existed

between him and his people, between the king and the constitution to

which he had sworn allegiance.

Alexandre de Beauharnais, the president of the National Assembly, was

the first to be informed of this extraordinary event. On the morning of

the 21st of June, 1791, M. de Bailly, mayor of Paris, came to announce

to him that the king with all his family had fled from Paris the

previous evening.

It was the hour at which the sessions of the National assembly began

every morning, and Beauharnais, accompanied by Bailly, hastened to the

Assembly. The deputies were already seated when the president took

the chair with a grave, solemn countenance. This countenance told the

deputies of the people that the president had an important and very

unusual message to communicate, and a deep stillness, an oppressive

silence, overspread the whole assemblage as the president rose from his

seat to address them.

“Gentlemen,” said he, with a voice which, amid the general silence,

sounded solemn and powerful--“gentlemen, I have a sad message to bring

before you. The mayor of Paris has just now informed me that the king

and his family have this night been seduced into flight by the

enemies of the people.” [Footnote: Aubenas, “Histoire de l’Imperatrice

Josephine,” vol i., p. 171.]

This news had a stupendous effect on the deputies. At first they sat

there dumb, as if petrified with fear; then they all rose up to make

their remarks and motions in a whirl of confusion, and it required all

the energy and determination of the president to re-establish peace, and

to control their minds.

The Assembly then, in quiet debate, resolved to declare itself in

permanent session until the termination of this crisis, and gave to the

president full power during this time to provide for the tranquillity

and security of the Assembly. Bailly and Lafayette were by the president

summoned before the deputies, to state what the sentiments of Paris

were, what was the attitude of the National Guards, what were the

precautions they had taken to preserve aright the peace of Paris.

But this peace was not in danger, and the only one whom the Parisian

people at this moment dreaded, was he who had fled from Paris--the king.

And yet, not for a moment did the people rise in anger against the

king; actuated by a new and overpowering thought, the people in their

enthusiasm for this idea forgot their anger against him who by his deed

had kindled this thought. The thought which was uppermost in all minds

at the flight of the king was this: that the state could subsist even

if there were no king at its head; that law and order still remained in

Paris, even when the king had fled.

This law and order was the National Assembly, the living representation

and embodiment of the law; the government was there; the king alone had

disappeared. Such was the sentiment which animated all classes, which

brought the people in streaming masses to the palace where the National

Assembly held its sittings. A few hours after the news of the king’s

flight had spread through Paris, thousands were besieging the National

Assembly, and shouting enthusiastically: “Our king is here; he is in the

hall of session. Louis XVI. can go; he can do what he wills; our king

is still in Paris!” [Footnote: Prudhomme, “Histoire Parlementaire de la

Revolution,” vol. x. p. 241.]

The Assembly, “the King of Paris,” remained in permanent session,

waiting for the developments of events, and working out in committees

the decrees passed in common deliberation, whilst the president and

the secretary remained the whole night in the council-room, so as to

be ready at any moment to rectify fresh news and to issue the necessary

orders.

Early next morning the most important news had reached the president,

and the deputies hastened from their respective committees into the hall

of session, there to take their seats.

Amid the breathless silence of the Assembly, President Beauharnais

announced that the king, the queen, the dauphin, Madame, and divers

persons of their suite, had been arrested in Varennes.

The Assembly received this communication with dignified quietude, for

they were conscious that the king’s return would in no wise impair their

own sovereignty, that the power was in their hands, even if the king

were there. In this full assurance of their dignity the National

Assembly passed a decree ordering the proper authorities “to protect

the king’s return, to seize and imprison all those who might forget, the

respect they owed to the royal dignity.”

At the same time the National Assembly sent from their number

two deputies, Barnave and Petion, to bring back from Varennes the

unfortunate royal family and to accompany them to Paris.

Meanwhile the news of the king’s capture only increased the people’s

enthusiasm for the National Assembly, the truly acknowledged sovereign

of France. Every one was anxious to give expression to this enthusiasm;

the National Guards of Paris begged for the privilege of taking the oath

of allegiance to the National Assembly, and when at the motion of the

president this was granted by the Assembly, a whole detachment was

marched into the hall so as to take the oath of allegiance to the

National Assembly with one voice, amid the applause of the Assembly and

the tribunes. This detachment was followed by fresh companies, and the

people filled the streets to see the National Guards come and go, and

like them to swear allegiance to the National Assembly with enthusiastic

shouts.

The provinces would not be a whit behind the enthusiasm of Paris; and

whilst the guards swore their oath, from all cities and provinces came

to the president of the National Assembly, addresses congratulating

the Assembly on its triumphs, and promising the most unconditional

devotedness.

Finally after two days of restless activity, after two days, during

which Alexandre de Beauharnais had hardly found time to quiet his wife

by a note, explaining his absence from home, finally a courier brought

the news that the captive royal family were entering Paris. A second

courier followed the first. He announced that the royal family had

reached the Tuileries surrounded by an immense crowd, whose excitement

caused serious apprehensions. Petion had, therefore, thought it

expedient not to allow the royal family to alight, but had confined them

to the two carriages, and he now sent the keys of these two carriages to

the president of the National Assembly, as it was now his duty to adopt

still further measures.

Beauharnais proposed that at once twenty deputies be chosen to speed on

to the Tuileries to deliver the royal family from their prison, and to

lead them into the palace.

The motion was carried, and the deputies reached the court of the

Tuileries yet in time to save the affrighted family from the people,

who, in their wild madness, were about to destroy the carriages, and to

take possession of the king and queen.

The presence of the deputies imposed silence on the shouts and howlings

of the people. The king had come into the Tuileries, and before him

bowed the people in dumb respect. They quietly allowed that this their

king should open the carriage wherein the other king, the king by God’s

grace, Louis XVI., sat a prisoner; they allowed that the king by the

grace of the people, the National Assembly, through its twenty deputies,

should render liberty to Louis and to his family, and lead them quietly

under their protection into the Tuileries.

But from this day the Tuileries, which for centuries had been the palace

of the kings of France, now became a prison for the King of France!

Louis XVI. was returned, not as the head, but as the prisoner of the

state; from the moment he left Paris, the ermine mantle of his royalty

had fallen from his shoulders upon the shoulders of the National

Assembly; King Louis XVI. had dethroned himself.

Amid these fatal storms, amid these ever-swelling revolutionary floods,

there was yet an hour of happiness for Josephine. Out of the wild waves

of rebellion was to rise, for a short time, an island of bliss. The

National Assembly, whose president, Alexandre de Beauharnais, had

once more, in the course of the sessions, been re-elected by general

acclamation, declared itself on the 3d of September, 1791, dissolved,

and its members vanished to make room for the Legislative Assembly,

which organized the very next day.

Alexandre de Beauharnais, after having so long and so zealously

discharged his duties as a citizen, returned to his Josephine, to his

children; and, weary with the storms and debates of the last months,

longed for a quiet little place, away from the turmoil of the capital

and from the attrition of parties. Josephine acquiesced gladly in the

wishes of her husband, for she felt her innermost being shattered by

these last exciting times, and perhaps she cherished the secret hope

that her husband, once removed from Paris, would be drawn away from the

dangerous arena of politics, into which his enthusiasm had driven

him. She was, and remained at heart, a good and true royalist; and

as Mirabeau, dying in the midst of revolution’s storms, had said

of himself, that “he took to his grave the mourning-badge for the

monarchy,” [Footnote: Mirabeau died on the 6th of May, 1791.--See,

on his death, “Count Mirabeau,” by Theodore Mundt, vol. iv.] so also

Josephine’s heart, since the flight to Varennes, wore the mourning-badge

for the unfortunate royal family, who since that day had to endure so

much humiliation, so much insult, and to whom Josephine in her loyal

sense of duty consecrated the homage of a devout subject.

Josephine, therefore, gladly consented to the viscount’s proposal to

leave Paris. Accompanied by their children and by the governess of

Hortense, Madame Lanoy, the viscount and his wife went to a property

belonging to one of the Beauharnais family near Solange.

Three months were granted to Josephine in the quietude, in the sweet

repose of country-life, at her husband’s side, and with her children, to

gather strength from the anxieties and griefs which she had suffered in

Paris. She enjoyed these days as one enjoys an unexpected blessing, a

last sunshine before winter’s near approach, with thankful heart to God.

Full of cheerful devotedness to her husband, to her children, her lovely

countenance was radiant with joy and love; she was ever busy, with the

sunshine of her smile, to dissipate the shadows from her husband’s brow,

and to replace the impassioned excitements, the honors and distinctions

of his Parisian life, by the pleasantness and joys of home.

But Alexandra de Beauharnais could no longer find satisfaction in the

quiet, harmless joys of home; he even reproached himself that he could

be cheerful and satisfied whilst France resounded with cries of distress

and complaints, whilst France was torn in her innermost life by the

disputes and conflicts of factions which, no more satisfied with the

speeches of the tribune, filled the streets with blood and wounds. The

revolution had entered into a new phase, the Legislative Assembly had

become the Constituent Assembly, which despoiled the monarchy of the

last appearance of power and degraded it to a mere insignificancy. The

Girondists, those ideal fanatics, who wanted to regenerate France after

the model of the states of antiquity, had seized the power and the

ministerial portefeuilles. The beautiful, witty, and noble Madame Roland

ruled, by means of her husband, the Minister Roland, and was striving to

realize in France the ideal of a republic after the pattern of Greece;

she was the very soul of the new cabinet, the soul of the Girondists,

the rulers of France; in her drawing-room, during the evening, the new

laws to be proposed next day in the Constituent Assembly, were spoken

of, and the government measures discussed.

For a moment it had seemed as if the king, through his cabinet

of Girondists, would once more be reconciled with his people, and

especially with the Constituent Assembly, as if the nation and the

monarchy would once more endeavor to stand one by the other in harmony

and peace. Perhaps the Girondists had believed in this possibility,

and had regarded the king’s assurances that he would adhere to the

constitution, and that he would go hand in hand with his ministers, and

accept the constitution as the faithful expression of his will. But when

they discovered that Louis was not honorable in his assurances; that

he was in secret correspondence with the enemies of France; that in a

letter to his brother-in-law, the Emperor Leopold, he had made bitter

complaints about the constraint to which he was subjected, then

the Girondists were inflamed with animosity, and had recourse to

counter-measures. They decreed the exile of the priests, and the

formation, in the vicinity of Paris, of a camp of twenty thousand

militia from all the departments of France.

Foreign nations looked upon this decree as a sign of dawning

hostilities, and threatened France with countermeasures. France

responded to the challenge thus thrown at her, and, in a stormy session

of the Assembly, the fatherland was declared to be in danger, the

organization of an army to occupy the frontiers was decreed, and all the

children of the fatherland were solemnly called to her defence.

This call awoke Alexandre de Beauharnais from the dreamy repose to which

he had abandoned himself during the last months. His country called

him, and he dared not remain deaf to this call; it was his duty to tear

himself from the quiet peace of the household, from the arms of his

wife and family, and place himself in the ranks of the defenders of his

country.

Josephine heard this resolution with tears in her eyes, but she

could not keep back her husband, whose countenance was beaming with

enthusiasm, and who dreamed of fame and victory. She accompanied

Alexandre to Paris, and after he had been gladly received by the

minister of war, and appointed to the Northern army, she then took from

him a last, fond farewell, entreated him with all the eloquence of love

to spare himself, and not wantonly to face danger, but to preserve his

life for his wife and children.

Deeply moved by this tender solicitude of his wife, Alexandre promised

to hold her requests as sacred. Once more they embraced each other

before they both quitted Paris on diverging roads.

Alexandre de Beauharnais went to Valenciennes, where commanded Marshal

Rochambeau, to whom he had been commissioned adjutant.

Josephine hastened with her children toward Fontainebleau, so at least

to be there united with her husband’s father, and to live under his

protection until the return of her husband.

CHAPTER XI. THE TENTH OF AUGUST, AND THE LETTER OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

Since the death of Mirabeau, the last defender of the monarchy, since

the failure of the contemplated flight, royalty in France had no chance

of existence left; the throne had lost every prop upon which it could

find support, and it sank more and more into the abyss which the

revolution had dug under its feet.

Marie Antoinette was conscious of it; her foreboding spirit foresaw

the coming evil; her proud soul nearly broke under the humiliations and

griefs which every day brought on. She had hitherto courageously and

heroically struggled against adversity; she had concealed tears and

anguish, to smile at that people which hated her and cursed her, which

insulted and reviled her constantly. But a day was to come in which the

smile would forever depart from her lip--in which Marie Antoinette, the

daughter of the Caesars, so deeply humbled and trodden down in the dust,

would no more lift up her head, would no more rise from the terrible

blow.

This day was the 10th of August, in the year 1792. The terrible storm,

which so long had filled the air with its mutterings, and had shaken the

throne with its thunderings, was on this day with terrific power to be

let loose and to dash in pieces the monarchy. The king furnished the

occasion for this eruption by dismissing his Girondist ministry, by not

signing the decree for the organization of a national militia, and for

the exile of the priests.

This refusal was the flash which broke open the heavy clouds that so

long had hung over his head--the flash which caused the tempest to burst

forth.

Since that day Paris was in a state of rebellion; fresh disturbances

took place every day; and finally, on the morning of the 10th of August,

bands of people rushed to the palace of the Tuileries and surrounded

it with wild howlings and shouts. A portion of the National Guards

endeavored to force the people into a retreat; the other portion united

with the people in fierce assaults upon the Tuileries, and on its

defenders the Swiss. These were massacred by the people armed with

pikes; with jubilant howlings the armed masses rushed over the corpses

of the fallen into the king’s palace.

The Procurator-General Roderer implored the king to save himself with

his family by taking refuge in the National Assembly, for there alone

was safety for him and the queen.

Louis hesitated; but Marie Antoinette felt once more the pride of a

queen awake within her; she felt it was nobler and worthier to die as

the loyal Swiss had done, to die sword in hand, than to meet pardon and

disgrace, than to bow her head under the yoke. She entreated the king to

remain with the loyal National Guards and to fight with his soldiers and

die in the palace of his fathers. She spoke to the successor of Henry

IV., to the father of the dauphin, for whom he should maintain the

inheritance received; she appealed to the heart, to the honor of Louis;

she spoke with flaming eyes, and with the eloquence of despair.

But Louis listened not to her, but to the solicitations of Roderer, who

told him that he had but five minutes to save himself, the queen, and

his children; that in five minutes more all would be lost.

“It cannot be helped,” muttered the king; and then with louder voice

he continued: “It is my will that we be conducted into the Legislative

Assembly; I command it!”

A shriek of terror broke forth from the breast of the queen; her proud

heart resisted once more her husband’s weakness, who, for his own and

for her misfortune, was not made of the stuff which moulds kings.

“Sire,” cried she, angrily and excited--“sire, you must first command

that I be nailed to the walls of this palace! I remain here. I stir not

from this spot!” [Footnote: The very words of the queen.--See “Memoires

Secretes et Universelles,” par Lafont d’Aussone.]

But Madame Elizabeth, the Princesses de Lamballe and de Tarent, begged

her with tears to consent; the good king fixed on her sad, weeping

eyes, and Roderer entreated her not to abandon, by her delays, to the

approaching executioners, her husband, her children, and herself.

Marie Antoinette offered to her husband her last and her greatest

sacrifice; she bowed her proud head to his will; she consented to

accompany the king with her children into the Assembly.

She took the dauphin in her arms, Madame Therese by the hand, and, at

the side of the king, followed by the Princesses Lamballe and Tarent,

walked out of the palace of the Tuileries to go to the Convent des

Peuillants, where the Legislative Assembly held its sessions.

What a martyrdom in this short distance from the Tuileries to the

Feuillants--what dishonor and fears were gathered on this path! Between

the deep ranks of Swiss grenadiers and National Guards was this path;

the queen stares fixedly on the ground, and she does not see that her

thin silk shoes will be torn by the hard, fallen leaves of the trees

under which they are moving.

But the king sees every thing, notices every thing. “How many leaves,”

said he, gazing forward--“they fall early this year!”

Now at the foot of the terrace the advance of the royal family is

stopped by a multitude of people, who, with wild howlings, swing their

pikes and clubs, and in their madness shout: “No, they must not enter

the Assembly!--they are the cause of all our misery! Let us put an end

to all this! Down with them!--down!”

The queen pays no attention to these shouts; she sees not that the

National Guards are clearing a way by force; she walks forward with

uplifted head, with a countenance petrified like that of Medusa at the

sight of evil.

But as a man approaches her, seizes the dauphin and takes him in his

arms, the transfixed queen is aroused, and, with all the anguish of a

mother’s despair, grapples the arm of the man who wants to rob her of

all she now possesses, her child!

“Be not afraid,” whispered the man, “I will do him no harm, I am but

going to carry him;” and Marie Antoinette, her eyes fixed on the child,

moves forward. At their entrance into the hall of the Assembly the man

gives her back the dauphin, and she makes him sit down near her on the

seats of the ministers.

A rough voice issues from the midst of the Assembly: “The dauphin

belongs to the nation; place him at the side of the president. The

Austrian is not worthy of our confidence!”

They tear away from the queen the weeping child, who clings to her, and

who is carried to the president, at whose left hand the king has seated

himself.

Again a voice is heard reminding the Assembly of the law which forbids

them to deliberate in the presence of the king.

The royal family must leave the lower portion of the hall, and are led

into a small room, with iron trellis-work, behind the president’s chair.

The royal family, with their attendants, pressed into the small space of

this room, can here at least, away from the gaze of their enemies, hide

their dishonored heads; at least no one sees the nervousness of despair

which now and then agitates the tall figure of the queen, the tears

trembling on her eyelids when she looks to the poor little dauphin,

whose blond curly head lies in her bosom, asleep from exhaustion,

hunger, and sorrow.

No one sees the king and the queen, but they see and hear every thing.

They hear from without the howlings of the mob, the cannon’s roar, the

reports of the rifles, telling them that a bloody fratricidal strife, a

terrible civil war, is raging. They hear there in the hall, a few steps

from them, the fanatical harangues of the deputies, whose words, full

of blood, are like the hands of the murdering Marsellais there without.

Marie Antoinette hears Vergniaud’s motion, “to divest the king at once

of his power and rank,” and she hears the acclamations of the Assembly

in favor of the motion. She hears the Assembly by their own power

reinvesting the Girondist ministers, dismissed by the king, with their

dignity and power! She hears the Assembly decide “to invite the French

people to form a national compact.”

She hears all this, and the cold perspiration of anguish and horror

covers her brow while she has yet strength enough to force hack her

tears into her heart. She asks for a handkerchief to wipe her forehead.

Not one of the attendants around can furnish a kerchief which is not

stained with the blood of the victims fallen at their side in protecting

the royal family with their lives. [Footnote: “Memoires inedites du

Comte de la Rochefoucauld.”]

At last, at two o’clock in the morning, is this painful martyrdom ended,

and the royal family are led into the upper rooms of the convent, where

hastily and penuriously enough a few chambers had been furnished.

The howlings of the crowd ascend to their windows. Under those of the

queen’s room groups of infuriated women sing the song whose horrible

burden is, “Madame Veto avait promis de faire egorger tout Paris.”

Between the sentences other voices shout and howl: “The queen is the

cause of our misery! Kill her! kill the queen, the murderess of France!

Kill Madame Veto! Throw us her head!”

Three days after, the royal family are led to the Temple. The rulers of

the state are now state prisoners. But the queen had already found the

peace which misfortune generally brings to strong souls; and as she

walked to the Temple, and saw her foot protruding from the extremity

of her shoe, she said with an affecting smile, “Who could have believed

that one day the Queen of France should be in want of shoes!”

With the 10th of August began the last act of the great tragedy of the

revolution. Its second scene had its representation in the first days of

September, in those days of blood and tears, in which infuriated

bands of the people stormed the prisons to murder the captive priests,

aristocrats, and royalists.

Under the guillotine fell during this month the head of the queen’s

friend, the Princess de Lamballe, who was followed in crowds by the

king’s faithful adherents, sealing their loyalty and their love with

their death.

This loyalty and love for the royal family was during this month branded

as an unpardonable crime, for the National Convention, which on the 21st

of September had taken the place of the Constituent Assembly, on the

25th declared France to be a republic, and the royalists became thereby

criminals, who had sinned in the respect and love which they owed to the

“republic one and indivisible.”

The new republic of France celebrated her saturnalia in the following

months, and unfurled her blood-stained standard over the nation. She

was not satisfied with having brought to the guillotine more than ten

thousand aristocrats and royalists, to terrify the faithful adherents

and servants of the throne. She required, moreover, the death of those

for whose sake so many thousands had perished--the death of the king and

of the queen.

On the 5th of December began the trial of Louis Capet, ex-King of

France, now accused by the Convention. The pages of history have

illustrated this stupendous and tragical event in all its shapes and

colors. Each party has preyed upon it, the poets have sung it, and made

it the central point of tragedy and romance: but none have painted it

in so telling, in so terse, masterly traits, none have so fully

comprehended and expressed the already stupendous event, as Lieutenant

Napoleon Bonaparte, the future Emperor of France.

He happened to be in Paris during these days of terror. He had, with all

the energies of his soul, given himself up to the new state of

things, and he belonged to the most upright and zealous faction of

the republicans. He acknowledged himself won over to their ideas, he

participated in their celebrations, he was the friend of many of the

most influential and conspicuous members of the Convention, and he was

rarely absent from their meetings; but in the presence of the awful

catastrophe of the king’s accusation and execution his proud and daring

soul shrank back, and, full of misgivings, shuddered within itself. The

young, enthusiastic republican, to his own great horror, found in

the depths of his soul a holy respect and awe in the presence of this

royalty which he so often in words had despised, and the fall of the

king, this enemy of the republic, moved his heart as a calamity which

had fallen upon him and upon all France. He himself gave to one of

his friends in Ajaccio a very correct description of these days. After

narrating the events of the first days of the trial of the king, he

continues:

“The day after I heard that the advocate Target had refused to undertake

the king’s defence, to which he was privileged by virtue of his office.

This is what may be called, in the strictest sense of the word, to erase

one’s name from history. What grounds had he for such a low cunning?

‘His life I will not save, and mine I dare not risk!’ Malherbes,

Tronchet, Deseze, loyal and devoted subjects, to imitate them in their

zeal would be impossible for me; but were I a prince I would have them

sit at my right hand--united together in the most strenuous efforts to

defend the successor of St. Louis. If they survive this deed of sublime

faithfulness, never can I pass by them without uncovering my head.

“Business detained me unavoidably in Versailles. Only on the 16th of

January did I return to Paris, and consequently I had lost three or four

scenes of this tragedy of ambition. But on the 18th of January I went

to the National Convention. Ah, my friend, it is true, and the most

infuriated republicans avow it also, a prince is but an ordinary man!

His head will as surely fall as that of another man, but whosoever

decrees his death trembles at his own madness, and were he not urged

by secret motives, his vote would die on his lips ere it was uttered.

I gazed with much curiosity at the fearless mortals who were about

deciding the fate of their king. I watched their looks. I searched into

their hearts. The exceeding weightiness of the occasion had exalted

them, intoxicated them, but within themselves they were full of fear in

the presence of the grandeur of their victim.

“Had they dared retreat, the prince had been saved. To his misfortune,

they had argued within themselves, ‘If his head falls not to-day, then

we must soon give ours to the executioner’s stroke.’

“This was the prominent thought which controlled their vote. No pen

can adequately portray the feelings of the spectators in the galleries.

Silent, horrified, breathless, they gazed now on the accused, now on the

defenders, now on the judges.

“The vote of Orleans sounded forth--‘Death!’ An electric shock could

not have produced deeper impression. The whole assembly, seized with

an involuntary terror, rose. The hall was filled with the murmurs of

conflicting emotions.

“Only one man remained seated, immovable as a rock, and that one was

myself.

“I ventured to reflect on the cause of such indifference (as that of

Orleans) and I found that cause grounded on ambition, but this cannot

justify the conduct of Orleans. It is only thus that I could account

for his action: he seeks a throne, though without any right to it, and

a throne cannot be won if the pretender renounces all claims to public

respect and virtue.

“I will be brief, for to unfold a mournful story is not my business.

The king was sentenced to death; and if the 21st day of January does

not inspire hatred for the name of France, a glorious name at least will

have been added to the roll-call of her martyrs.

“What a city was Paris on that day! The population seemed to be in a

state of bewilderment; all seemed to exchange but gloomy looks, and one

man hurried on to meet another without uttering a word. The streets were

deserted; houses and palaces were like graves. The very air seemed to

mirror the executioner. In a word, the successor of St. Louis was led to

the scaffold through the ranks of mourning automatons, that a short time

before were his subjects.

“If any one is at your side, my friend, when you read this, conceal the

following lines from him, even were he your father. It is a stain on the

stuff of which my character is made--that Napoleon Bonaparte, for the

sake of a human being’s destruction, should have been deeply moved and

compelled to retire to his bed, is a thing barely credible, though it is

true, and I cannot confess it without being ashamed of myself.

“On the night before the 21st of January I could not close my eyes, and

yet I could not explain to myself the cause of this unusual excitement.

I rose up early and ran everywhere to and fro where crowds had gathered.

I wondered at, or much more I despised, the weakness of those forty

thousand National Guards, of which the nineteenth part were practically

the assistants of the executioner. At the gate of St. Denis I met

Santerre; a numerous staff followed him. I could have cut off his ears.

I spat down before him--it was all I could do. In my opinion, the Duke

d’Orleans would have filled his place better. He had set his eyes on a

crown, and, as every one knows, such a motive overcomes much hesitancy.

“Following the Boulevards, I came to the Place de la Revolution. The

guillotine, a new invention, I had not yet seen. A cold perspiration

ran over me. Near me stood a stranger, who attributed my uneasiness and

pallor to some special interest on my part for the king’s fate. ‘Do not

be alarmed,’ said he, ‘he is not going to die; the Convention is only

glad to exhibit its power, and at the foot of the scaffold the king will

find his letters of pardon.’ ‘In this case,’ said I, ‘the members of the

Convention are not far from their own ruin, and could a guilty man have

more deserved his fate than they? Whoever attacks a lion, and desires

not to be destroyed by it, must not wound but kill on the spot.’

“A hollow, confused noise was heard. It was the royal victim. I pushed

forward, making way with my elbows, and being pushed myself. All my

efforts to come closer were fruitless. Suddenly the noise of drums

broke upon the gloomy silence of the crowd. ‘This is the signal for

his freedom,’ said the stranger. ‘It will fall back on the head of

his murderers,’ answered I; ‘half a crime in a case like this is but

weakness.’

“A moment’s stillness followed. Something heavy fell on the scaffold.

This sound went through my heart.

“I inquired of a gendarme the cause of this sound. ‘The axe has fallen,’

said he. ‘The king is not saved then?’ ‘He is dead.’ ‘He is dead!’

“For ten times at least I repeated the words ‘He is dead.’

“For a few moments I remained unconscious. Without knowing by whom,

I was carried along by a crowd, and found myself on the Quai des

Theatines, but could say nothing, except ‘He is dead.’

“Entirely bewildered, I went home, but a good hour elapsed before I

fully recovered my senses.” [Footnote: See “Edinburgh Quarterly Review,”

1830.]

CHAPTER XII. THE EXECUTION OF THE QUEEN.

The king’s execution was the signal-fire which announced to the

horrified world the beginning of the reign of terror, and told Europe

that in France the throne had been torn down, and in its stead the

guillotine erected. Yes, the guillotine alone now ruled over France; the

days of moderation, of the Girondists, had passed away; the terrorists,

named also men of the Mountain, on account of the high seats they

occupied in the Convention, had seized the reins of power, and now

controlled the course of events.

Everywhere, in every province, in every city, the blood-red standard of

the revolution was lifted up; might had become law; death was the rule,

and in lieu of the boasted liberty of conscience was tyranny. Who dared

think otherwise than the terrorists, who presumed to doubt the measures

of the Convention, was a criminal who, in the name of the one and

indivisible republic, was to be punished with death; whose head must

fall, for he had cherished thoughts which agreed not with the schemes of

the revolutionists.

How in these days of agitation and anguish Josephine rejoiced at her

good fortune, that she had not to tremble for her husband’s life; that

she was away from the crater of the revolution which raged in Paris, and

daily claimed so many victims!

Alexandre de Beauharnais was still with the army. He had risen from rank

to rank; and when, in May, General Custine was deposed by the Committee

of Public Safety from the command of the Northern army, Alexandre de

Beauharnais, who was then chief of the general’s staff of this army, was

appointed in his place as commanding general of the Army of the Rhine;

and the important work now to be achieved was to debar the besieging

Prussians and Austrians from recapturing Mayence. The Committee of

Public Safety had dismissed General Custine from his post, because

he had not pressed on with sufficient speed to the rescue of Mayence,

according to the judgment of these new rulers of France, who wanted from

Paris to decide all military matters, and who demanded victories whilst

too often refusing the means necessary for victory.

General de Beauharnais was to turn to good what General Custine,

according to the opinion of these gentlemen of the Convention, had

failed to do. This was an important and highly significant order, and to

leave it unfulfilled was to excite the anger of the Committee of Safety;

it was simply to deserve death.

General de Beauharnais knew this well, but he shrank not back from the

weighty and dangerous situation in which he was placed. To his country

belonged his life, all his energies; and it was to him of equal

importance whether his head fell on the battle-field or on the scaffold;

in either case it would fall for his country; he would do his duty, and

his country might be satisfied with him.

In this enthusiastic love for country, De Beauharnais accepted

cheerfully the offered command of the Army of the Rhine as

general-in-chief, and he prepared himself to march to the rescue of

besieged Mayence.

Whilst General de Beauharnais was on the French frontier, Josephine

trembled with anxious misgivings. The new dignity of her husband filled

her with fear, for she multiplied the dangers which surrounded him and

his family, for now the eyes of the terrorists were fixed on him. An

unfortunate move, an unsuccessful war operation, could excite the wrath

of these men of power, and send Beauharnais to the guillotine. It

was well known that he belonged not to the Mountain party, but to the

moderate republicans, to the Girondists; and as the Girondists were now

incarcerated, as the Committee of Safety had brought accusations against

them, and declared them guilty of treason toward France, it was also

easy, if it pleased the terrorists, to find a flaw in the character of

General Beauharnais, and to bring accusations against him as had been

done against the Girondists.

Such were Josephine’s fears, which made her tremble for her husband,

for her children. She wished at least to secure these from the impending

danger, and to save and shield them from the guillotine. Her friend, the

Princess von Hohenzollern, was on the eve of leaving for England with

her brother the Prince von Salm, and Josephine was anxious to seize this

opportunity to save her children. She brought Eugene and Hortense to the

princess, who was now waiting in St. Martin, in the vicinity of St. Pol,

in the county of Artois, expecting a favorable moment for departure; for

already was the emigration watched, already it was considered a crime

to leave France. With bitter tears of grief, and yet glad to know her

children safe, Josephine bade farewell to her little ones, and then

returned to Paris, so as to excite no suspicion through her absence. But

no sooner had General Beauharnais heard of Josephine’s plan to send her

children from the country, than in utmost speed he dispatched to his

wife a courier bearing a letter in which he decidedly opposed the

departure of the children, for by this emigration his own position would

be imperilled and his character made suspicious.

Josephine sighed, and, with tears in her eyes, submitted to her

husband’s will; she sent a faithful messenger to St. Martin to bring

back Eugene and Hortense. But the Princess von Hohenzollern would not

trust the children to any one; she had sworn to her friend Josephine to

watch over them, never to let them go out of her sight, and she wished

to keep her oath until such time as she could restore the children to

their mother. She therefore returned herself to Paris, to bring back

Eugene and Hortense to Josephine; and this journey, so short and so

insignificant in itself, was nevertheless the occasion that the Princess

von Hohenzollern remained in France; that her brother, the Prince von

Salm, should mount the scaffold! The favorable moment for emigration was

lost through this delay; the journey to Paris had attracted the eyes of

the authorities to the doings of the princess and of her brother, the

contemplated journey to England was discovered, and the incarceration of

the Prince von Salm and of his sister was the natural consequence. A few

months after, the prince paid with his life the contemplated attempt to

migrate; his sister, the Princess von Hohenzollern, was saved from the

guillotine through accident.

Meanwhile, Josephine had at least her children safely returned, and,

in the quietude and solitude of Fontainebleau, she awaited with beating

heart the future developments of events; she saw increase every day the

dangers which threatened her, her family, and, above all things, her

husband.

Mayence was still besieged by the Austrian and Prussian forces. General

Beauharnais had not completed the organization of his army so as to

press onward to the rescue of the besieged, whose perils increased every

day. But whilst, in unwearied activity, he urged on the preliminary

operations, a courier arrived, who brought to the general his

appointment to the office of minister of war, and required his immediate

presence in Paris, there to assume his new dignity.

Alexandre de Beauharnais had the courage to answer with a declination

the office. He entreated the Convention to make another choice, for

he considered himself more competent to serve his country against the

coalition of tyrants, among his companions-in-arms, than to be minister

of war amid revolution’s storms.

The Convention pardoned his refusal for the sake of the patriotic

sentiments which he had expressed. But this refusal was to have, not

only for the general, but also for all the aristocracy of France, the

most fatal results. Some of the most fanatical members of the Mountain

party ever considered as an audacious resistance to the commands of

the Convention this refusal of Alexandre de Beauharnais, to accept the

office which the highest powers of the land offered him.

It was a nobleman, an aristocrat, who had dared oppose the democratic

Convention, and hence the welcome pretext was found to begin the

long-wished-for conflict against the aristocrats. One of the deputies of

the Mountain made the motion to remove from all public offices, from

the army, from the cabinet, all noblemen. Another accused General de

Beauharnais, as well as all officers from amongst the nobility, of

moderate tendencies, and requested at the same time that a list of all

officers from the nobility, and now in the army, should be laid before

the Convention.

But on this very day a letter from the general reached the Convention.

In this letter he expressed the hope of a speedy rescue of Mayence; he

announced that he had completed the organization of his forces and

all his preparations, and that soon from the camps of Vicembourg and

Lauterburg he would advance against Mayence.

This letter was received by the Convention with loud acclamations, and

so took possession of all minds that they passed over the motion of

hostility against the nobility, to the order of the day.

Had General de Beauharnais accomplished his purpose--had he succeeded in

relieving the garrison besieged in Mayence, now sorely pressed, and

in delivering them, this horrible decree which caused so much blood to

flow, this decree against the nobility, would never have appeared, and

France would have been spared many scenes of cruelty and horror.

Beauharnais hoped still to effect the rescue. Trusty messengers from

Mayence had brought him the news that the garrison held on courageously

and bravely, and that they could hold their ground a few days longer.

Dispatch was therefore necessary; and if in a few days they could be

re-enforced, then they would be saved, provided the other generals

should advance with their troops in time to attack the Austrian and

Prussian forces lying round about Mayence. The French had already

succeeded in obtaining some advantages over the enemy; and General de

Beauharnais could triumphantly announce to the Convention that, on the

22d of July, a warm encounter with the Prussians had taken place at St.

Anna’s chapel, and that he had forced the Prussians to a retreat with

considerable loss.

The Convention received this news with jubilant shouts, and already

trusted in the sure triumph of the French armies against the united

forces of Prussia and Austria. If in these days of joyous excitement

some one had dared renew the motion to dismiss Beauharnais from his

command because he was a nobleman, the mover would undoubtedly have been

considered an enemy of his country.

How much attention in these happy days was paid to the general’s

wife--how busy were even the most fanatical republicans, the dreaded

ones of the Mountain, to flatter her, to give expression to their

enthusiastic praises of the general who was preparing for the arms of

the republic so glorious a triumph!

Josephine now came every day to be present in the gallery at the

sessions of the Convention, and her gracious countenance radiated a

cheerful smile when the minister of war communicated to the Assembly

the newly-arrived dispatches which announced fresh advantages or closer

approaches of General Beauharnais. By degrees a new confidence filled

the heart of Josephine, and the gloomy forebodings, which so long had

tormented her, began to fade away.

In the session of the 28th of July, Barrere, with a grave, solemn

countenance, mounted the tribune and with a loud, sad voice announced to

the Convention, in the name of the Committee of Safety, that a courier

had just arrived bringing the news that, on the 23d of July, Mayence, in

virtue of an unjust capitulation, had fallen.

A loud, piercing shriek, which issued from the gallery, broke the

silence with which the Assembly had received this news. It was Josephine

who had uttered this cry--Josephine who was carried away fainting from

the hall. She awoke from her long swoon only to shed a torrent of tears,

to press her children to her heart, as if desirous to screen them from

the perils of death, which now, said her own forebodings, were pressing

on from all sides.

Josephine was not deceived: this calamitous news, all at once, changed

the whole aspect of affairs, gave to the Convention and to the republic

another attitude, and threw its dark shadows over the unfortunate

general who had undertaken to save Mayence, and had not been able to

fulfil his word.

Surely this was not his fault, for General Dubayet had capitulated

before it had been possible for Beauharnais to accomplish the rescue. No

one therefore ventured to accuse him, but undeserved misfortune always

remains a misfortune in the eyes of those who had counted upon success;

and the Convention could never forgive the generals from whom they had

expected so much, and who had not met these expectations.

These generals had all been men of the aristocracy. As there was

no reason to accuse them on account of their unsuccessful military

operations, it was necessary to attack them with other weapons, and

seek a spot where they could be wounded. This spot was their name, their

ancestors, who in the eyes of the republican Convention rose up like

embodied crimes behind their progeny, to accuse the guilty.

The Jacobin Club, a short time after the capture of Mayence, began again

in an infuriated session the conflict against the nobility, and the

fanatical Hebert moved:

“All the noblemen who serve in the army, in the magistracy, in any

public office, must be driven away and dismissed. The people must

require this, the people themselves! They must go in masses to the

Convention, and after exposing the crimes and the treachery of the

aristocrats, must insist on their expulsion. The people must not leave

the Convention, it must remain in permanent session, there until it is

assured that its will is carried out.”

The multitude with loud, jubilant tones cried, “Yes. yes, that is what

we want, let us go to the Convention! No more nobility! the nobles are

our murderers!”

The next day, the Jacobins, accompanied by thousands of shouting women

and infuriated men, went to the Convention to make known its will in the

name of the people. The Convention received their petition and decreed

the exile and the dissolution of the nobility, and delivered to the

punishment of the law the guilty subject who would dare use the name of

noble.

General de Beauharnais saw full well the blow aimed at him, and at all

the officers from the nobility in the army; he foresaw that they would

not stop at these measures; that soon he and his companions of fate

would be accused and charged with treason, as had been already done to

General Custine, and to so many others who had paid with their lives

their tried loyalty to the republic. He wanted to anticipate the

storm, and sent in his resignation. As the Convention left his petition

unanswered, he renewed it, and as it remained still ineffective, he

gladly, forced to this measure by sickness, transferred his command

to General Landremont. The Convention had then to grant him leave of

absence, and, as it maintained him in his rank, they ordered him back to

Paris.

At last Josephine saw her husband again, for whom during the last

few months she had suffered so much anxiety and pain. At last she was

enabled to bring to her children the father for whom every evening they

had prayed God to guard him from foes abroad and from foes at home. As a

gift sent again by Heaven, she received her husband and entreated him to

save himself with his family from revolution’s yawning abyss, which was

ready to swallow them all, and to go away with his own into a foreign

land, as his brother had done, who for some months past had been in

Coblentz with the Prince d’Artois.

But Alexandre de Beanharnais rejected with something like anger these

tearful supplications of his wife. He was not blinded to the dangers

which threatened him, but he wanted to meet them bravely; true to the

oath he had taken to the republic and to his country, he wished as a

dutiful son to remain near her, even if his allegiance had to be paid

with his death.

Josephine, on the bosom of her husband, wept hot, burning tears as he

communicated to her his irrevocable decision not to leave France, but in

the depths of her heart she experienced a noble satisfaction to find her

husband so heroic and so brave, and, offering him her hand, said with

tears in her eyes:

“It is well--we remain; and if we must go to the scaffold, we will at

least die together.”

The general, with his wife and children, retired to his small property,

Ferte-Beauharnais, where he longed to obtain rest during a few happy

months of quietude.

But the fearful storms which had agitated France in her innermost life,

now raged so violently that each household, each family, trembled; there

was neither peace nor rest in the home nor in the hearts of men.

The Convention, threatened from outside by failures and defeats--for the

capture of Mayence by the Prussians and Austrians had been followed by

the capture of Toulon in September by the English--the Convention wanted

to consolidate at least its internal authority, and to terrify by severe

measures those who, on account of the misfortunes on the frontiers,

might hope for a fresh change of affairs in the interior, and who might

help it to pass.

Consequently the Convention issued a decree ordering all dismissed

or destitute soldiers to return in four-and-twenty hours to their

respective municipalities, under pain of ten years in chains, and at the

same time forbade them to enter Paris or to approach the capital nearer

than ten leagues.

A second decree ordered the formation of a revolutionary army in Paris,

to which was assigned the duty of carrying out the decrees of the

Convention.

Finally a third decree, which appeared on the 17th of September, ordered

the arrest and punishment of all suspected persons.

This decree thus characterized the suspected ones: “All those who, by

their conduct, their relations, their discourses, their writings, had

shown themselves the adherents of tyranny, of federalism, the enemies

of liberty, much more all the ex-nobles, men, women, fathers, brothers,

sons or daughters, sisters or brothers, or agents of the migrated ones,

all who had not invariably exhibited and proved their adherence to the

revolution.”

With this decree the days of terror had reached their deepest gloom;

with this decree began the wild, bloody hunting down of aristocrats and

ci-devants; then began suspicions, accusations which needed no

evidence to bring the accused to the guillotine; then were renewed

the dragonnades of the days of Louis XIV., only that now, instead of

Protestants, the nobles were hunted down, and hunted down to death. The

night of the St. Bartholomew, the night of the murderess Catharine de

Medicis and of her mad son Charles IX., found now in France its cruel

and bloody repetition; only this night of horror was prolonged during

the day, and shrank not back from the light.

The sun beamed upon the pools of blood which flowed through the streets

of Paris, and packs of ferocious dogs in large numbers lay in the

streets, and fed upon this blood, which imparted to these once tamed

creatures their natural wildness. The sun beamed on the scaffold,

which, like a threatening monster, lifted itself upon the Place de la

Revolution, and the sun beamed upon the horrible axe, which every day

out off so many noble heads, and ever glittering, ever menacing, rose up

from the midst of blood and death.

The sun also shone upon the day in which Marie Antoinette, like her

husband, ascended the scaffold, to rest at last in the grave from all

her dishonor and from the agonies of the last years.

This day was the 16th of October, 1793. For the last four months, Marie

Antoinette had longed for this day as for a long-expected bliss; four

months ago she had been led from the prison of the Temple into the

Conciergerie, and she knew that the prisoners of the Conciergerie only

left it to obtain the freedom which men do not give, but which God gives

to the suffering ones, the freedom of death.

Marie Antoinette longed for this liberty, and for this deliverance of

death. How distant behind were the days of happiness, of joyous youth,

far behind in infinite legendary distance! How long since this tall,

grave figure, with its proud and yet affable countenance, had lost

all similarity to the charming Queen Marie Antoinette, around whom had

fluttered the genii of beauty, of youth, of love, of happiness; who once

in Trianon had represented the idyl of a pastoral queen; who, in the

exuberance of joy, had visited in disguise the public opera-ball; who

imagined herself so secure amid the French people as to believe she

could dispense with the protection of “Madame Etiquette;” who then was

applauded by all France with jubilant acclamations, and who now was

persecuted with mad anger!

No, the queen of that day, Marie Antoinette, who, in the golden halls of

Versailles and of the Tuileries, received the homage of all France, and

who, with smiling grace and face radiant with happiness, responded to

all this homage; she had no resemblance with Louis Capet’s widow, who

now stands before the tribunal of the revolution, and gravely, firmly

gives her answers to the proposed questions.

She has also made her toilet for this day; but how different is this

toilet of the Widow Capet from that which once Marie Antoinette had worn

to be admired!

Then could Marie Antoinette, the frivolous, fortunate daughter of bliss,

shut herself up in her boudoir for long hours with her confidante the

milliner, Madame Bertier, to devise some new ball-dress, some new fichu,

some new ornament for her robes; then could Leonard, for this queen with

her wondrous blond hair, tax all the wealth of his science and of his

imagination; to invent continually new coiffures and new head-dresses

wherewith to adorn the beautiful head of the Queen Marie Antoinette, on

whose towering curls clustered tufts of white plumes; or else diminutive

men-of-war unfurled the net-work of their sails; or else, for variety’s

sake, on that royal head was arranged a garden, a parterre adorned with

flowers and fruits, with butterflies and birds of paradise.

The Widow Capet needs no milliner now; she needs no friseur now for

her toilette. Her tall, slim figure is draped in a black woollen dress,

which the republic at her request has granted her to mourn her beheaded

husband; her neck and shoulders, once the admiration of France, are now

covered with a white muslin kerchief, which in pity Bault, her attendant

at the jail, has given her. Her hair is uncovered, and falls in long

natural curls on either side of her transparent, blanched cheeks. This

hair needs no powder now; the long sleepless nights, the anxious days,

have covered it with their powder forever, and the thirty-eight-year-old

widow of Louis Capet wears on her head the gray hairs of a

seventy-year-old woman.

In this toilet, Marie Antoinette stands before the tribunal of the

revolution from the 6th to the 13th day of October. There is nothing

royal about her, nothing but her look and the proud attitude of her

figure.

And the people who fill the galleries in closely-packed masses, and

who weary not to gaze on the queen in her humiliation, in her toilet

of anguish, the people claim constantly that Marie Antoinette will rise

from her rush-woven seat; that she will allow herself to be stared at by

these masses of people, whom curiosity and not compassion have brought

there.

Once, as at the call from the public in the galleries, she rose up, the

queen sighed: “Ah, will not the people soon be tired of my sufferings?”

[Footnote: Marie Antoinette’s own words.--See Goncourt, “Histoire de

Marie Antoinette,” p. 404.]

Another time her dry, blanched lips murmured, “I thirst.” But no one

near her dares have compassion on this sigh of agony from the queen;

each looks embarrassed at his neighbor; not one dares give a glass of

water to the thirsty woman.

One of the gendarmes has at last the courage to do so, and Marie

Antoinette thanks him with a look which brings tears in the eyes of the

gendarme, and which may perchance cause his death to-morrow under the

guillotine as a traitor!

The gendarmes who guard the queen have alone the courage to show pity!

One night, as she is led from the hall of trial to her prison, Marie

Antoinette becomes so exhausted, so overpowered, that staggering, she

murmurs, “I can see no longer! I can go no farther! I cannot move!”

One of the gendarmes walking alongside of her offers his arm, and

supported by it Marie Antoinette totters up the three stone steps which

lead into the prison.

At last, at four o’clock in the morning, on the 15th of August, the

jury have given their verdict. It runs: “Death!--execution by the

guillotine!”

Marie Antoinette has heard the verdict with unmoved composure, whilst

the noise from the excited crowd in the galleries is suddenly hushed as

by a magic spell, and even the faces of the infuriated fish women turn

pale!

Marie Antoinette alone has remained calm; grave and cool she rises from

her seat and herself opens the balustrade to leave the hall and return

to her prison.

And then at last, on the morning of the 16th of October, her sorrows

will end, and Marie Antoinette can find refuge in the grave! Her soul is

almost joyous and serene; she has suffered so much, and for her to sink

into death is truly blessedness!

She has passed the undisturbed hours of the night in writing to her

sister-in-law, Madame Elizabeth, and this letter is also the queen’s

testament. But the widow of Louis Capet has no riches, no treasures, no

property to will; she has nothing left which belongs to her--nothing but

her love, her tears, her farewell salutations. These she leaves behind

to all those who have loved her. She takes leave of her relatives, her

brothers and sisters, and cries out to them a farewell.

“I had friends,” she continues; “the thought of being forever separated

from them, and your grief for my death, are my deepest sorrow; you will

at least know that to the last moment I have remembered you.”

Then, when Marie Antoinette has finished this letter, some of whose

characters here and there are disfigured by her tears, she thinks of

leaving to her children a last token of remembrance--one which the

executioner’s hand has not desecrated.

The only ornament which remains is her long hair, whose silver-gray

locks are the tearful history of her sufferings.

Marie Antoinette with her own hands despoils herself of this last

ornament; she cuts off her long hair behind the head, so as to leave

it as a last token to her children, to her relatives and friends. Then,

after having taken her spiritual farewell of life, she prepares herself

for the last great ceremony of her existence, for death.

She feels exhausted, weary unto death, and she strengthens herself for

this last toilsome journey, that she may worthily pass through it.

Marie Antoinette needs food, and with courageous mind she eats a

chicken’s wing which has been brought to her. After having eaten, she

makes her last toilet, the toilet of death.

The wife of the jailer, at the queen’s request, gives her one of her own

chemises, and Marie Antoinette puts it on. Then she clothes herself

with the garments which she has worn during her days of trial before the

tribunal of the revolution, only over the black woollen dress, which she

has often mended and patched with her own hand, she puts on a mantle

of white needlework. Around her neck she ties a small plain kerchief of

white muslin, and, as it is not allowed her to mount the scaffold

with uncovered head, she puts on it the round linen hood which the

peasant-women used to wear. Black stockings cover her feet, and over

them she draws shoes of black woollen stuff.

Her toilet is now ended--earthly things have passed away! Ready to meet

death, the queen lays herself down on her bed and sleeps.

She still sleeps when she is notified that a priest is there, ready to

come in, if she will confess.

But Marie Antoinette has already unveiled her heart to God; she will

have none of these priests of reason, whom the republic has ordained,

after having exiled or murdered with the guillotine the priests of the

Church.

“As I cannot do as I please,” she has written to Madame Elizabeth, in

her farewell letter, “so must I endure it if a priest is sent to me; but

I now declare that I will tell him not a word, that I will consider him

entirely as a stranger to me.”

And Marie Antoinette held her word. She forbids not the priest Girard

to come in, but she answers in the negative when he asks her if she will

receive from him the consolations of religion.

She paces her small cell to and fro, to warm herself, for her feet are

stiff with cold. As seven o’clock strikes, the door opens.

It is the executioner of Paris, Samson, who enters.

A slight tremor runs through the queen’s frame. “You come very early,

sir,” murmurs she, “could you not delay somewhat?”

As Samson replies in the negative, Marie Antoinette assumes again

a calm, cold attitude. She drinks without any reluctance the cup

of chocolate which has been brought to her from a neighboring cafe.

Proudly, calmly, she allows her hands to be bound with strong ropes

behind her back.

At eleven o’clock she finally leaves her room to descend the corridor,

and to mount into the wagon which waits for her before the gate of the

Conciergerie.

No one guides her on the way; no one bids her a last farewell; no one

shows a sympathizing or sad countenance to the departing one.

Alone, between two rows of gendarmes posted on both sides of the

corridor, the queen walks forward; behind her is Samson, holding in

his hand the end of the rope; the priest and the two assistants of the

executioner follow him.

On the path of Death--such is the suite of the queen, the daughter of an

emperor!

Perchance at this hour thousands were on their knees to offer to God

their heart-felt prayers for Marie Antoinette, whom in the silence

of the soul they still call “the queen;” perchance many thousand

compassionate hearts pour out warm tears of sympathy for her who now

ascends into the miserable wagon, and sits on a plank which ropes have

made firm to both sides of the vehicle. But those who pray and weep have

retired into the solitude of their rooms, for God alone must receive

their sighs and see their tears. The eyes which follow the queen on

her last journey must not weep; the words which are shouted at her must

betray no compassion.

Paris knows that this is the hour of the queen’s execution, and the

Parisian crowd is ready, it is waiting. In the streets, in the windows

of the houses, on the roofs, the people have stationed themselves in

enormous masses; they fill the whole Place de la Revolution with their

dark, destructive forms.

Now resound the drums of the National Guard posted before the

Conciergerie. The large white horse, which draws the chariot in which

Marie Antoinette sits backward, at the side of the priest, is driven

onward by the man who swings on its back. Behind her in the wagon is

Samson and his assistants.

The queen’s face is white; all blood has left her cheeks and lips, but

her eyes are red; they have wept so much, unfortunate queen! She weeps

not now. Not one tear dims her eye, which pensively and calmly soars

above the crowd, then is lifted up to the very roofs of the houses, then

again is slowly lowered, and seems to stare over the human heads away

into infinite distance.

Calm and pensive as the eye is the queen’s countenance, her lips

are nearly closed, no nervous movement on her face tells whether she

suffers, whether she feels, whether she notices those tens of thousands

of eyes which are fixed on her, cold, curious, sarcastic! And yet Marie

Antoinette sees every thing! She sees yonder woman who lifts up her

child; she sees how this child with his tiny hands sends a kiss to the

queen! Suddenly a nervous agitation passes over the queen’s features,

her lips tremble, and her eyes are obscured with a tear! This first,

this single token of human sympathy has revived the heart of the queen

and awakened her from her torpor.

But the people are bent upon this, that Marie Antoinette shall not reach

the end of her journey with this last comfort of pity. They press on,

howling and shouting, scorning and jubilant, nearer and nearer to the

wagon; they sing sarcastic songs on Madame Veto, they clap hands, and

point at her with the finger of scorn.

She, however, is calm; her look, cold and indifferent, runs over the

crowd; only once it flames up with a last angry flash as she passes

by the Palais Royal, where Philippe Egalite, the ex-Duke d’Orleans,

resides, as she reads the inscription which he had placed at the gate of

his palace.

At noon the chariot reaches at last its destination. It stops at the

foot of the scaffold, and Marie Antoinette alights from the wagon, and

then calm and erect ascends the steps of the scaffold.

Her lips have not opened once on this awful journey; they now have no

word of complaint, of farewell! The only farewell which she has yet to

say on earth is told by her look--by a look which is slowly directed

yonder to the Tuileries--it is the farewell to past memories--it deepens

the pallor on the cheeks, it opens her lips to a painful sigh. She then

bows her head--a momentary, breathless silence follows. Samson lifts up

the white head, which once had been the head of the Queen of France, and

the people cry and shout, “Long live the republic!”

CHAPTER XIII. THE ARREST.

Uninterruptedly had the guillotine for the last three months of the

year 1793 continued its destructive work of murder, and the noblest

and worthiest heads had fallen under this reaper of Death. No personal

merit, no nobility of character, no age, no youth, could hope to escape

the death-instrument of the revolution when a noble name stood up as

accuser. Before this accuser every service was considered as nothing;

it was enough to be an aristocrat, a ci-devant, to be suspected, to be

dragged as a criminal before the tribunal of the revolution, and to be

condemned.

The execution of the queen was followed by that of the Girondists; and

this brilliant array of noble and great men was followed in the next

month by names no less noble, no less great. It was an infuriated chase

of the aristocrats as well as of the officers, of all the military

persons who, in the unfortunate days of Toulon and of Mayence, had been

in the army, and who had been dismissed, or whose resignation had been

accepted.

The aristocrats were tracked in their most secret recesses, and not

only were they punished, but also those who dared screen them from the

avenging hand of the republic. The officers were recognized under

every disguise, and the very fact that they had disguised themselves or

remained silent as to their true character was a crime great enough to

be punished with the guillotine.

More than twenty generals were imprisoned during the last months of the

year 1793, and many more paid with their lives for crimes which they had

never committed, and which had existence only in the heated imagination

of their accusers. Thus had General Houchard fallen; he was followed

in the first days of the new year of 1794 by the Generals Luckner and

Biron.

Alexandre de Beauharnais had served under Luckner, he had been Biron’s

adjutant, he had been united with General Houchard in the unfortunate

attempt to relieve Mayence. It was therefore natural that he should be

noticed and espied. Besides which, he was an aristocrat, a relative of

many of the emigres, the brother of the Count de Beauharnais, who was

now residing in Coblentz with the Count d’Artois, and it had not been

forgotten what an important part Alexandre de Beauharnais had played

in the National Assembly; it was well known that he belonged to the

moderate party, that he had been the friend of the Girondists.

Had the Convention wished to forget it, the informers were there to

remind them of it. Alexandre de Beauharnais was denounced as suspected,

and this denunciation was followed, in the first days of January, by an

arrest. He was taken to Paris, and at first shut up in the Luxemburg,

where already many of his companions-in-arms were incarcerated.

Josephine was not in Ferte-Beauharnais when the emissaries of the

republic came to arrest her husband. She was just then in Paris, whither

she had gone to seek protection and assistance for Alexandre at the

hands of influential acquaintances; in Paris she learned the arrest of

her husband.

The misfortune, which she had so long expected and foreseen, was now

upon her and ready to crush her and the future of her children. Her

husband was arrested--that is to say, he was condemned to die.

At this thought Josephine rose up like a lioness; the indolence, the

dreamy quietude of the creole, had suddenly vanished, and Josephine was

now a resolute, energetic woman, anxious to risk every thing, to try

every thing, so as to save her husband, the father of her children. She

now knew no timidity, no trembling, no fear, no horror; every thing

in her was decision of purpose; keen, daring action. Letters, visits,

petitions, and even personal supplications, every thing was tried; there

was no humiliation before which she shrank. For long hours she sat in

the anterooms of the tribunal of the revolution, of the ministers who,

however much they despised the aristocrats, imitated their manners,

and made the people wait in the vestibule, even as the ministers of

the tyrant had done; with tears, with all the eloquence of love, she

entreated those men of blood and terror to give her back her husband, or

at least not to condemn him before he had been accused, and to furnish

him with the means of defence.

But those new lords and rulers of France had no heart for compassion;

Robespierre, Marat, Danton, could not be moved by the tears which a wife

could shed for an accused husband. They had already witnessed so much

weeping, listened to so many complaints, to so many cries of distress,

their eyes were not open for such things, their ears heard not.

France was diseased, and only by drawing away the bad blood could she

be restored to health, could she be made sound, could she rise up again

with the strength of youth! And Marat, Danton, Robespierre, were the

physicians who were healing France, who were restoring her to health

by thus horribly opening her veins. Marat and Danton murdered from

bloodthirsty hatred, from misanthropy and vengeance; Robespierre

murdered through principle, from the settled fanatical conviction, that

France was lost if all the old corrupt blood was not cleansed away from

her veins, so as to replenish them with youthful, vitalizing blood.

Robespierre was therefore inexorable, and Robespierre now ruled over

France! He was the dictator to whom every thing had to bow; he was at

the head of the tribunal of revolution; he daily signed hundreds of

death-warrants; and this selfsame man, who once in Arras had resigned

his office of judge because his hand could not be induced to sign

the death-warrant of a convicted criminal [Footnote: See “Maximilian

Robespierre,” by Theodore Mundt, vol. i.]--this man, who shed tears over

a tame dove which the shot of a hunter had killed, could, with heart

unmoved, with composed look, sit for long hours near the guillotine on

the tribune of the revolution, and gaze with undimmed eyes on the heads

of his victims falling under the axe.

He was now at the summit of his power; France lay bleeding, trembling

at his feet; fear had silenced even his enemies; no one dared touch

the dreaded man whose mere contact was death; whose look, when coldly,

calmly fixed on the face of any man, benumbed his heart as if he had

read his sentence of death in the blue eyes of Robespierre.

At the side of Robespierre sat the terrorists Fouquier-Tinville and

Marat, to whom murder was a delight, blood-shedding a joy, who with

sarcastic pleasure listened unmoved to the cries, to the tearful prayers

of mothers, wives, children, of those sentenced to death, and who fed on

their tears and on their despair.

With such men at the head of affairs it was natural that the reign of

terror should still be increasing in power, and that with it the number

of the captives in the prisons should increase.

In the month of January, 1794, the list of the incarcerated within the

prisons of Paris ran up to the number of 4,659; in the month of February

the number rose up to 5,892; in the beginning of April to 7,541; and at

the end of the same month it was reckoned that there were in Paris

eight thousand prisoners. [Footnote: Thiers, “Histoire de la Revolution

Francaise,” vol. vi., p. 41]

The greater the number of prisoners, the more zealous was the tribunal

of the revolution to get rid of them; and with satisfaction these judges

of blood saw the new improvements made in the guillotine, and which not

only caused the machine to work faster, but also prevented the axe from

losing its edge too soon by the sundering of so many necks.

“It works well,” exclaimed Fouquier-Tinville, triumphantly; “to-day we

have fifty sentenced. The heads fall like poppy-heads!”

And these fifty heads falling like poppy-heads, were not enough for his

bloodthirstiness.

“It must work better still,” cried he; “in the next decade, I must have

at least four hundred and fifty poppy-heads!”

And then, as if inspired by a joyous and happy thought, his gloomy

countenance became radiant with a grinning laughter, and, rubbing his

hands with delight, he continued: “Yes, I must have four hundred and

fifty! Then, if we work on so perseveringly, we will soon write over

our prison-gates, ‘House to let!’” [Footnote: “Histoire de l’Imperatrice

Josephine.”]

They worked on perseveringly, and the vehicles which carried the

condemned to execution rolled every morning with a fresh freight through

the streets of Paris, where the guillotine, with its glaring axe,

awaited them.

The month of April, as already said, had brought the number of prisoners

in Paris to eight thousand; the month of April had therefore more

executions to engrave with its bloody pen into the annals of history.

On the 20th of April fell on the Place de la Revolution the heads of

fourteen members of the ex-Parliament of Paris; the next day followed

the Duke de Villeroy, the Admiral d’Estaing, the former Minister of War

Latour du Pin, the Count de Bethune, the President de Nicolai. One day

after, the well-laden wagon drove from the Conciergerie to the Place de

la Revolution; in it were three members of the Constituent Assembly,

and to have belonged to it was the only crime they were accused of. Near

these three sat the aged Malesherbes, with his sister; the Marquis de

Chateaubriand, with his wife; the Duchess de Grammont, and Du Chatelet.

It will be seen that the turn for women had now come; for those women

who were now led to the execution had committed no other crime than to

be the wives or the relatives of emigrants or of accused persons, than

to bear names which had shone for centuries in the history of France.

Josephine also had an ancient aristocratic name; she also was related

to the migrated ones, the wife of an accused, of a prisoner! And she

wearied the tribunal of the revolution constantly with petitions, with

visits, with complaints. They were tired of these molestations, and it

was so easy, so convenient to shield one’s self against them! There was

nothing else to do but to arrest Josephine; for once a prisoner, she

could no longer--in anterooms, where she would wait for hours; in the

street before the house-door, where she would stand, despite rains and

winds--she could no longer trouble the rulers of France, and beseech

them with tears and prayers for her husband’s freedom. The prisoner

could no more write petitions, or move heaven and earth for her

husband’s sake.

The Viscountess de Beauharnais was arrested. On the 20th of April, as

she happened to be at the proper authority’s office to obtain a pass

according to the new law, which ordered all ci-devants to leave Paris

in ten days, Josephine was arrested and led into the Convent of the

Carmelites, which for two years had served as a prison for the bloody

republic, and from which so many of its victims had issued to mount the

wagon which led them to the guillotine.

Amid this wretchedness there was one sweet joy. Alexandre de Beauharnais

had no sooner heard of the arrest of his wife, than he asked as a favor

from the tribunal of the revolution to be removed into the same prison

where his wife was. In an incomprehensible fit of merciful humor his

prayer was granted; he was transferred to the Convent of the Carmelites,

and if the husband and wife could not share the same cell, yet they were

within the same walls, and could daily (through the turnkeys, who had to

be bribed by all manner of means, by promises, by gold, as much as could

be gathered together among the prisoners) hear the news.

Josephine was united to her husband. She received daily from him news

and messages; she could often, in the hours when the prisoners in

separate detachments made their promenades in the yard and in the

garden, meet Alexandre, reach him her hand, whisper low words of trust,

of hope, and speak with him of Eugene and Hortense, of these dear

children who, now deserted by their parents, could hope for protection

and safety only from the faithfulness and love of their governess,

Madame Lanoy. The thought of these darling ones of her heart excited

and troubled Josephine, and all the pride and courage with which she had

armed her heart melted into tears of anxiety and into longings for her

deserted children.

But Madame Lanoy with the most faithful solicitude watched over the

abandoned ones; she had once sworn to Josephine that if the calamity,

which Josephine had constantly anticipated, should fall upon her and

upon her husband, she would be to Hortense and Eugene a second mother;

she would care for them and protect them as if they were her own

children. And Madame Lanoy kept her promise.

To place them beyond the dangers which their very name made imminent,

and also perhaps to give by means of the children evidence of the

patriotic sentiments of the parents, Madame Lanoy left with the children

the viscount’s house, where they had hitherto resided, and occupied

with both of them a small shabby house, where she established herself

as seamstress. The little eleven-year-old Hortense, the daughter of the

Citizeness Beauharnais, was now the assistant of the Citizeness Lanoy,

at the trade of seamstress. Eugene was apprenticed to a cabinet-maker;

a leather apron was put on, and then with a plank under his arm,

and carrying a plane in his hand, he went through the streets to the

workshop of the cabinet-maker, and every one lauded the patriotic

sentiments of the Citizeness Lanoy, who tried to educate the brood of

the ex-aristocrats into orderly and moral beings.

Eugene and Hortense fell rapidly and understandingly into the plan of

their faithful governess; they transformed themselves in their language,

in their dress, in their whole being and appearance, into little

republicans, full of genuine patriotism. Like their cousin, Emile de

Beauharnais, whose mother (the wife of the elder brother of the Viscount

de Beauharnais) had already for a long time languished in prison, they

attended the festivals which had for its object the glorification of the

republic, and, alongside of the Citizeness Lanoy, the little milliner

Hortense followed the procession of her quarter of the city, perhaps

to awaken thereby the good-will of the authorities in favor of her

imprisoned parents.

Then, when Madame Lanoy thought this good-will had been gained, she

made a step further, and undertook to have the children present to the

Convention a petition for their parents. This petition ran thus:

“Two innocent children appeal to you, fellow-citizens, for the freedom

of their dear mother--their mother against whom no reproach can be

made but the misfortune of being born in a class from which, as she has

proven, she ever felt completely estranged, for she has ever surrounded

herself with the best patriots, the most distinguished men of the

Mountain. After she had on the 26th of Germinal requested a pass in

order to obey the law, she was arrested on the evening of that day

without knowing the cause. Citizen representatives, you cannot be

guilty of oppressing innocence, patriotism, and virtue. Give back to

us unfortunate children our life. Our youth is not made for suffering.”

Signed: EUGENE BEAUHARNAIS, aged twelve years, and HORTENSE BEAUHARNAIS,

aged eleven years. [Footnote: “Histoire de l’Imperatrice Josephine,” par

Aubenas.]

To this complaint of two deserted children no more attention was paid

than to the cries of the dove which the hawk carries away in its claws,

but perhaps the innocent touching words of the petition had awakened

compassion in the heart of some father.

It is true no answer was given to the petition of the children, but the

Citizeness Lanoy was allowed to take the children of the accused twice

a week into the reception-room of the Carmelite Convent, that there they

might see and speak to their mother.

This was a sweet comfort, an unhoped-for joy, as well to Josephine as to

her husband; for if he was not permitted to come into the lower room and

see the children, yet he now saw them through the eyes of his wife, and

through her he received the wishes of their tender affection.

What happiness for Josephine, who loved her children with all the

unrestrained fondness of a Creole! what happiness to see her Eugene, her

Hortense, and to be permitted to speak to them! How much they had to say

one to another, how much to communicate one to the other!

It is true much had to be passed in silence if they would not excite

the anger of the turnkey, who was always present at the meeting of the

children with their mother. Strict orders had been given that Josephine

should never whisper one word to the children, or speak to them of the

events of the day, of what was going on beyond the prison walls. The

least infringement of this rule was to be punished by debarring the

children from having any further conversation with their mother.

And yet they had so much to say; they needed her advice so much, so as

to know what future steps they might take to accomplish their mother’s

freedom! They had so much to tell to Josephine about relatives and

friends, and above all so much to say about what was going on outside

of the prison! But how bring her news? how speak to their mother? how

receive her message in such a way that the jailer’s ears could not know

what was said?

Love is full of invention. It turns every thing into subserviency to

its end. Love once turned the dove into a carrier; love made Josephine’s

children find out a new mail-carrier--it made them invent the lapdog

mail.

Josephine, like all Creoles, had, besides her love for flowers, botany,

and birds, a great fondness for dogs. Never since the earliest days of

her childhood had Josephine been seen in her room, at the promenade, or

in her carriage, without one of these faithful friends and companions of

man, which share with the lords of creation all their good qualities

and virtues, without being burdened with their failings. The love,

the faithfulness, the cunningness of dogs are virtues, wherewith they

successfully rival man, and the dogs boast only of one quality which

amongst men is considered a despicable vice, namely, the canine

humbleness which these animals practise, without egotism, without

calculation, whilst man practises it only when his interest and his

selfishness make it seem advantageous.

Two years before, a friend of Josephine had given her a small, young

model of the then fashionable breed of dogs, a small lapdog, and at

once Josephine had made a pet of the little animal, which had been

recommended to her as the progeny of a rare and genuine race of lapdogs.

It is true the little Fortune had not fulfilled what had been promised;

he had not grown up exactly into a model of beauty and loveliness.

With small feet, a long body of a pale yellow rather than red, a thick,

double, flat nose, this lapdog had nothing of its race but the black

face, and the tail in the shape of a corkscrew. Besides all this, he was

undoubtedly of a surly, quarrelsome disposition, and he preferred the

indolent and ease of his cushion to either a promenade with Josephine or

to a game with her children.

But since Josephine was no more there, since her beautiful hands no more

presented him his food, a change had come over Fortune’s character;

he had awakened from the effeminacy of happiness to full activity. The

children had but to say, “We are going to mamma,” and at once Fortune

would spring up from his cushion with a cheerful bark, and run out into

the streets, describing circles and performing joyous leaps. Fortune,

as soon as the reception-room of the prison was opened, was always the

first to rush in, barking loudly at the jailer; then, when his spite

was over, to run with all the signs of passionate tenderness toward his

mistress; then he would surround her with caresses, and leap, bark, and

whine, until she noticed him, until she should have kissed and embraced

the children, and then taken him up in her arms.

But one day, as the door of the reception-room opened, and Eugene and

Hortense entered with Madame Lanoy, Fortune’s loud barking trumpet

sounded not, and he sprang not forward toward Josephine. He walked on

gravely with measured steps at the side of Madame Lanoy, who led him

with a string which she had fastened to his collar. With important,

thoughtful mien, he gazed resignedly and gravely at his mistress, and

even for his hated foe the jailer he had but a dull growl, which he soon

repressed.

Josephine was somewhat alarmed at this change in Fortune’s demeanor,

and after she had welcomed, taken to her bosom and kissed her darling

children, after she had saluted the good Madame Lanoy, she inquired why

Fortune was so sad and why he was led as a captive.

“Because he is so wild and unruly, mamma,” said Eugene, with a peculiar

smile, “because he wants always to be the first to salute you, and

because he barks so loud that we cannot possibly for some time hear what

our dear mamma has to say.”

“And then, in the street, he is so wicked and troublesome,” cried

Hortense, with eagerness, “and he always begins quarrelling and fighting

with every dog which passes by, and we must stand there and wait for him

when we are so anxious to see our dear mamma.”

“For all these reasons,” resumed Madame Lanoy, with slow, solemn

intonation, “for all these reasons we have thought it necessary to chain

Fortune and to tighten up his collar.”

“And you have done quite well, citizeness,” growled the turnkey, “for

I had already thought of silencing forever the abominable lapdog if he

again barked at me so.”

Josephine said nothing, but the peculiar smile she had noticed on

her children’s face had passed, at the words of Madame Lanoy, over

Josephine’s radiant countenance, and she now with her pet names called

Fortune to her, to press him to her heart, to pat him, and by all these

caresses to make amends for his having his collar somewhat tightened.

But whilst thus petting him, and tenderly smoothing down his sleek fur,

her slim fingers quickly and cautiously passed under the wide collar of

Fortune. Then her eyes were rapidly directed toward the jailer. He was

engaged in animated conversation with Madame Lanoy, who knew how to make

him talk, by inquiring after the health of his little sick daughter.

A second time Josephine’s fingers were passed under Fortune’s

collar--for she had well understood the words of Madame Lanoy--with a

woman’s keen instinct she understood why Fortune’s collar had been drawn

closer about him. She had felt the thin, closely-folded paper, which

was tied up with the string in the dog’s collar, and she drew it out

rapidly, adroitly to hide it in her hand. She then called Hortense and

Eugene, and whilst she talked with them, she slowly and carefully, under

pretext of adjusting more closely the kerchief round her neck, secreted

the paper in her bosom.

The jailer had seen nothing; he was telling Madame Lanoy, with all the

pride of a kind father, that all the prisoners were anxious about his

little Eugenie; that all, more than once a day, inquired how it fared

with the little one; that she was the pet of the prisoners, who were so

delighted to have the child with them, and for long hours to jest and

play with her. Unfortunate captives, who nattered the child, and feigned

love for it, so as to move the father’s heart, and instil into it a

little compassion for their misfortune!

When Eugene and Hortense came the next time with their faithful Lanoy,

Fortune was again led by the string as a prisoner, and this time

Josephine was still more affectionate than before. She not only welcomed

him at his entrance, and lifted him up in her arms, but she was yet,

if possible, more affectionate toward him at the time of departure,

and embraced him, and tried if the collar had not been buckled on too

tightly, if the string which was tied round it did not hurt him too

much. And whilst she examined this, Eugene was telling the jailer that

he was now a worthy apprentice of a cabinet-maker, and that he hoped one

day to be a useful citizen of the republic. The jailer was listening to

him with a complacent smile, and had no suspicion that at this moment

Josephine’s cunning fingers were making sure with the string under the

collar the note in which she gave an answer to the other note that she

had before found under the collar of Fortune. [Footnote: “Souvenirs d’un

Sexagenaire,” par M.L. Arnould, vol. iii., p. 3.]

From this day, Josephine knew every thing of importance in Paris; from

this time she could point out to her children the means to pursue so as

to win to their parents influential and powerful friends, so that they

might one day be delivered from their captivity. Fortune was love’s

messenger between Josephine and her children; a beam of happiness

had penetrated both cells, where lived Alexandre de Beauharnais and

Josephine, and they owed this gleam only to the lapdog mail.

CHAPTER XIV. IN PRISON.

Since France had become a democratic republic, since the differences

in rank were abolished, and liberty, equality, and fraternity alone

prevailed, the aristocracy was either beyond the frontiers of France

or else in the prisons. Outside of the prison were but citoyens and

citoyennes; inside of the prison were yet dukes and duchesses, counts

and countesses, viscounts and viscountesses; there, behind locks

and bars, the aristocracy was represented in its most glorious and

high-sounding names.

And there also, within these walls, was the proud, strict dame, whom

Marie Antoinette had once, to her misfortune, driven away from the

Tuileries, and who had not been permitted to possess a single foot of

ground in all France--there, within the prison with the aristocrats,

lived also Madame Etiquette. She had to leave the Tuileries with the

nobility, and with the nobility she had entered into the prisons of the

Conciergerie and of the Carmelite Convent. There she ruled with the same

authority and with the same gravity as once in happier days she had done

in the king’s palace.

The republic had mixed together the prisoners without any distinction,

and in the hall, where every morning they gathered together to attend to

the roll-call of the condemned who were to report for the guillotine; in

the narrow rooms and cells, where they passed the rest of the day,

the republic had made no distinction between all these inmates of the

prison, dukes and simple knights, duchesses and baronesses, princesses

of the blood and country nobility of inferior degree. But etiquette

was there to remedy this unseemliness of fate and to re-establish the

natural order of things--etiquette, which had enacted rules and laws for

the halls of kings, enforced them also in the halls of prisons. Only for

the ladies of the most ancient nobility, the duchesses and princesses of

the blood, in the prison-rooms, as once in the king’s halls, the small

stool (tabouret) was reserved, and they were privileged to occupy the

rush-bottomed seats which were in the prisons, and which now replaced

the tabouret. No lady of inferior rank would consent to sit down in

their presence unless these ladies of superior rank had expressly

requested and entitled their inferior companions of misfortune to do so.

When, at the appointed hour, the halls were abandoned for the general

promenade in the yards of the Conciergerie, or in the small cloistered

gardens of the Carmelites, this recreation was preceded by a ceremony

which shortened its already short hour by at least ten minutes: the

ladies and the gentlemen, according to their order, rank, and nobility,

placed themselves in two rows on either side of the outer door, and

between them passed on first in ceremonial order of rank, as at a

court-festival, the ladies and gentlemen who at court were entitled

to the high and small levees, as well as to the tabouret, and to the

kissing of the queen’s hand. As they passed, each bowed low, and then,

with the same due observance of rank, as was customary at court, the

ladies and gentlemen of inferior titles followed two by two, when the

higher nobility had passed. [Footnote: “Souvenirs de la Marquise de

Crequi,” vol. v].

It was yet the court-society which was assembled here in the rooms and

cells of the prison; only this court-society, this aristocracy, had no

more King Louis to do homage unto, but they served another king, they

bowed low before another queen! This king to whom the nobility of France

belonged was Death; this queen to which proud heads bowed low was the

Guillotine!

It was King Death who now summoned the aristocrats to his court; the

scaffold was the hall of festivity where solemn homage was made to this

king. It would therefore have been against all etiquette to crowd into

this hall of festivity with beclouded countenance; this would have

diminished the respect due to King Death, if he had not been approached

with full-court ceremonial, and with the serene, easy smile of a

courtier. To die, to meet death was now a distinction, an honor for

which each almost envied the other. When at ten o’clock in the morning

the gathering took place in the large room, the conversation was of the

most cheerful and unaffected easiness; they joked, they laughed, they

speculated on politics, though it was well known that in a few minutes

yonder door was to open, and that on its threshold the jailer would

appear, list in hand; that from this list he would call out with his

loud, croaking voice, as Death’s harbinger, the names of those whose

death-warrants had been yesterday signed by Robespierre, and who would

have immediately to leave the hall, to mount the wagons which were

already waiting at the prison’s gate to drive them to the guillotine.

While the jailer read his list, suspense and excitement were visible on

all faces, but no one would have so deeply lowered himself as to betray

fear or anguish when his name fell from the lips of the jailer. The

smile remained on the lip, friends and acquaintances were bidden

farewell with a cheerful salutation, and with easy, unaffected demeanor

they quitted the hall to mount the fatal vehicle.

To die gracefully was now considered as much bon ton as it had been once

fashionable gracefully to enter the ballroom and do obeisance to

the king; contempt and scorn would have followed him who might have

exhibited a sorrowful mien, hesitation, or fear.

One morning the jailer had read his list, and sixteen gentlemen and

ladies of the aristocracy had consequently to leave the hall of the

Conciergerie to enter both wagons now ready at the gate. As they were

starting for the fatal journey a second turnkey appeared, to say

that through some accident only one of the wagons was ready, and that

consequently only eight of the sentenced ones could be driven to the

guillotine. This meant that the accident nullified eight death-warrants

and saved the lives of eight sentenced persons. For it was not

probable that these eight persons would next morning be honored with

an execution. Their warrants were signed, their names had been called;

neither the tribunal of the revolution nor the jailer could pay special

attention whether their heads had fallen or not. The next day would

bring on new condemnations, new lists, new distinctions for the wagons,

new heads for the guillotine. Whoever, on the day appointed for the

execution, missed the guillotine, could safely reckon that his life

was saved; that henceforth he was amongst the forgotten ones, of whom a

great number filled the prisons, and who expected their freedom through

some favorable accident.

To-day, therefore, only eight of the sixteen condemned were to mount the

wagon. But who were to be the favored ones? The two turnkeys, with cold

indifference, left the choice to the condemned. Only eight could be

accommodated in the wagon, they said, and it was the same who went or

who remained. “Make your choice!”

A strife arose among the sixteen condemned ones--not as to who might

remain behind, but as to those who might mount into the wagon.

The ladies declared that, according to the rules of common politeness,

which allowed ladies to go first, the choice belonged to them; the

gentlemen objected to this motion of the ladies on the plea that to

reach the guillotine steps had to be ascended, and as etiquette required

that in going up-stairs the gentlemen should always precede the ladies,

they were also now entitled to go first and to mount the steps of the

scaffold before the ladies. At last all had to give way to the claims of

the Duchess de Grammont, who declared that at this festival as at every

other the order of rank was to be observed, and that she, as well as all

the gentlemen and ladies of superior rank, had the undisputed privilege

now, as at all other celebrations, to take the precedency.

No one ventured to oppose this decision, and the Duchess de Grammont,

proud of the victory won, was the first to leave the room and mount the

wagon.

Another time the turnkey began to read the list: every one listened

with grave attention, and at every call a clear, cheerful “Here I am!”

followed.

But after the jailer, with wearied voice, had many times repeated a name

from his list, the accustomed answer failed. No one came forward, no one

seemed to be there to lay claim to that name and to the execution.

The jailer stopped a few minutes, and as all were dumb, he continued,

indifferent and unmoved, to call out the names.

“We will then have only fifteen heads to deliver to-day,” said he, after

reading the list, “for there must have been a mistake. One of the

names is false, or else the person to whom it belongs has already been

delivered.”

“It is probably but a blunder of the pen!” exclaimed a handsome young

man who, smiling, stepped out of the crowd of listeners and passed on to

the side where the victims stood. “You read Chapetolle. There is no

such name here. The hand of the writer was probably tired of writing the

numerous lists of those who are sentenced to death, and he has therefore

written the letters wrong. My name is Chapelotte, and I am the one meant

by Chapetolle.”

“I do not know,” said the jailer, “but it is certain that sixteen

sentenced ones ought to go into the wagons, and that only fifteen have

reported themselves in a legal way.”

“Well, then, add me in an illegal manner to your fifteen,” said the

young man, smiling. “Without doubt it is my name they intended to write.

I do not wish to save my life through a blunder in writing, and who

knows if another time I may find such good company as to-day in your

chariot? Allow me then to journey on with my friends.”

The jailer had no reason to refuse him this journey, and he had the

satisfaction besides of being thus able to deliver sixteen sentenced

prisoners to the guillotine.

Such was the society of the aristocrats, among whom Josephine lived the

long, dreary days of her imprisonment. The cell she occupied was

shared by two companions of misfortune, the Duchess de Aguillon and the

beautiful Madame de Fontenay, who afterward became Madame Tallien, so

distinguished and renowned for her beauty and wit. Therese de Fontenay

knew, and every one knew, that she was already sentenced, even if her

sentence was not yet written down and countersigned. It was recorded in

the heart of Robespierre. He had sentenced her, without any concealment.

She had but a few weeks more to endure the martyrdom, the anguish of

hope and of expectation. She was his secure victim; Robespierre needed

not hasten the fall of this beautiful head, which was the admiration of

all who saw it. This beauty was the very crime which Robespierre wanted

to punish, for with this beauty, Therese de Fontenay, who then resided

in Bordeaux with her husband, had captivated the old friend and

associate in sentiments of Robespierre, the fanatical Tallien; with

this beauty she had converted the man of blood and terror into a

soft, compassionate being, inclined to pardon and to mercy toward his

fellow-beings.

Tallien had been sent as commissionnaire from the Convention to

Bordeaux, and there with inexorable severity he had raged against the

unfortunate merchants, from whom he exacted enormous assessments, and

whom he sentenced to the guillotine if they refused, or were unable to

pay. But suddenly love changed the bloodthirsty tiger into a sensitive

being, and the beautiful Madame de Fontenay, who had become acquainted

with Tallien in the prison of Bordeaux, had worked a complete change in

his whole being. For the first time this man, who unmoved had condemned

to death King Louis and the Girondists, found on his lips the word

“pardon;” for the first time the hand which had signed so many

death-warrants wrote the order to let a prisoner go free.

This prisoner was Therese de Fontenay, the daughter of the Spanish

banker Cabarrus, and she rewarded him for the gift of her life with

a smile which forever made him her captive. From this time the

death-warrants were converted into pardons from his lips, and for every

pardon Therese thanked him with a sweet smile, with a glowing look of

love.

But this leniency was looked upon as criminal by the tribunal of

terror in Paris. They recalled the culprit who dared pardon instead of

punishing; and if Robespierre did not think himself powerful enough

to send Tallien as a traitor and as an apostate to the scaffold,

he punished him for his leniency by separating from him Therese de

Fontenay, who had abandoned the husband forced upon her, and who had

followed Tallien to Paris, and Robespierre had sent her to prison.

There, at the Carmelites’, was Therese de Fontenay; she occupied the

same cell as Josephine; the same misfortune had made them companions and

friends. They communicated one to the other their hopes and fears;

and when Josephine, with tears in her eyes, spoke to her friend of her

children, of her deep anguish, for they were alone and abandoned in the

world outside of the prison walls, whilst their unfortunate pitiable

mother languished in prison, Therese comforted and encouraged her.

“So long as one lives there is hope,” said Therese, with her enchanting

smile. “Myself, who in the eyes of you all am sentenced to death,

hope--no, I hope not--I am convinced that I will soon obtain my freedom.

And I swear that, as soon as I am free, I will stir heaven and earth to

procure the liberty of my dear friend Josephine and of her husband the

Viscount de Beauharnais, and to give back to the poor orphaned children

their parents.”

Josephine answered with an incredulous smile, and a shrugging of the

shoulders; and then Therese’s very expressive countenance glowed, and

her large, black eyes flashed deeper gleams.

“You have no faith in me, Josephine,” she said, vehemently; “but I

repeat to you, I will soon obtain my freedom, and then I will procure

your liberty and that of your husband.”

“But how will you obtain that?” asked Josephine, shaking her head.

“I will ruin Robespierre,” said Therese, gravely.

“In what do your means of ruining him consist?”

“In this letter here,” said Therese, as she drew out of her bosom a

small paper folded up. “See, this sheet of paper; it consists but of a

few lines which, since they would not furnish me with writing-materials,

I have written with my blood on this sheet of paper, which I found

yesterday in the garden during the promenade. The turnkey will give this

letter to-day to Tallien. He has given me his word, and I have promised

him that Tallien will recompense him magnificently for it. This letter

will ruin Robespierre and make me free, and then I will procure the

freedom of the Viscount and of the Viscountess de Beauharnais.”

“What then, in that letter is the magic word which is to work out such

wonders?”

Therese handed the paper to her friend.

“Read,” said she, smiling.

Josephine read: “Therese of Fontenay to the citizen Tallien. Either in

eight days I am free and the wife of my deliverer, the noble and brave

Tallien, who will have freed the world from the monster Robespierre, or

else, in eight days, I mount the scaffold; and my last thought will be

a curse for the cowardly, heartless man who has not had the courage to

risk his life for her he loved, and who suffers for his sake, for his

sake meets death--who had not the mind to consider that with daring deed

he must destroy the bloodthirsty fiend or be ruined by him. Therese de

Fontenay will ever love her Tallien if he delivers her; she will

hate him, even in death, if he sacrifices her to Robespierre’s

blood-greediness!”

“If, through mishap, Robespierre should receive this letter, then you

and Tallien are lost,” sighed Josephine.

“But Tallien, and not Robespierre, will receive it, and I am saved,”

exclaimed Therese. “Therefore, my friend, take courage and be bold. Wait

but eight days patiently. Let us wait and hope.”

“Yes, let us wait and hope,” sighed Josephine. “Hope and patience are

the only companions of the captive.”

CHAPTER XV. DELIVERANCE.

Meanwhile the patience of the unfortunate prisoners of the Carmelite

convent were to be subjected to a severe trial; and the very next day

after this conversation with Therese de Fontenay, Josephine believed

that there was no more hope for her, that she was irrevocably lost, as

her husband was lost. For three days she had not seen the viscount, nor

received any news from him. Only a vague report had reached her that the

viscount was no longer in the Carmelite convent, but that he had been

transferred to the Conciergerie.

This report told the truth. Alexandre de Beauharnais had once more been

denounced, and this second accusation was his sentence of death. For

some time past the fanatical Jacobins had invented a new means to find

guilty ones for the guillotine, and to keep the veins bleeding, so as

to restore France to health. They sent emissaries into the prisons to

instigate conspiracies among the prisoners, and to find out men wretched

enough to purchase their life by accusing their prison companions, and

by delivering them over to the executioner’s axe. Such a spy had been

sent into that portion of the prison where Beauharnais was, and he had

begun his horrible work, for he had kindled discord and strife among the

prisoners, and had won a few to his sinister projects. But Beauharnais’s

keen eye had discovered the traitor, and he had loudly and openly

denounced him to his fellow-prisoners. The next day, the spy disappeared

from the prison, but as he went he swore bloody vengeance on General de

Beauharnais. [Footnote: “Memoires du Comte de Lavalette,” vol. i., p.

175.]

And he kept his word; the next morning De Beauharnais was summoned

for trial, and the gloomy, hateful faces of his judges, their hostile

questions and reproaches, the capital crimes they accused him of, led

him to conclude that his death was decided upon, and that he was doomed

to the guillotine.

In the night which followed his trial, Alexandre de Beauharnais wrote to

his wife a letter, in which he communicated to her his sad forebodings,

and bade her farewell for this life. The next day he was transferred to

the Conciergerie--that is to say, into the vestibule of the scaffold.

This letter of her husband, received by Josephine the next day after her

conversation with Therese de Fontenay, ran thus:

“The fourth Thermidor, in the second year of the republic. All the signs

of a kind of trial, to which I and other prisoners have been subjected

this day, tell me that I am the victim of the treacherous calumny of a

few aristocrats, patriots so called, of this house. The mere conjecture

that this hellish machination will follow me to the tribunal of the

revolution gives me no hope to see you again, my friend, no more

to embrace you or our children. I speak not of my sorrow: my tender

solicitude for you, the heartfelt affection which unites me to you,

cannot leave you in doubt of the sentiments with which I leave this

life.

“I am also sorry to have to part with my country, which I love, for

which I would a thousand times have laid down my life, and which I

no more can serve, but which beholds me now quit her bosom, since she

considers me to be a bad citizen. This heart-rending thought does not

allow me to commend my memory to you; labor, then, to make it pure

in proving that a life which has been devoted to the service of the

country, and to the triumph of liberty and equality, must punish that

abominable slanderer, especially when he comes from a suspicious

class of men. But this labor must be postponed; for in the storms of

revolution, a great people, struggling to reduce its chains to dust,

must of necessity surround itself with suspicion, and be more afraid to

forget a guilty man than to put an innocent one to death.

“I will die with that calmness which allows man to feel emotion at the

thought of his dearest inclinations--I will die with that courage which

is the distinctive feature of a free man, of a clear conscience, of an

exalted soul, whose highest wishes are the prosperity and growth of the

republic.

“Farewell, my friend; gather consolation from my children; derive

comfort in educating them, in teaching them that, by their virtues

and their devotion to their country, they obliterate the memory of my

execution, and recall to national gratitude my services and my claims.

Farewell to those I love: you know them! Be their consolation, and

through your solicitude for them prolong my life in their hearts!

Farewell! for the last time in this life I press you and my children to

my heart!--ALEXANDRE BEAUHARNAIS.”

Josephine had read this letter with a thousand tears, but she hoped

still; she believed still in the possibility that the gloomy forebodings

of her husband would not be realized; that some fortunate circumstance

would save him or at least retard his death.

But this hope was not to be fulfilled. A few hours after receiving

this letter the turnkey brought to the prisoners the bulletin of the

executions of the preceding day. It was that day Josephine’s turn to

read this bulletin to her companions. She therefore began her sad task;

and, as slowly and thoughtfully she let fall name after name from her

lips, here and there the faces of her hearers were blanched, and their

eyes filled with tears.

Suddenly Josephine uttered a piercing cry, and sprang up with the

movement of madness toward the door, shook it in her deathly sorrow, as

if her life hung upon the opening of that door, and then she sank down

fainting.

Unfortunate Josephine! she had seen in the list of those who had been

executed the name of General Beauharnais, and in the first excitement

of horror she wanted to rush out to see him, or at least to give to his

body the parting kiss.

On the sixth Thermidor, in the year II., that is, on the 24th of

July, 1794, fell on the scaffold the head of the General Viscount de

Beauharnais. With quiet, composed coolness he had ascended the scaffold,

and his last cry, as he laid his head on the block, was, “Long live the

republic!”

In the wagon which drove him to the scaffold, he had found again a

friend, the Prince de Salm-Kirbourg, who was now on his way to the

guillotine, and who had risked his life in bringing back to Paris the

children of Josephine.

His bloodthirsty enemies had not enough of the head of General

Beauharnais; his wife’s head also should fall, and the name of the

traitor of his country was to be extinguished forever.

Two days after the execution of her husband, the turnkey brought to

Josephine the writ of her accusation, and the summons to appear before

the tribunal of the revolution--a summons which then had all the

significancy of a death-warrant.

Josephine heard the summons of the jailer with a quiet, easy smile; she

had not even a look for the fatal paper which lay on her bed. Near this

bed stood the physician, whom the compassionate republic, which would

not leave its prisoners to die on a sick-bed, but only on the scaffold,

had sent to Josephine to inquire into her illness and afford her relief.

With indignation he eagerly snatched the paper from the bed, and,

returning it back to the jailer, exclaimed: “Tell the tribunal of the

revolution that it has nothing more to do with this woman! Disease will

bring on justice here, and leave nothing to do for the guillotine. In

eight days Citoyenne Beauharnais is dead!” [Footnote: Aubenas, “Histoire

de l’Imperatrice Josephine,” vol. i., p. 235.]

This decision of the physician was transmitted to the tribunal, which

resolved that the trial of Madame Beauharnais would be postponed for

eight days, and that the tribunal would wait and see if truly death

would save her from the guillotine.

Meanwhile, during these eight days, events were to pass which were to

give a very different form to the state of things, and impart to the

young republic a new, unexpected attitude.

Robespierre ruled yet, he was the feared dictator of France! But Tallien

had received the note of his beautiful, fondly-loved Therese, and he

swore to himself that she should not ascend the scaffold, that she

should not curse him, that he would possess her, that he would win her

love, and destroy the fiend who stood in the way of his happiness, whose

blood-streaming hands were every day ready to sign her death-warrant.

On the very same day in which he received the letter of Therese,

he conversed with a few trusty friends, men whom he knew detested

Robespierre as much as himself, and who all longed for an occasion to

destroy him. They planned a scheme of attack against the dictator who

imperilled the life of all, and from whom it was consequently necessary

to take away life and power, so as to be sure of one’s life. It was

decided to launch an accusation against him before the whole Convention,

to incriminate him as striving after dominion, as desirous of breaking

the republic with his bloody hands, and ambitious to exalt himself into

dictator and sovereign. Tallien undertook to fulminate this accusation

against him, and they all agreed to wait yet a few days so as to gain

amongst the deputies in the Convention some members who would support

the accusation and give countenance to the conspirators. On the ninth

Thermidor this scheme was to be carried out; on the ninth Thermidor,

Tallien was to thunder forth the accusation against Robespierre and move

his punishment!

This enterprise, however, seemed a folly, an impossibility, for at this

time Robespierre was at the height of his power, and fear weighed

upon the whole republic as a universal agony. No one dared oppose

Robespierre, for a look from his eye, a sign from his hand sufficed to

bring death, to lead to the scaffold.

The calm, peaceful, and united republic for which Robespierre had

toiled, which had been the ultimate end of his bloodthirstiness, was at

last there, but this republic was built upon corpses, was baptized with

streams of blood and tears. And now that the republic had given up

all opposition, now that she bowed, trembling under the hand of her

conqueror, now, Robespierre wanted to make her happy, he wanted to give

her what the storms of past years had ravished from her--he wanted

to give the republic a God! On the tribune of the Convention, on this

tribune which was his throne, rose Robespierre, to tell with grave

dignity to the republic that there was a Supreme Being, that the soul of

man was immortal. Then, accompanied by the Convention, he proceeded to

the Champ de Mars, to inaugurate the celebration of the worship of a

Supreme Being as his high-priest. But amid this triumph, on his way

to the Champ de Mars, Robespierre the conqueror had for the first time

noticed the murmurs of the Tarpeian rock; he had noticed the dark,

threatening glances which were directed at him from all sides. He felt

the danger which menaced him, and he was determined to remove it from

his person by annihilating those who threatened.

But already terror had lost its power, no one trembled before the

guillotine, no one took pleasure in the fall of the axe, in the streams

of blood, which empurpled the Place de la Revolution. The fearful

stillness of death hung round the guillotine, the people were tired

of applauding it, and now and then from the silent ranks of the people

thundered forth in threatening accents the word “tyrant!” which, as the

first weapon of attack, was directed against Robespierre, who, on the

heights of the tribune, was throned with his unmoved, calm countenance.

Robespierre felt that he must strike a heavy, decisive blow against his

foes and annihilate them. On the eighth Thermidor, he denounced a plot

organized by his enemies for breaking up the Convention. Through St.

Just he implicated as leaders of this conspiracy some eminent members

of the committees, and requested their dismissal. But the time was

past when his motions were received with jubilant acclamations, and

unconditionally obeyed. The Convention decided to submit the motion

of Robespierre to a vote, and the matter was postponed to the next

morning’s session.

In the night which preceded the contemplated action of the Convention,

Robespierre went to the Jacobin Club and requested assistance against

his enemies in the Convention. He was received with enthusiasm, and

a general uprising of the revolutionary element was decided upon, and

organized for the following morning.

The same night, Tallien, his friends and adherents, met together, and

the mode of attack for the following day, the ninth Thermidor, was

discussed, and the parts assigned to each.

The prisoners in the Carmelite convent did not of course suspect any

thing of the events which were preparing beyond the walls of their

prison. Even Therese de Fontenay was low-spirited and sad; for this day,

the ninth Thermidor, was the last day of respite fixed by her to Tallien

for her liberty.

This was also the last day of respite which had saved Josephine from the

tribunal of the revolution, through the decision of her physician.

Death had spared her head, but now it belonged to the executioner. The

captives feared the event, and they were confirmed in this fear by the

jailer, who, on the morning of the ninth Thermidor, entered the room

which Josephine, the Duchess d’Aiguillon, and Therese de Fontenay

occupied, and who removed the camp-bed which Josephine had hitherto used

as a sofa, to give it to another prisoner.

“How,” exclaimed the Duchess d’Aiguillon, “do you want to give this bed

to another prisoner? Is Madame de Beauharnais to have a better one?”

The turnkey burst into a coarse laugh. “Alas! no,” said he, with a

significant gesture, “Citoyenne Beauharnais will soon need a bed no

more.”

Her friends broke into tears; but Josephine remained composed and quite.

At this decisive moment a fearful self-possession and calmness came over

her; all sufferings and sorrow appeared to have sunk away, all anxiety

and care seemed overcome, and a radiant smile illumined Josephine’s

features, for, through a wondrous association of ideas, she suddenly

remembered the prophecy of the negro-woman in Martinique.

“Be calm, my friends,” said she, smiling; “weep not, do not consider me

as destined to the scaffold, for I assure you I am going to live: I

must not die, for I am destined to be one day the sovereign of France.

Therefore, no more tears! I am the future Queen of France!”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Duchess d’Aiguillon, half angry and half sad, “why

not at once appoint your state dignitaries?”

“You are right,” said Josephine, eagerly; “this is the best time to

do so. Well, then, my dear duchess, I now appoint you to be my maid of

honor, and I swear it will be so.”

“My God! she is mad!” exclaimed the duchess, and, nearly fainting, she

sank upon her chair.

Josephine laughed, and opened the window to admit some fresh air. She

perceived there below in the street a woman making to her all manner of

signs and gestures. She lifted up her arms, she then took hold of her

dress, and with her hand pointed to her robe.

It was evident that she wished through these signs and motions to convey

some word to the prisoners, whom perhaps she knew, for she repeatedly

took hold of her robe with one hand, and pointed at it with the other.

“Robe?” cried out Josephine interrogatively.

The woman nodded in the affirmative, then took up a stone, which she

held up to the prisoner’s view.

“Pierre?” ask Josephine.

The woman again nodded in the affirmative, and then placed the stone

(pierre) in her robe, made several times the motion of falling, then of

cutting off the neck, and then danced and clapped her hands.

“My friends,” cried Josephine, struck with a sudden thought, “this woman

brings us good news, she tells us Robespierre est tombe.” (Robespierre

has fallen.)

“Yes, it is so,” exclaimed Therese, triumphantly; “Tallien has kept his

word; he conquers, and Robespierre is thrust down!”

And, overpowered with joy and emotion, the three women, weeping, sank

into each other’s arms.

They now heard from without loud cries and shouts. It was the jailer,

quarrelling with his refractory dog. The dog howled, and wanted to go

out with his master, but the jailer kicked him back, saying: “Away, go

to the accursed Robespierre!”

Soon joyous voices resounded through the corridor; the door of their

cell was violently opened, and a few municipal officers entered to

announce to the Citizeness Madame Fontenay that she was free, and bade

her accompany them into the carriage waiting below to drive her to the

house of Citizen Tallien. Behind them pressed the prisoners who, from

the reception-room, had followed the authorities, to entreat them to

give them the news of the events in Paris.

There was now no reason for the municipal authorities to make a secret

of the events which at this hour occupied all Paris, and which would

soon be welcomed throughout France as the morning dawn of a new day.

Robespierre had indeed fallen! Tallien and his friends had in the

Convention brought against the despot the accusation that he was

striving for the sovereign power, and that he had enthroned a Supreme

Being merely to proclaim himself afterward His visible representative,

and to take all power in his own hands. When Robespierre had endeavored

to justify himself, he had been dragged away from the speaker’s tribune;

and, as he defended himself, Tallien had drawn a dagger on Robespierre,

and was prevented from killing the tyrant by a few friends, who by

main force turned the dagger away. Immediately after this scene, the

Convention decided to arrest Robespierre and his friends Couthon and St.

Just; and the prisoners, among whom Robespierre’s younger brother had

willingly placed himself, were led away to the Luxemburg. [Footnote:

The next day, on the tenth Thermidor, Robespierre, who in the night had

attempted to put an end to his life with a pistol, was executed

with twenty-one companions. His brother was among the number of the

executed.]

The prisoners welcomed this news with delight; for with the fall of

Robespierre, had probably sounded for them the hour of deliverance, and

they could hope that their prison’s door would soon be opened, not to be

led to the scaffold, but to obtain their freedom.

Therese de Fontenay, with the messengers sent by Tallien, left the

Carmelite cloisters to fulfil the promise made by her to Tallien in

her letter, to become his wife, and to pass at his side new days of

happiness and love.

She embraced Josephine tenderly as she bade her farewell, and renewed to

her the assurance that she would consider it her dearest and most sacred

duty to obtain her friend’s liberty.

In the evening of the same day, Josephine’s camp-bed was restored to

her; and, stretching herself upon it with intense delight, she said

smilingly to her friends: “You see, I am not yet guillotined; I will be

Queen of France.” [Footnote: “Memoires sur l’Imperatrice Josephine,” ch.

xxxiii.]

Therese de Fontenay, now Citoyenne Tallien, kept her word. Three days

after obtaining her liberty, she came herself to fetch Josephine out

of prison. Her soft, mild disposition had resumed its old spell over

Tallien, whom the Convention had appointed president of the Committee of

Safety. The death-warrants signed by Robespierre were annulled, and the

prisons were opened, to restore to hundreds of accused life and liberty.

The bloody and tearful episode of the revolution had closed with the

fall of Robespierre, and on the ninth Thermidor the republic assumed a

new phase.

Josephine was free once more! With tears of bliss she embraced her two

children, her dear darlings, found again! In pressing her offspring to

her heart with deep, holy emotion, she thought of their father, who had

loved them both so much, who had committed to her the sacred trust of

keeping alive in the hearts of his children love for their father.

Encircling still her children in her arms, she bowed them on their

knees; and, lifting up to heaven her eyes, moist with tears, she

whispered to them: “Let us pray, children; let us lift up our thoughts

to heaven, where your father is, and whence he looks down upon us to

bless his children.”

Josephine delayed not much longer in Paris, where the air was yet damp

with the blood of so many murdered ones; where the guillotine, on which

her husband had died, lifted yet its threatening head. She hastened with

her children to Fontainebleau, there to rest from her sorrows on the

heart of her father-in-law, to weep with him on the loss they both had

suffered.

The dream of her first youth and of her first love had passed away, and

to the father of her beheaded husband Josephine returned a widow; rich

in gloomy, painful experiences, poor in hopes, but with a stout heart,

and a determination to live, and to be at once a father and a mother to

her children.

BOOK II. THE WIFE OF GENERAL BONAPARTE.

CHAPTER XVI. BONAPARTE IN CORSICA.

The civil war which for four years had devastated France had also with

its destruction and its terrors overspread the French colonies, and in

Martinique as well as in Corsica two parties stood opposed to each other

in infuriated bitterness--one fighting for the rights of the native

land, the other for the rights of the French people, for the “liberty,

equality, and fraternity” which the Convention in Paris had adopted

for its motto, since it delivered to the guillotine, on the Place de

la Revolution, the heads of those who dared lay claim for themselves to

this liberty of thought so solemnly proclaimed.

In Corsica both parties fought with the same eagerness as in France, and

the execution of Louis XVI. had only made the contest more violent and

more bitter.

One of these parties looked with horror on this guillotine which had

drunk the blood of the king, and this party desired to have nothing in

common with this French republic, with this blood-streaming Convention

which had made of terror a law, and which had destroyed so many lives in

the name of liberty.

At the head of this party stood the General Pascal Paoli, whom the

revolution had recalled to his native isle from his exile of twenty

years, and who objected that Corsica should bend obediently under the

blood-stained hand of the French Convention, and whose wish it was that

the isle should be an independent province of the great French republic.

To exalt Corsica into a free, independent republic had been the idea of

his whole life. For the sake of this idea he had passed twenty years in

exile; for, after having made Corsica independent of Genoa, he had not

been able to obtain for his native isle that independence for which

he had fought with his brave Genoese troops. During eight years he had

perseveringly maintained the conflict--during eight years he had been

the ruler of Corsica, but immovable in his republican principles; he had

rejected the title of king, which the Corsican people, grateful for

the services rendered to their fatherland, had offered him. He had been

satisfied to be the first and most zealous servant of the island, which,

through his efforts, had been liberated from the tyrannical dominion of

Genoa. But Genoa’s appeal for assistance had brought French troops to

Corsica; the Genoese, harassed and defeated everywhere by Paoli’s brave

troops, had finally transferred the island to France. This was not what

Paoli wanted--this was not for what he had fought!

Corsica was to be a free and independent republic; she was to bow no

more to France than to Genoa; Corsica was to be free.

In vain did the French government make to General Paoli the most

brilliant offers; he rejected them; he called the Corsicans to the most

energetic resistance to the French occupation; and when he saw that

opposition was in vain, that Corsica had to submit, he at least would

not yield, and he went to England.

The cry for liberty which, in the year 1790, resounded from France, and

which made the whole world tremble, brought him back from England to

Corsica, and he took the oath of allegiance to free, democratic France.

But the blood of the king had annulled this oath, the Convention’s

reign of terror had filled his soul with horror; and, after solemnly

separating himself from France, he had, in the year 1793, convoked a

Consulta, to decide whether Corsica was to submit to the despotism of

the French republic, or if it was to be a free and independent state.

The Consulta chose the latter position, and named Paoli for president as

well as for general-in-chief of the Corsicans.

The National Convention at once called the culprit to its bar,

and ordered him to Paris to justify his conduct, or to receive the

punishment due. But General Paoli paid no attention to the imperious

orders of the Convention, which, as the chief appeared not at its bar,

declared him, on the 15th of May, 1793, a traitor to his country, and

sent commissioners to Corsica to arrest the criminal.

This traitor to the state, the General Pascal Paoli, was then at the

head of the Moderate party in Corsica, and he loudly and solemnly

declared that, in case of absolute necessity, it would be preferable to

call England to their assistance than to accept the yoke of the French

republic, which had desecrated her liberty, since she had soiled it with

the blood of so many innocent victims.

But in opposition to General Paoli rose up with wild clamor the other

party, the party of young, enthusiastic heads, who were intoxicated with

the democratic ideas which had obtained the sway in France, and which

they imagined, so great was their impassioned devotedness to them,

possessed the power and the ability to conquer the whole world.

At the head of this second party, which claimed unconditional adherence

to France, to the members of the Convention--at the head of this

fanatical, Corsican, republican, and Jacobin party, stood the Bonaparte

family, and above them all the two brothers Joseph and Napoleon.

Joseph was now, in the year 1793, chief justice of the tribunal of

Ajaccio; Napoleon, who was captain of artillery in the French army of

Italy, had then obtained leave of absence to visit his family. Both

brothers had been hitherto the most affectionate and intimate admirers

of Paoli, and especially Napoleon, who, from his earliest childhood, had

cherished the most unbounded admiration for the patriot who preferred

exile to a dependent grandeur in Corsica. Even now, since Paoli’s return

to Corsica, and Napoleon had had many opportunities to see him, his

admiration for the great chief had lost nothing of its force or

vitality. Paoli seemed sincerely to return this inclination of Napoleon

and of his brother, and in the long evening walks, which both

brothers made with him, Napoleon’s mind opened itself, before his old,

experienced companion, the great general, the noble republican, with

a freedom and a candor such as he had never manifested to others. With

subdued admiration Paoli listened to his short, energetic explanations,

to his descriptions, to his war-schemes, to his warm enthusiasm for the

republic; and one day, carried away by the warmth of the young captain

of artillery, the general, fixing his glowing eyes upon him, exclaimed:

“Young man, you are modelled after the antique; you belong to Plutarch!”

“And to General Paoli!” replied Napoleon, eagerly, as he pressed his

friend’s hand affectionately in his own.

But now this harmonious concord between General Paoli and the young men

was destroyed by the passion of party views. Joseph as well as Napoleon

belonged to the French party; they soon became its leaders; they were

at the head of the club which they had organized according to the maxims

and principles of the Jacobin Club in Paris, and to which they gave the

same name.

In this Jacobin Club at Ajaccio Napoleon made speeches full of glowing

enthusiasm for the French republic, for the ideas of freedom; in this

club he enjoined on the people of Corsica to adhere loyally to France,

to keep fast and to defend with life and blood the acquired liberty of

republican France, to regard and drive away as traitors to their country

all those who dared guide the Corsican people on another track.

But the Corsican people were not there to hear the enthusiastic speeches

about liberty and to follow them. Only a few hundred ardent republicans

of the same sentiment applauded the republican Napoleon, and cried aloud

that the republic must be defended with blood and life. The majority of

the Corsican people flocked to Paoli, and the commissioners sent by

the Convention from Paris to Corsica, to depose and arrest Paoli, found

co-operation and assistance only among the inhabitants of the cities

and among the French troops. Paoli, the president of the Consulta, was

located at Corte; the messengers of the Convention gathered in Bastia

the adherents of France, and excited them to strenuous efforts against

the rebellious Consulta and the insurgent Paoli. Civil war with all its horrors was there; the raging conflicts of the

parties tore apart the holy bonds of family, friendship, and love.

Brother fought and argued against brother, friend rose up against

friend, and whole families were destroyed, rent asunder by the

impassioned rivalries of sentiment and partisanship. Denunciations and

accusations, suspicions and enmities, followed. Every one trembled at

his own shadow; and, to turn aside the peril of death, it was necessary

to strike. [Footnote: “Memoires du Roi Joseph,” vol. i., p. 51.]

The Bonaparte brothers opposed General Paoli with violent bitterness;

bloody conflicts took place, in which the national Corsican party

remained victorious. Irritated and embittered by the opposition which

some of the natives themselves were making to his patriotic efforts,

Paoli persecuted with zealous activity the conquered, whom he resolved

to destroy, that they might not imperil the young Corsican independence.

Joseph and Napoleon Bonaparte were the leaders of this party, and Paoli

knew too well the energy and the intellectual superiority of Napoleon

not to dread his influence. Him, above all things, him and his family,

must he render harmless, so as to weaken and to intimidate the French

party. He sent agents to Ajaccio, to arrest the whole Bonaparte family,

and at the same time his troops approached the town to occupy it and

make the French commissioners prisoners. But these latter, informed in

time of the danger, had gained time and saved themselves on board the

French frigate lying in the harbor, and with them the whole Bonaparte

family had embarked. Napoleon, on whom the attention of Paoli’s agents

had been specially directed, was more than once in danger of being

seized by them, and it was due to the advice of a friend that, disguised

as a sailor, he saved himself in time on board the French frigate and

joined his family. [Footnote: “Memoires de la Duchess d’Abrantes,” vol.

i.] The commissioners of the Convention at once ordered the anchor to be

weighed, and to steer toward France.

This frigate, on board of which the Bonaparte family in its flight had

embarked, carried to France the future emperor and his fortune.

The house, the possessions of the Bonaparte family, fell a prey to

the conquerors, and on them they gave vent to their vengeance for

the successful escape of the fugitives. A witness of these facts is

a certificate which Joseph Bonaparte a few months later procured from

Corsica, and which ran as follows:

“I, the undersigned, Louis Conti, procurator-syndic of the district of

Ajaccio, department of Corsica, declare and certify: in the month of

May of this year, when General Paoli and the administration of the

department had sent into the city of Ajaccio armed troops, in concert

with other traitors in the city, took possession of the fortress, drove

away the administration of the district, incarcerated a large portion of

the patriots, disarmed the republican forces, and, when these refused

to give up the commissioners of the National Convention, Paoli’s troops

fired upon the vessel which carried these commissioners:

“That these rebels endeavored to seize the Bonaparte family, which had

the good fortune to elude their pursuit:

“That they destroyed, plundered, and burnt everything which belonged to

this family, whose sole crime consisted in their unswerving fidelity to

the republicans, and in their refusal to take any part in the scheme

of isolation, rebellion, and disloyalty, of which Paoli and the

administration of the department had become guilty.

“I moreover declare and certify that this family, consisting of ten

individuals, and who stood high in the esteem of the people of the

island, possessed the largest property in the whole department, and that

now they are on the continent of the republic.

“(Signed) CONTI, Proc.-Synd. Delivered on the 5th of September, 1793,

Year II. of the republic.” [Footnote: “Memoires du Roi Joseph,” vol. i.,

p. 52.]

Paoli, the conqueror of the French republic, the patriotic enemy of the

Bonaparte family, drove Napoleon Bonaparte from his native soil! The

cannon of the Corsican patriots fired upon the ship on which the future

emperor of the French was steering toward his future empire!

But this future lay still in an invisible, cloudy distance--of one

thing, however, was the young captain of artillery fully conscious:

from this hour he had broken with the past, and, by his dangers and

conflicts, by the sacrifice of his family’s property, by his flight from

Corsica, given to the world a solemn testimony that he recognized

no other country, that he owed allegiance to no other nation than to

France. He had proved that his feelings were not Corsican, but French.

The days of his childhood and youth sank away behind him, with the

deepening shadows of the island of Corsica, and the shores which rose

before him on the horizon were the shores of France. There lay his

future--his empire!

CHAPTER XVII. NAPOLEON BONAPARTE BEFORE TOULON.

Whilst Paris, yet trembling, bowed under the bloody rule of the

Convention, a spirit of opposition and horror began to stir in the

provinces; fear of the terrorists, of the Convention, began to kindle

the courage, to make defiance to these men of horror, and to put an end

to terrorism. The province of Vendee, in her faithfulness and loyalty to

the royal family, arose in deadly conflict against the republicans;

the large cities of the south, with Toulon at their head, had shielded

themselves from the horrors which the home government would have brought

them, by uniting with the enemies who now from all sides pressed upon

France.

Toulon gave itself up to the combined fleet of England and Spain.

Marseilles, Lyons, and Nismes, contracted an alliance together, and

declared their independence of the Convention and of the terrorists.

Everywhere in all the cities and communities of the south the people

rose up, and seditions and rebellions took place. Everywhere the

Convention had to send its troops to re-establish peace by force, and

to compel the people to submit to its rule. Whole army corps had to be

raised to win back to the republic the rebellious cities, and only after

hard fighting did General Carteaux subdue Marseilles.

But Toulon held out still, and within its protecting walls had the

majority of the inhabitants of Marseilles taken refuge before the wrath

of the Convention, which had already sent to the latter some of

its representatives, to establish there the destructive work of the

guillotine. Toulon offered them safety; it seemed impregnable, as much

by its situation as by the number and strength of its defenders. It

could also defy any siege, since the sea was open, and it could by this

channel be provisioned through the English and Spanish fleet.

No one trembled before the little army of seventeen thousand men which,

under General Carteaux, had invested Toulon.

But in this little army of the republicans was a young soldier whom yet

none knew, none feared, but whose fame was soon to resound throughout

the world, and before whom all Europe was soon tremblingly to bow.

This young man was Napoleon Bonaparte, the captain of artillery. He had

come from Italy (where his regiment was) to France, to make there, by

order of his general, some purchases for the park of artillery of

the Italian army. But some of the people’s representatives had had an

opportunity of recognizing the sharp eye and the military acquirements

of the young captain of artillery; they interceded in his favor, and he

was promoted to the army corps which was before Toulon, and at once sent

in the capacity of assistant to General Carteaux, with whom also was

Napoleon’s brother Joseph, as chief of the general’s staff.

From this moment the siege, which until now had not progressed

favorably, was pushed on with renewed energy, and it was due to the

cautious activity, the daring spirit of the captain of artillery, that

marked advantages were gained over the English, and that from them many

redoubts were taken, and the lines of the French drawn closer and closer

to the besieged city.

But yet, after many months of siege, Toulon held out still. From the

sea came provisions and ammunition, and on the land-side Toulon was

protected against capture by a fort occupied by English troops, and

which, on account of its impregnable position, was called “Little

Gibraltar.” From this position hot-balls and howitzers had free range

all over the seaboard, for this fort stood between the two harbors

of the city and immediately opposite Toulon. The English, fully

appreciating the importance of the position, had occupied it with six

thousand men, and surrounded it with intrenchments.

It came to this, as Napoleon in a council of war declared to the

general, that the English must be driven out of their position; then,

when this fort was taken, in two days Toulon must yield.

The plan was decided upon, and from this moment the besiegers directed

all their strength no more against Toulon, but against the important

fort, “Little Gibraltar,” “for there,” as Napoleon said, “there was the

key to Toulon.”

All Europe now watched with intense anxiety the events near Toulon; all

France, which hitherto with divided sentiments had wished the victory

to side now with the besieged, now with the besiegers, forgot its

differences of opinion, and was united in the one wish to expel the

hated enemy and rival, the English, from the French city, and to crown

the efforts of the French army with victory.

The Convention, irritated that its orders should not have been

immediately carried out, had in its despotic power recalled from his

command General Carteaux, who could not succeed in capturing Toulon,

and had appointed as chief of battalion the young captain of artillery,

Napoleon Bonaparte, on account of his bravery in capturing some

dangerous redoubts. The successor of Carteaux, the old General

Dugommier, recognizing the superior mind of the young chief of

battalion, willingly followed his plans, and was readily guided and led

by the surer insight of the young man.

The position of new Gibraltar had to be conquered so as to secure the

fall of Toulon; such was, such remained Napoleon’s unswerving judgment.

No effort, no cost, no blood, was to be spared to attain this result. He

placed new batteries against the fort; stormed the forts Malbosquet and

Ronge; a terrible struggle ensued, in which the English General O’Hara

was taken prisoner by the French, and the English had to leave the fort

and retreat into the city.

The first great advantage was won, but Little Gibraltar remained still

in the hands of the English, and Napoleon desired, and felt it as an

obligation, to subdue it at any price.

But already the Convention began to be discouraged, and to lose energy,

and the deputies of the people, Barras and Freron, who until now had

remained with the besieging army, hastened to Paris to implore the

Convention to give up the siege, and to recall the army from Toulon.

But before they reached Paris the matter was to be decided before

Toulon. The fate of the Little Gibraltar was to be fulfilled; it was to

be taken, or in the storming of it the French army was to perish.

Thousands of shells were thrown into the fort, thirty cannon thundered

against it. Napoleon Bonaparte mixed with the artillerymen, encouraged

by his bold words their activity, their energy, and their bravery, and

pointed to them the spots where to direct their balls. Whilst he was

in conversation with one of the cannoneers near whom he stood, a

cannon-ball from the English tore away the head of the artilleryman who

had just lifted up the match to fire his cannon.

Napoleon quietly took up the burning match out of the hand of the dead

man, and discharged the gun. Then, with all the zeal and tact of an

experienced cannoneer, he began to load the piece, to send forth its

balls against the enemy and for many hours he remained at this post,

until another artilleryman was found to relieve the chief of division.

[Footnote: This brave action of Napoleon was to have for him evil

results. The cannoneer, from whose hand he took the match, was suffering

from the most distressing skin-disease, generally breaking out with the

greatest violence in the hand. The match which the cannoneer had for

hours held in his hand was yet warm with its pressure, and imparted to

Napoleon’s hand the poison of the contagious disease. For years he had

to endure the eruption, which he could not conquer, as he had conquered

nations and princes, but to its destructive and painful power he had

to subdue his body. The nervous agitations to which he was subject, the

shrugging of his right shoulder, the white-greenish complexion of his

face, the leanness of his body, were all consequences of this disease.

It was only when Napoleon had become emperor, that Corvisart succeeded,

by his eloquence, in persuading him to follow a regular course of

treatment. This treatment cured him; his white-greenish complexion and

his leanness disappeared. The nervous movement of the shoulder remained,

and became a habit.--See “Memoires de Constant,” vol. i.]

But whilst Napoleon made himself a cannoneer in the service of his

country, he remained at the same time the chief of division, whose

attention was everywhere, whose eagle glance nothing escaped, and who

knew how to improve every advantage.

A body of troops was at a distant point, and Bonaparte wanted to send

them an important order. Whilst loading his cannon, he called aloud

to an under-officer to whom he might dictate the dispatch. A young man

hastened to the call, and said he was ready to write. Upon a mound of

sand he unfolded his pocket-book, drew out of it a piece of paper, and

began to write what Napoleon, with a voice above the cannon’s roar,

was dictating to him. At this very moment, as the order was written,

a cannon-ball fell quite near the officer, burrowing the ground, and

scattering some of the light sand over the written paper. The young man

raised his hat and made a bow to the cannon-ball, that buried itself in

the sand.

“I thank you,” said he, “you have saved me sand for my paper.”

Napoleon smiled, and looked with a joyous, sympathizing glance at the

young officer, whose handsome pleasing countenance was radiant with bold

daring and harmless merriment.

“Now, I need a brave messenger to carry this order to that exposed

detachment,” said Napoleon.

“I will be the messenger,” cried out the officer, eagerly.

“Well, I accept you, but you must remove your uniform, and put on a

blouse, so as not to be too much exposed.”

“That I will not do,” exclaimed the young man. “I am no spy.”

“What! you refuse to obey?” asked Napoleon, threateningly.

“No, I refuse to assume a disguise,” answered the officer “I am ready to

obey, and even to carry the order into the very hands of the devil.

But with my uniform I go, otherwise those cursed Englishmen might well

imagine that I am afraid of them.”

“But you imperil your life if you go in your glittering uniform.”

“My life does not belong to me,” cried out gayly the young soldier. “Who

cares if I risk it? You will not be sorry about it, for you know me

not, citizen-officer, and it is all the same to me. Shall I not go in

my uniform? I should be delighted to encounter those English gentlemen,

for, with my sword and the sprightly grains in my patron’s pocket,

the conversation will not sleep, I vow. Now, then, shall I go,

citizen-officer?”

“Go,” said Napoleon, smiling. “But you are wrong if you think I will

not be sorry in case you pay this duty with your life. You are a brave

fellow, and I love the brave. Go; but first tell me your name, that when

you return I may tell General Dugommier what name he has to inscribe in

his papers of recommendation for officers; that will be the reward for

your message.”

“My name is Junot, citizen-officer,” exclaimed the young man as,

swinging the paper in his hand, he darted away eagerly.

The roar of the cannon was still heard, when Napoleon’s messenger

returned, after a few hours, and reported to him. The chief of division

received him with a friendly motion of his head.

“Welcome, Junot,” said he. “I am glad to see you back, and that you

have successfully accomplished your task. I must now make a change of

position in yonder battallion. To-morrow I will give you your commission

of lieutenant, citizen-soldier.”

“And to-day grant me a nobler reward, citizen-officer,” said the young

man, tenderly; “give me your hand, and allow me to press it in mine.”

Napoleon, smiling, gave him his hand. The eyes of both young men met in

radiant looks, and with these looks was sealed the covenant which united

them both in a friendship enduring to the tomb. For not one of his

companions-in-arms remained attached to Napoleon with so warm, true,

nearly impassioned tenderness as Junot, and none of them was by the

general, the consul, the emperor, more implicitly trusted, more heartily

beloved than his Junot, whom he exalted to the ranks of general,

governor of Lisbon, Duke d’Abrantes, who was one of the few to whom

in his days of glory he allowed to speak to him in all truth, in all

freedom, and without reserve.

But whilst the two young men were sealing this covenant of friendship

with this look of spiritual recognition, the cannon was thundering forth

on all sides. The earth trembled from the reports of the pieces; all the

elements seemed unloosed; the storm howled as if to mingle the noise

of human strife with the uproar of Nature; the sea dashed its frothy,

mound-like waves with terrible noise on the shore; the rain poured down

from the skies in immense torrents, and everything around was veiled in

mists of dampness and smoke. And amid all this, crackled, thundered,

and hissed the shells which were directed against Little Gibraltar, or

whizzed from Toulon, to bring death and destruction among the besiegers.

Night sank down, and yet Little Gibraltar was not taken. “I am lost,”

sighed General Dugommier. “I shall have to pay with my head, if we are

forced to retreat.”

“Then we must go forward,” cried Bonaparte; “we must have Little

Gibraltar.”

An hour after, a loud cry of victory announced to General Dugommier that

the chief of division had reached his aim, that Little Gibraltar was

captured by the French.

As the day began to dawn, the French had already captured two other

forts; and Bonaparte roused all his energies to fire from Little

Gibraltar upon the enemy’s fleet. But the English admiral, Lord Hood,

knew very well the terrible danger to which he was exposed if he did not

at once weigh anchor.

The chief of division had prophesied correctly: in Little Gibraltar was

the key of Toulon; and since the French had now seized the keys, the

English ships could no longer close the city against them. Toulon was

lost--it had to surrender to the conquerors. [Footnote: Toulon fell on

the 18th of December, 1793.]

It is true, defensive operations were still carried on, but Napoleon’s

balls scattered death and ruin into the city; the bursting of shells

brought destruction and suffering everywhere, and in the city as well as

in the harbor columns of flames arose from houses and ships.

Toulon was subdued; and the chief of division, Napoleon Bonaparte, had

achieved his first brilliant pass of arms before jubilant France and

astonished Europe; he had made his name shine out from the obscurity of

the past, and placed it on the pages of history.

The Convention showed itself thankful to the daring soldier, who had

won such a brilliant victory alike over the foreign as well as over the

internal enemies of the republic; and Napoleon Bonaparte, the chief of

division, was now promoted to the generalship of division.

He accepted the nomination with a quiet smile. The wondrous brilliancy

of his eyes betrayed only to a few friends and confidants the important

resolves and thoughts which moved the soul of the young general.

In virtue of the order of the Convention, the newly-appointed General

Bonaparte was to go to the army of the republic which was now stationed

in Italy; and he received secret instructions from the Directory

concerning Genoa. Bonaparte left Paris, to gather, as he hoped, fresh

laurels and new victories.

CHAPTER XVIII. BONAPARTE’S IMPRISONMENT.

On the 25th day of March, 1794. General Bonaparte entered the

headquarters of the French army in Nice. He was welcomed with joy and

marks of distinction, for the fame of his heroic deeds before Toulon

had preceded him; and on Bonaparte’s pale, proud face, with its dark,

brilliant eyes, was written that he was now come into Italy to add fresh

laurels to the victor’s crown won before Toulon.

The old commander-in-chief of the French army, General Dumerbion,

confined oftentimes to his bed through sickness, was very willing to be

represented by General Bonaparte, and to place every thing in his hands;

and the two representatives of the people, Ricord and Robespierre (the

younger brother of the all-powerful dictator)--these two representatives

in the army corps of Italy bound themselves in intimate friendship with

the young general, who seemed to share their glowing enthusiasm for the

republic, and their hatred against the monarchy and the aristocrats.

They cherished, moreover, an unreserved confidence in the military

capacities of young Bonaparte, and always gave to his plans their

unconditional assent and approbation. Upon Napoleon’s suggestion

batteries were erected on the coast of Provence for the security of the

fleet and of trading-vessels; and when this had been accomplished,

the general began to carry out the plan which he had laid before the

representatives of the republic, and according to which the republican

army, with its right and left wings advancing simultaneously on the

sea-coast, was to march through the neutral territory of Genoa into

Italy.

This plan of Bonaparte was crowned with the most unexpected success.

Without observing the neutrality of Genoa, Generals Massena and Arena

marched through the territory of the proud Italian republic, and thus

began the bloody war which was to desolate the Italian soil for so many

years.

Ever faithful to Bonaparte’s war-schemes, which the general-in-chief,

Dumerbion, and the two representatives of the people, Ricord and

Robespierre, had sanctioned, the French columns moved from the valleys,

within whose depths they had so long and so uselessly shed their

blood, up to the heights and conquered the fortresses which the King of

Sardinia had built on the mountains for the protection of his frontiers.

Thus Fort Mirabocco, on the pass of the Cross, fell into the hands of

General Dumas, who then conquered the intrenched Mount Cenis; thus the

pass of Tenda, with the fortress Saorgio, was captured by the French;

and there, in the general depot of the Piedmontese army, they found

sixty cannon and war materials of all kinds.

The French had celebrated their first victories in Italy, and both

commanding officers of the fortresses of Mirabocco and Saorgio had to

pay for these triumphs in Turin with the loss of their lives; whilst

General Bonaparte, “as the one to whose well-matured plans and

arrangements these brilliant results were due,” received from the

Convention brilliant encomiums.

But suddenly the state of affairs assumed another shape, and at one blow

all the hopes and plans of the young, victorious general were destroyed.

Maximilian Robespierre had fallen; with him fell the whole party; then

fell his brother, who a short time before had returned to Paris, and had

there endeavored to obtain from Maximilian new and more ample powers

for Bonaparte, and even the appointment to the chief command of the

army--there fell also Ricord, who had given to General Bonaparte the

letter of secret instructions for energetic negotiations with the

government of Genoa, and to carry out which instructions Bonaparte had

at this time gone to that city.

As he was returning to his headquarters in Saona, from Paris had arrived

the new representatives, who came to the army of Italy as delegates of

the Convention, and were armed with full powers.

These representatives were Salicetti, Albitte, and Laporte. The first of

these, a countryman of Bonaparte, had been thus far his friend and his

party associate. He was in Corsica at the same time as Napoleon, in the

year 1793; he had been, like his young friend, a member of the Jacobin

Club of Ajaccio, and Salicetti’s speeches had not been inferior to those

of Napoleon, either in wildness or in exalted republicanism.

But now Salicetti had become the representative of the moderate party;

and it was highly important for him to establish himself securely in his

new position, and to give to the Convention a proof of the firmness

of his sentiments by manifesting the hatred which he had sworn to the

terrorists, and to all those who, under the fallen regime, had obtained

recognition and distinction.

General Bonaparte had been a friend of the young Robespierre; loudly and

openly he had expressed his republican and democratic sentiments; he

had been advanced under the administration of Robespierre, from

simple lieutenant to general; he had been sent to Genoa, with secret

instructions by the representatives of the Committee of Safety, made up

of terrorists--all this was sufficient to make him appear suspicious

to the moderate party, and to furnish Salicetti an opportunity to show

himself a faithful partisan of the new system of moderation.

General Bonaparte was, by order of the representatives of the people,

Salicetti and Albitte, arrested at his headquarters in Saona, because,

as the warrant for arrest, signed by both representatives, asserted:

“General Bonaparte had completely lost their confidence through his

suspicious demeanor, and especially through the journey which he had

lately made to Genoa.” The warrant of arrest furthermore ordered

that General Bonaparte, whose effects should be sealed and his papers

examined, was to be sent to Paris, under sure escort, and be brought for

examination before the Committee of Safety.

If this order were carried into execution, then Bonaparte was lost; for,

though Robespierre had fallen, yet with his fall the system of blood and

terror had not been overthrown in Paris; it had only changed its name.

The terrorists, who now called themselves the moderates, exercised the

same system of intimidation as their predecessors; and to be brought

before the Committee of Safety, signified the same thing as to receive a

death-warrant.

Bonaparte was lost, if it truly came to this, that he must be led to

Paris.

This was what Junot, the present adjutant of Napoleon, and his faithful

friend and companion, feared. It was therefore necessary to anticipate

this order, and to procure freedom to Bonaparte.

A thousand schemes for the rescue of his beloved chief, crossed the soul

of the young man. But how make them known to the general? how induce

him to flee, since all approaches to him were forbidden? His zeal, his

inventive friendship, succeeded at last in finding a means. One of the

soldiers, who was placed as sentry at the door of the arrested general,

was bribed by Junot; through him a letter from Junot reached Bonaparte’s

hands, which laid before him a scheme of flight that the next night

could be accomplished with Junot’s help.

Not far from Bonaparte’s dwelling Junot awaited the answer, and soon a

soldier passed by and brought it to him.

This answer ran thus: “In the propositions you make, I acknowledge your

deep friendship, my dear Junot; you are also conscious of the friendship

I have consecrated to you for a long time, and I trust you have

confidence in it.

“Man may do wrong toward me, my dear Junot; it is enough for me to be

innocent; my conscience is the tribunal which I recognize as sole judge

of my conduct.

“This conscience is quiet when I question it; do, therefore, nothing,

if you do not wish to compromise me. Adieu, dear Junot. Farewell, and

friendship.” [Footnote: Abrantes, “Memoires,” vol. i., p. 241.]

Meanwhile, notwithstanding his quiet conscience, Bonaparte was not

willing to meet his fate passively and silently, and, perchance, it

seemed to him that it was “not enough to be innocent,” so as to be

saved from the guillotine. He therefore addressed a protest to both

representatives of the people who had ordered his arrest, and this

protest, which he dictated to his friend Junot, who had finally

succeeded in coming to Bonaparte, is so extraordinary and so peculiar

in its terseness of style, in its expressions of political sentiment; it

furnishes so important a testimony of the republican democratic opinions

of the young twenty-six-year-old general, that we cannot but give here

this document.

Bonaparte then dictated to his friend Junot as follows:

“To the representatives Salicetti and Albitte:

“You have deprived me of my functions, you have arrested me and declared

me suspected.

“I am, then, ruined without being condemned; or else, which is much more

correct, I am condemned without being heard.

“In a revolutionary state exist two classes: the suspected and the

patriots.

“When those of the first class are accused, they are treated as the

common law of safety provides.

“The oppression of those of the second class is the ruin of public

liberty. The judge must condemn only after mature deliberation, and when

a series of unimpeachable facts reaches the guilty.

“To denounce a patriot as guilty is a condemnation which deprives him of

what is most dear--confidence and esteem.

“In which class am I to be ranked?

“Have I not been, since the beginning of the revolution, faithful to its

principles?

“Have I not always been seen at war with enemies at home, or as a

soldier against the foreign foe?

“I have sacrificed my residence in my country and my property to the

republic; I have lost all for her.

“By serving my country with some distinction at Toulon and in the

Italian army, I have had my share in the laurels which that army has won

at Saorgio, Queille, and Tanaro.

“At the time of the discovery of Robespierre’s conspiracy, my conduct

was that of a man who is accustomed to recognize principles only.

“It is therefore impossible to refuse me the title of patriot.

“Why, then, am I declared suspect without being heard? Why am I arrested

eight days after the news of the death of the tyrant?

“I am declared suspect, and my papers are sealed!

“The reverse ought to have taken place: my papers ought to have been

unsealed; I ought to have been tried; explanations ought to have been

sought for, and then I might have been declared suspect if there were

sufficient motives for it.

“It is decided that I must go to Paris under a warrant of arrest

which declares me suspect. In Paris they will conclude that the

representatives have acted thus only after sufficient examination, and I

shall be condemned with the sympathy which a man of that class deserves.

“Innocent, patriotic, slandered, whatever may be the measures which the

committee take, I cannot complain.

“If three men were to declare that I have committed a crime, I could not

complain if the jury should declare me guilty.

“Salicetti, you know me. Have you, during the five years of our

acquaintance, found in my conduct any thing which could be suspected as

against the revolution?

“Albitte, you know me not. No one can have given you convincing

evidence against me. You have not heard me; you know, however, with what

smoothness calumny oftentimes whispers.

“Must I then be taken for an enemy of my country? Must the patriots

ruin, without any regard, a general who has not been entirely useless

to the republic? Must the representatives place the government under the

necessity of acting unjustly and impolitically?

“Mark my words; destroy the oppression which binds me down, and

re-establish me in the esteem of the patriots.

“If, then, at some future hour, the wicked shall still long for my

life, well, then I consider it of so little importance--I have so often

despised it--yes, the mere thought that it can be useful to the country,

enables me to bear its burden with courage.” [Footnote: Bourienne,

“Memoires sur Napoleon,” etc., vol. i., p. 63.]

Whether these energetic protestations of Bonaparte, or whether some

other motives, conduced to the result, Salicetti thought that with

Napoleon’s arrest he had furnished sufficient proof of his patriotic

sentiments; it seemed to him enough to have obscured the growing fame

of the young general, and to have plunged back into obscurity and

forgetfulness him whose first steps in life’s career promised such a

radiant and glorious course!

It matters not, however, what circumstances may have wrought out; the

representatives Salicetti and Albitte issued a decree in virtue of

which General Bonaparte was, after mature consideration and thorough

examination of his papers, declared innocent and free from all

suspicion. Consequently, Bonaparte was temporarily set at liberty; but

he was suspended from his command in the Italian army, and was recalled

to Paris, there to be made acquainted with his future destination.

This destination was pointed out to him in a commission as

brigadier-general of infantry in the province of Vendee, there to lead

on the fratricidal strife against the fanatical Chouans, the faithful

adherents of the king.

Bonaparte refused this offer--first, because it seemed to him an

insulting request to ask him to fight against his own countrymen; and

secondly, because he did not wish to enter the infantry service, but to

remain in the artillery.

The Committee of Safety responded to this refusal of Bonaparte by

striking his name from the list of generals appointed for promotion,

because he had declined to go to the post assigned him.

This decision fell upon the ambitious, heroic young man like a

thunderbolt. He had dreamed of brilliant war deeds, of laurels, of fame,

of a glorious future, won for him by his own sword; and now, all at

once, he saw himself dragged away from this luminous track of fame upon

which he had so brilliantly entered--he saw himself thrust back into

obscurity, forgetfulness, and inactivity.

A gloomy, misanthropic sentiment took possession of him; and, though a

prophetic voice within said that the future still belonged to him, with

its fame, its laurels, its victories, yet inactivity, care, and the

wants of the present, hung with oppressive weight upon his mind.

He withdrew from all social joys and recreations, he avoided his

acquaintances, and only to a few friends did he open his foreboding

heart; only with these did he associate, and to them alone he made his

complaints of broken hopes, of life’s career destroyed.

To these few friends, whom Bonaparte in his misfortune found faithful

and unchanged, belonged the Ferment family, and above all belonged

Junot, who had come to Paris at the same time as Bonaparte, and who,

though the latter was dismissed from the service, continued to call

himself the adjutant of General Bonaparte.

In the Permont family Napoleon was received with the same friendship and

attention as in former days; Madame de Permont retained ever for the son

of the friend of her youth, Letitia, a kindly smile, a genial sympathy,

an intelligent appreciation of his plans and wishes; her husband

manifested toward him all the interest of a parental regard; her son

Albert was full of tenderness and admiration for him; and her younger

daughter Laura jested and conversed with him as with a beloved brother.

In this house every thing seemed pleasant and friendly to Bonaparte;

thither he came every day, and mixed with the social circles, which

gathered in the evening in the drawing-rooms of the beautiful, witty

Madame de Permont; and where men even of diverging political sentiments,

aristocrats and ci-devants of the first water, were to be found. But

Madame de Permont had forbidden all political discussion in her saloon;

and General Bonaparte, now compelled to inactivity, dared no more show

his anger against the Committee of Safety, or against the Convention,

than the Count de Montmorency or any of the proud ladies of the former

quarter of St. Germain.

Not only the inactivity to which he was condemned, not only the

destruction of all his ambitious hopes, burdened the mind of Bonaparte,

but also the material pressure under which he now and then found

himself, and which seemed to him a shame and a humiliation. With gloomy

grudge he gazed at those young elegants whom he met on the Boulevards

in splendid toilet, on superb horses--at these incroyables who, in the

first rays of the sun of peace, from the soil of the republic, yet moist

with blood, had sprung up as so many mushrooms of divers colors and

varied hues.

“And such men enjoy their happiness!” exclaimed Bonaparte,

contemptuously, as once in the Champs Elysees he sat before a

coffee-house, near one of those incroyables, and with violent emotion

starting up, he pushed his seat back and nearly broke the feet of his

exquisitely dressed neighbor.

To be forgotten, to be set in the background, to be limited in means,

was always to him a source of anger, which manifested itself now in

impassioned vehemence, now in vague, gloomy dreaminess, from which

he would rise up again with some violent sarcasm or some epigrammatic

remark.

But whilst he thus suffered, was in want, and had so much to endure, his

mind and heart were always busy. His mind was framing new plans to

bring to an end these days of inactivity, to open a new path of fame and

glory; his heart dreamed of a sweet bliss, of another new love!

The object of this love was the sister of his brother’s wife, the

young Desiree Clary. Joseph Bonaparte, who was now in Marseilles as

war-commissioner, had married there one of the daughters of the rich

merchant Clary; and her younger sister Desiree was the one to whom

Napoleon had devoted his heart. The whole Bonaparte family was now in

Marseilles, and had decided to make their permanent residence in France,

as their return to Corsica was still impossible; for General Paoli, no

longer able to hold the island, had called the English to his help, and

the assembled Consulta, over which Paoli presided, had invited the King

of England to become sovereign of the island. The French party, at whose

head had been the Bonaparte family, was overcome, and could no longer

lift up head or voice.

Bonaparte came often to Marseilles to visit his family, which consisted

of his mother Letitia, her three daughters, her two younger sons, and

her brother, the Abbe Fesch. There, he had seen every day, in the house

of his brother, Desiree Clary, and the beautiful, charming maid had not

failed to leave in the heart of the young general a deep impression.

Desiree seemed to return this inclination, and a union of the two young

lovers might soon have taken place, if fate, in the shape of accident,

had not prevented it.

Joseph was sent by the Committee of Safety to Genoa, with instructions;

his young wife and her sister Desiree accompanied him. Perhaps the

new, variable impressions of the journey, perhaps her separation from

Bonaparte, and her association with other officers less gloomy than the

saturnine Napoleon, all this seemed to cool the love of Desiree Clary;

she no more answered Napoleon’s letters, and, in writing to his brother

Joseph, he made bitter complaints: “It seems that to reach Genoa the

River Lethe must first be crossed, and therefore Desiree writes no

more.” [Footnote: See “Memoires du Roi Joseph,” vol. i.]

The only confidant to whom Bonaparte imparted these heart-complaints,

was Junot. He had for him no secrecy of his innermost and deepest

inclinations; to him he complained with grave and impassioned words

of Desiree’s changeableness; and Junot, whose worshipful love for his

friend could not understand that any maiden, were she the most beautiful

and glorious on earth, could ever slight the inclination of General

Bonaparte, Junot shared his wrath against Desiree, who had begun the

rupture between them by leaving unanswered two of Napoleon’s letters.

After having been angry and having complained in concert with Bonaparte,

Junot’s turn to be confidential had come. Bewildered, and blushing like

a young maid, he avowed to his dear general that he also loved, and that

he could hope for happiness and joy only if Napoleon’s younger sister,

the beautiful little Pauline, would be his wife.

Bonaparte listened to him with a frowning countenance, and when Junot

ended by asking his mediation with Pauline’s mother, Napoleon asked in

a grave tone, “But, what have you to live upon? Can you support Pauline?

Can you, with her, establish a household which will be safe against

want?”

Junot, radiant with joy, told him how, anticipating this question of

Napoleon, he had written to his father, and had asked for information

in regard to his means; and that his father had just now answered his

questions, and had replied that for the present he could not give him

anything, but that after his death the inheritance of his son would

amount to twenty thousand francs.

“I shall be one day rich,” exclaimed Junot, gayly, as he handed to

Napoleon the letter of his father, “for with my pay I will have an

income of twelve hundred livres. My general, I beseech you, write to

the Citoyenne Bonaparte; tell her that you have read the letter of my

father, and say a good word in my favor.”

Bonaparte did not at once reply. He attentively read the letter of

Junot, senior, then returned it to his friend, and with head sunk down

upon his breast he stared gloomily, with contracted eyebrows.

“You answer not, general,” exclaimed Junot, in extreme anguish. “You do

not wish to be my mediator?”

Bonaparte raised his head; his cheeks were paler than before, and a

gloomy expression was in his eyes.

“I cannot write to my mother to make her this proposition,” said he, in

a rough, severe tone. “That is impossible, my friend. You say that one

day you will have an income of twelve hundred livres. That is, indeed,

very fair, but you have them not now. Besides, your father’s health is

remarkably good, and he will make you wait a long time. For the present

you have nothing; for your lieutenant’s epaulets can be reckoned as

nothing. As regards Pauline, she has not even that much. Let us then

sum up: you have nothing; she has nothing! What is the total amount?

Nothing. You cannot, therefore, be married now: let us wait. We shall,

perhaps, friend, outlive these evil days. Yes, we shall outlive them,

even if I have to become an exile, to seek for them in another portion

of the world! Let us, then, wait!” [Footnote: Bonaparte’s words.--See

Abrantes, “Memoires,” vol. i., p. 284.]

And a wondrous, mysterious brilliancy and flash filled the eyes of

General Bonaparte, as with a commanding voice he repeated, “Let us

wait!”

Was this one of those few and pregnant moments in which the mind with

prophetic power gazes into the future? Had a corner of the veil which

hid the future been lifted up before the glowing eagle-eye of Napoleon,

and did he see the splendor and the glory of that future which were to

be his? However great his imagination, however ambitious his dreams,

however wide his hopes, yet they all were to be one day surpassed by

the reality. For would he not have considered a madman him, who, at this

hour, would have told him: “Smooth the furrows on your brow, Bonaparte;

be not downcast about the present. You are now in want, you are thrust

aside; forgetfulness and obscurity are now your lot; but be of good

cheer, you will be emperor, and all Europe will lie trembling at your

feet. You love the young Desiree Clary, and her indifference troubles

you; but be of good cheer, you will one day marry the daughter of

a Caesar, and the little Desiree, the daughter of a merchant from

Marseilles, will one day be Sweden’s queen! You refuse to Junot, your

friend, the gratification of his wishes, because he possesses nothing

but his officer’s epaulets: but be of good cheer, for you will one day

convert the little Lieutenant Junot into a duke, and give him a kingdom

for a dowry! You feel downhearted and ashamed, because your sister

Pauline is not rich, because she possesses nothing but her beauty and

her name: but be of good cheer, she will one day be the wife of the

wealthiest prince of Italy; all the treasures of art will be gathered

in her palace, and yet she will be the most precious ornament of that

palace!”

Surely the General Bonaparte would have laughed at the madman, who, in

the year 1795, should have thus spoken to him--and yet a mere decade of

years was to suffice for the realization of all these prophecies, and to

turn the incredible into a reality.

CHAPTER XIX. THE THIRTEENTH VENDEMIAIRE.

The days of terror, and of blood, under which France has sighed so long,

were not to end with the fall of Robespierre. Another enemy of the rest

and peace of France had now made its entrance into Paris--hunger began

to exercise its dreary rale of horror, and to fill the hearts of men

with rage and despair.

Everywhere throughout France the crops had failed, and the republic had

too much to do with the guillotine, with the political struggles in the

interior, with the enemies on the frontier, she had been so busy with

the heads of her children, that she could have no care for the welfare

of their stomachs.

The corn-magazines were empty, and in the treasury of the republican

government there was no money to buy grain in foreign markets. Very soon

the want of bread, the cry for food, made itself felt everywhere; soon

hunger goaded into new struggles of despair the poor Parisian people,

already so weary with political storms, longing for rest, and exhausted

by conflicts. Hunger drove them again into politics, hunger converted

the women into demons, and their husbands into fanatical Jacobins. Every

day, tumults and seditious gatherings took place in Paris; the murmuring

and howling crowd threatened to rise up. Every day appeared at the bar

of the Convention the sections of Paris, entreating with wild cries for

a remedy for their distress. At every step in the streets one was met by

intoxicated women, who tried to find oblivion of their hunger in wine,

and to whom, notwithstanding their drunkenness, the consciousness of

their calamity remained. These drunken women, with the gestures of

madness, shouted: “Bread! give us bread! We had bread at least in the

year ‘93! Bread! Down with the republic! Down with the Convention, which

leaves us to starve!”

To these shouts responded other masses of the people: “Down with the

constitutionalists! Long live the Mountain! Long live the Convention!”

Civil war, which in its exhaustion had remained subdued for a moment,

threatened to break out with renewed rage, for the parties stood

face to face in determined hostility, and “Down with the

constitutionalists!--down with the republicans!” was the watchword of

these parties.

For a moment it seemed as if the Mountain, as if the revolution, would

regain the ascendency, as if the terrorists would once more seize

the rudder which had slipped from their blood-stained hands. But the

Convention, which for a time had remained undecided, trembling and

vacillating, rose at length from its lethargy to firm, energetic

measures, and came to the determination to restore peace at any price.

The people, stirred up by the terrorists, the furious men of the

Mountain, had to be reduced to silence, and the cry, “Long live the

constitution of ‘93!--down with the Convention!”--this cry, which every

day rolled on through the streets of Paris like the vague thunderings

of the war-drum,--had to be put down by armed force. Barrere,

Collot d’Herbois, Billaud Varennes, the remnant of the sanguinary

administration of Robespierre, the terrorists who excited the people

against the Convention, who pressed on the Thermidorists, and wanted

to occupy their place, these were the ones who with their adherents

and friends threatened the Convention and imperilled its existence. The

Convention rose up in its might and punished these leaders of sedition,

so as through fear and horror to disperse the masses of the people.

Barrere, Collot d’Herbois, and Billaud Varennes, were arrested and sent

to Cayenne; six of their friends, six republicans and terrorists, were

also seized, and as they were convicted of forging plots against the

Convention and the actual administration, they were sentenced to death.

A seventh had also been at the head of this conspiracy; and this seventh

one, who with the others had been sentenced to death, and whom the

Committee of Safety had watched for everywhere, to bring down upon him

the chastisement due, this seventh one was Salicetti--the same Salicetti

who after the fall of Robespierre had arrested General Bonaparte as

suspect. Bonaparte had never forgiven him, and though he often met him

in the house of Madame de Permont, and appeared to be reconciled with

him, yet he could not forget that he was the one who had stopped him

in the midst of his course of fame, that it was he who had debarred him

from his whole career.

“Salicetti has done me much harm,” said Bonaparte to Madame de Permont,

and a strange look from his eyes met her face--“Salicetti has destroyed

my future in its dawn. He has blighted my plans of fame in their bud.

I repeat, he has done me much harm. He has been my evil spirit. I

can never forget it,” but added he, thoughtfully, “I will now try to

forgive.” [Footnote: Abrantes, vol. i, p. 300.]

And again a peculiar, searching look of his eyes met the face of Madame

de Permont.

She, however, turned aside, she avoided his look, for she dared not tell

him that Salicetti, for whom the Convention searched throughout Paris so

as to bring upon him the execution of his death-warrant--that Salicetti,

whom Bonaparte so fiercely hated, was hid a few steps from him in the

little cabinet near the drawing-room.

Like Bonaparte, Salicetti was the countryman of Madame de Permont; in

the days of his power, he had saved the husband and the son of Panonia

from the persecution of the terrorists, and lie had now come to ask

safety from those whom he had once saved.

Madame de Permont had not had the courage to refuse an asylum to

Salicetti; she kept him secreted in her house for weeks; and during all

these weeks, Bonaparte came daily to visit Madame de Permont and her

children, and every day he turned the conversation upon Salicetti, and

asked if they knew not yet where he was secreted. And every time, when

Madame de Permont answered him in the negative, he gazed at her with a

piercing look, and with his light, sarcastic smile.

Meanwhile Salicetti’s danger for himself, and those who secreted him,

increased every day, and Madame de Permont resolved to quit Paris.

The sickness of her husband, who was in Toulon, furnished her with the

welcomed opportunity of a journey. She made known to the friends and

acquaintances who visited her house, and especially to Bonaparte, that

she had received a letter from the physician in Toulon, requesting her

presence at her husband’s bed of sickness. Bonaparte read the letter,

and again the same strange look met the face of Madame de Permont.

“It is, indeed, important,” said he, “that you should travel, and I

advise you to do so as soon as possible. Fatal consequences might ensue

to M. de Permont, were you to delay any longer in going to Toulon.”

Madame de Permont made, therefore, all her arrangements for this

journey. Salicetti, disguised as a servant, was to accompany her.

Bonaparte still came as usual every day, and took great interest in

the preparations for her journey, and conversed with her in the most

friendly and pleasant manner. On the day of departure, he saluted her

most cordially, assured her of his true, unswerving attachment, and,

with a final, significant look, expressed a wish that her journey might

be accomplished without danger.

When Madame de Permont had overcome all difficulties, and she and her

daughter had left Paris and passed the barriere, as the carriage rolled

on without interruption (Salicetti, disguised as a servant, sitting

near the postilion on the driver’s seat), the housemaid handed to her

a letter which General Bonaparte had given her, with positive orders to

hand it to her mistress only when they should be beyond the outer gates

of Paris.

The letter ran thus: “I have never been deceived: I would seem to be in

your estimation, if I did not tell you that, for the last twenty days, I

knew that Salicetti was secreted in your house. Remember what I told

you on the first day, Prairial, Madame de Permont--I had then the mental

conviction of this secrecy. Now it is a matter of fact.--Salicetti, you

see I could have returned to you the wrong which you perpetrated against

me, and by so doing I should have revenged myself, whilst you wronged

me without any offence on my part. Who plays at this moment the nobler

part, you or I? Yes, I could have revenged myself, and I have not done

it. You will, perhaps, say that your benefactress acted as a protecting

shield. That is true, and it also is taken into consideration. Yet,

even without this consideration, such as you were--alone, disarmed,

sentenced--your head would even then have been sacred to me. Go, seek in

peace a refuge where you can rise to nobler sentiments for your country.

My mouth remains closed in reference to your name, and will no more

utter it. Repent, and, above all things, do justice to my intentions. I

deserve it, for they are noble and generous.

“Madame de Permont, my best wishes accompany you and your daughter. You

are two frail beings, without protection. Providence and prayers will

accompany you. Be prudent, and during your journey never stop in large

towns. Farewell, and receive the assurance of my friendship.” [Footnote:

Abrantes, “Memoires,” vol. i., p. 351.]

The nobility of mind which Bonaparte displayed toward his enemy was

soon to receive its reward; for, whilst Salicetti, a fugitive, sick,

and sentenced to death, was compelled to remain hidden, Bonaparte was

emerging from the oblivion to which the ambitious zeal of Salicetti

would have consigned him.

When Napoleon, dismissed from his position, arrived in Paris, and

appealed to Aubry, the chief of the war department, to be re-established

in his command, he was told: “Bonaparte is too young to command an army

as general-in-chief;” and Bonaparte answered: “One soon becomes old on

the battle-field, and I come from it.” [Footnote: Norvins, “Histoire de

Napoleon,” vol. i., p. 60.]

But Aubry, in his functions of chief of the war department, was soon

superseded by the representative Douclet de Ponte-Coulant, and this

event gave to the position of the young general a different aspect.

Ponte-Coulant had for some time followed with attention the course of

the young general, whose military talents and warlike reputation had

filled him with astonishment. He had especially been surprised at

the plan for the conduct of the war and the conquest of Italy which

Bonaparte had laid before the war committee. Now that Ponte-Coulant had

been promoted to be chief of the war department, he sent for General

Bonaparte, and attached him to the topographic committee, where the

plans of campaigns were decided and the movements of each separate corps

delineated.

The forgotten one, doomed to inactivity, General Napoleon Bonaparte, now

arose from his obscurity, and before him again opened life, the world,

and fame’s pathway, which was to lead him up to a throne. But the envy

and jealousy of the party-men of the Convention ever threw obstacles

before him on his glorious course, and the war-scheme which he

now unfolded to the committee for the campaign did not receive the

approbation of the successor of Ponte-Coulant in the war department, and

it was thrust aside. A new political crisis was needed to place in the

hands of Napoleon the command of the army, the ruling authority over

France, and this crisis was at hand.

Paris, diseased, still bleeding in its innermost life with a thousand

wounds, was devoured by hunger. The unfortunate people, wretched from

want and pain, during many past years, were now driven to despair. The

political party leaders understood but too well how to take advantage of

this, and to prey upon it. The royalists were busy instilling into the

people’s minds the idea that the return of the Bourbons would restore

to miserable France peace and happiness. The terrorists told the people

that the Convention was the sole obstacle to their rest and to their

peace, that it was necessary to scatter it to the winds, and to

re-establish the Constitution of 1793. The whole population of Paris was

divided and broken into factions, struggling one against the other with

infuriated passions. The royalists, strengthened by daily accessions

of emigrants, who, under fictitious names and with false passports,

returned to Paris to claim the benefit of the milder laws passed in

their favor, constituted a formidable power in that city. Whole sections

were devoted to them, and were secretly supplied by them with arms and

provisions, so as finally to be prepared to act against the Convention.

An occasion soon presented itself.

The Convention had, through eleven of its committee members, prepared

a new constitution, and had laid it before the people for adoption or

rejection, according to the majority of votes. The whole country, with

the exception of Paris, was in favor of this new constitution--she

alone in her popular assemblies rejected it, declared the Convention

dissolved, and the armed sections arose to make new elections. The

Convection declared these assemblies to be illegal, and ordered their

dissolution. The armed sections made resistance, congregated together,

and by force opposed the troops of the Convention--the National

Guards--commanded by General Menou. On the 12th Vendemiaire all Paris

was under arms again; barricades were thrown up by the people, who

swore to die in their defence sooner than to submit to the will of the

Convention; the noise of drums and trumpets was heard in every street;

all the horrors and cruelties of a civil war once more filled the

capital of the revolution, and the city was drunk with blood!

The people fought with the courage of despair, pressed on victoriously,

and won from General Menou a few streets; whole battalions of the

National Guards abandoned the troops of the Convention and went over to

the sections. General Menou found himself in so dangerous a position

as to be forced to conclude an armistice until the next day with the

Section Lepelletier, which was opposed to him, up to which time the

troops on either side were to suspend operations.

The Section Lepelletier declared itself at once en permanence, sent

her delegates to all the other sections, and called upon “the sovereign

people, whose rights the Convention wished to usurp,” to make a last and

decisive struggle.

The Convention found itself in the most alarming position; it trembled

for its very existence, and already in fancy saw again the days of

terror, the guillotine rising and claiming for its first victims the

heads of the members of the Convention. A pallid fear overspread all

faces as constantly fresh news of the advance of the sections reached

them, when General Menou sent news of the concluded armistice.

At this moment a pale young man rushed into the hall of session, and

with glowing eloquence and persuasive manner entreated the Convention

not to accept the armistice, not to give time to the sections to

increase their strength, nor to recognize them as a hostile power to war

against the government.

This pale young man--whose impassioned language filled the minds of all

his hearers with animosity against General Menou, and with fresh courage

and desire to fight--was Napoleon Bonaparte.

After he had spoken, other representatives rushed to the tribune, to

make propositions to the Assembly, all their motions converging to the

same end--all desired to have General Menou placed under arrest, and

Bonaparte appointed in his place, and intrusted with the defence of the

Convention and of the legislative power against the people.

The Assembly accepted this motion, and appointed Bonaparte commanding

officer of the troops of the Convention, and, for form’s sake, named

Barras, president of the Convention, commander-in-chief.

Bonaparte accepted the commission; and now, at last, after so much

waiting, so many painful months of inactivity, he found himself called

to action; he stood again at the head of an army, however small it might

be, and could again lift up the sword as the signal for the march to the

fight.

It is true this fight had a sad, horrible purpose; it was directed

against the people, against the sections which declared themselves to be

the committee of the sovereign people, and that they were fighting the

holy fight of freedom against those who usurped their rights.

General Bonaparte had refused to go to Vendee, because he wished not

to fight against his own countrymen, and could not take part in a

civil war; but now, at this hour of extreme peril, he placed himself

in opposition to the people’s sovereignty, and assumed command over the

troops of the Convention, whose mission it was to subdue the people.

Every thing now assumed a more earnest attitude; during the night the

newly-appointed commanding officer sent three hundred chasseurs, under

Murat, to bring to Paris forty cannon from the park of artillery in

Sablons, and, when the morning of the 13th Vendemiaire began to dawn,

the pieces were already in position in the court of the Tuileries and

pointed against the people. Besides which, General Bonaparte had taken

advantage of the night to occupy all the important points and places,

and to arm them; even into the hall of session of the Convention he

ordered arms and ammunition to be brought, that the representatives

might defend themselves, in case they were pressed upon by the people.

As the sun of the 13th Vendemiaire rose over Paris, a terrible

street-fight began--the fight of the sovereign people against the

Convention. It was carried on by both sides with the utmost bitterness

and fierceness, the sections rushing with fanatic courage, with all the

energy of hatred, against these soldiers who dared slay their brothers

and bind their liberty in chains; the soldiers of the Convention fought

with all the bitterness which the consciousness of their hated position

instilled into them.

The cannon thundered in every street and mingled their sounds with the

cries of rage from the sectionnaires--the howlings of the women, the

whiz of the howitzers, the loud clangs of the bells, which incessantly

called the people to arms. Streams of blood flowed again through the

streets; everywhere, near the scattered barricades, near the houses

captured by storm, lay bloody corpses; everywhere resounded the cries of

the dying, the shrieks and groans of the wounded, the wild shouts of the

combatants. In the Church of St. Roche, and in the Theatre Francaise,

the sectionnaires, driven from the neighboring streets by the troops of

General Bonaparte, had gathered together and endeavored to defend these

places with the courage of despair. But the howitzers of Bonaparte soon

scattered them, and the contest was decided.

The sections were defeated; the people, conquered by the Convention, had

to recognize its authority; they were no more the sovereigns of France;

they had found a ruler before whom they must bow.

This ruler was yet called the Convention, but behind the Convention

stood another ruler--General Bonaparte!

It was he who had defeated the people, who had secured the authority to

the Convention, and it was therefore natural that it should be thankful

and exhibit its gratitude. General Bonaparte, in acknowledgment for

the great services done to his country, was by the Convention appointed

commander-in-chief of the army of the interior, and thus suddenly he

saw himself raised from degrading obscurity to pomp and influence,

surrounded by a brilliant staff, installed in a handsome palace by

virtue of his office as chief officer, entitled to and justified in

maintaining an establishment wherein to represent worthily the dignity

of his new position.

The 13th Vendemiaire, which dethroned the sovereign people, brought

General Bonaparte a step nearer to the throne.

CHAPTER XX. THE WIDOW JOSEPHINE BEAUHARNAIS.

Meanwhile Josephine had passed the first months of her newly-obtained

freedom in quiet contentment with her children in Fontainebleau, at the

house of her father-in-law. Her soul, bowed down by so much misery

and pain, needed quietness and solitude to allow her wounds to cease

bleeding and to heal; her heart, which had experienced so much anguish

and so many deceptions, needed to rest on the bosom of her children and

her relatives, so as to be quickened into new life. Only in the solitude

and stillness of Fontainebleau did she feel well and satisfied; every

other distraction, every interruption of this quiet, orderly existence

brought on a nervous trembling, which mastered her whole body, as if

some other adversity was about to break upon her. The days of terror

which she had passed in Paris, and especially the days she had outlived

in prison, were ever fresh before her mind, and tormented her with their

reminiscences alike in her vigils and in her dreams.

She wanted to hear nothing of the world’s events, nothing from Paris,

the mention of which place filled her with fear and horror; and with

tears in her eyes she entreated her father-in-law to omit all mention of

the political changes and revolutions which took place there.

But, alas! the politics from which Josephine fled, to which she closed

her ears, rushed upon her against her will--they came to her in the

shape of want and privation.

Josephine, who wished to have nothing more to do with the affairs of

this world, learned, through the deprivations which she had to endure,

the want to which she and her family were exposed, that the world

had not yet been pushed back into the old grooves, out of which

the revolution had so violently lifted it up; that the republic yet

exercised a despotic authority, and was not prepared to return to the

heirs the property of the victims of the guillotine! The income

and property of General Beauharnais had all been confiscated by

the republic, for he had been executed as a state criminal, and

the procedure had this in common with the ordinary actions of the

government, that it never returned what it had once usurped. Even

Josephine’s father-in-law, as well as her aunt--Madame de Renaudin,

who, after her husband’s death, had been married to the Marquis de

Beauharnais--had both in the revolutionary storms lost all their

property, and saw themselves reduced to the last extremity. They lived

from day to day with the greatest economy, upon the smallest means, and

flattered themselves with the hope that justice would be done to the

innocent victims of the revolution; that at last to the widow and

children of the murdered General Beauharnais his income and property

would be returned.

Another hope remained to Josephine: reliance upon her relatives,

especially upon her mother in Martinique. She had written to her as soon

as she had obtained her liberty; she had entreated her mother, who had

been a widow for two years, to rent all her property in Martinique, and

to come to France, and at her daughter’s side to enjoy a few quiet years

of domestic happiness.

But this hope also was to be destroyed, for the revolution in Martinique

had committed the same devastations as in France, and the burning houses

of their masters had been the bonfires whose flames were sent up to

heaven by the newly-freed slaves in the name of the republic and of the

rights of man. Madame Tascher de la Pagerie had experienced the same

fate as all the planters in Martinique; her house and outbuildings had

been burnt, her plantations destroyed, and a long time would be required

before the fields could again be made to produce a harvest. Until then,

Madame Tascher would be sorely limited in her means, and, if she did

not succeed in selling some of her property and raising funds, would be

without the money necessary to bring under cultivation the remnant of

her large plantation. She was, therefore, not immediately prepared to

supply her daughter with any considerable assistance, and Josephine

endured the anguish of seeing not only herself and children, but also

her dear mother, suffer through want and privation.

To the need of gold to procure bare necessaries, was soon added the very

lack of them. Famine, with all its horrors, was at hand; the people

were clamoring for food, and the land-owners as well as the rich were

suffering from the want of that prime necessary of life-bread! The

Convention had adopted no measures to satisfy the demands of the howling

populace, and it had to remain contented with making accessible to all

such provisions as were in the land. One law, therefore, ordered all

land-owners to deliver to the state their stores of meal; a second law

prohibited any person from buying more than one pound of bread on the

same day. The greatest delicacy in those days of common wretchedness

was white bread, and there were many families that for a long time were

unable to procure this luxury.

Josephine herself had with many others to endure this privation: the

costly white loaf was beyond her reach. In her depressed and sad lot the

unfortunate widowed viscountess remained in possession of a treasure

for which many of the wealthy and high-born longed in vain, and which

neither gold nor wealth could procure--Josephine possessed friends,

true, devoted friends, who forsook her not in the day of need, but stood

the more closely at her side, helping and loving.

Among these friends were, above all, Madame Dumoulin and M. Emery.

Madame Dumoulin, the wife of a wealthy purveyor of the republican army,

was at heart a true royalist, and had made it her mission, as much as

was within her power, to assist with her means the most destitute from

whom the revolution had taken their family joys and property. She aided

with money and clothing the unfortunate emigrants, who, as prominent and

influential friends of the king and of Old France, had abandoned their

country, and who now, as nameless, wretched beggars, returned home to

beg of New France the privilege at least to hunger and starve, and at

last to die in their motherland. Madame Dumoulin had always an open

house for those aristocrats and ci-devants who had the courage not to

emigrate and to bow their despised heads to all the fluctuations of the

republic, and had remained in France, though deprived by the republic of

their ancestral names, property, and rank. Those aristocrats who had

not migrated found a friendly reception in the house of the witty and

amiable Madame Dumoulin, and twice a week she gathered those friends of

the ancient regime to a dinner, which was prepared with all the luxury

of former days, and which offered to her friends, besides material

enjoyment, the pleasures of an agreeable and attractive company.

Among Madame Dumoulin’s friends who never failed to be present at these

dinners was Josephine de Beauharnais, of whom Madame Dumoulin said she

was the sunbeam of her drawing-room, for she warmed and vitalized all

hearts. But this sunbeam had not the power to bring forth out of the

unfruitful soil of the fatherland a few ears of wheat to turn its flour

into white bread. As every one was allowed to buy bread only according

to the numbers in the household, Madame Dumoulin could not give to her

guests at dinner any white bread, and on her cards of invitation was the

then usual form, “You are invited to bring a loaf of white bread.”

But it was beyond the means of the poor Viscountess de Beauharnais to

fulfil this invitation; her purse was not sufficient to afford her twice

a week the luxury of white bread. Madame Dumoulin, who knew this, came

kindly to the rescue of Josephine’s distress, and entreated her not to

trouble herself with bringing bread, but to allow her to procure it for

her friend.

Josephine accepted this offer with tears of emotion, and she never

forgot the goodness and kindness of Madame Dumoulin. In the days of her

highest glory she remembered her, and once, when empress, radiant with

jewels and ornaments of gold, as she stood in the midst of her court,

related with a bewitching smile, to the ladies around her, that there

was a time when she would have given a year of her life to possess but

one of those jewels, not to adorn herself therewith, but to sell it, so

as to buy bread for her children, and that in those days the excellent

Madame Dumoulin had been a benefactress to her, and that she had

received at her hands the bread of charity. [Footnote: “Memoires sur

l’Imperatrice Josephine,” par Mad. Ducrest, chap XXXVI.]

The same abiding friendship was shown to Josephine by M. Emery, a banker

who had a considerable business in Dunkirk, and who for many years had

been in mercantile relations with the family of Tascher de la Pagerie in

Martinique. Madame de la Pagerie had every year sent him the produce of

her sugar plantations, and he had attended to the sale to the largest

houses in Germany. He knew better than any one else the pecuniary

circumstances of the Pagerie family; he knew that, if at present Madame

de la Pagerie could not repay his advanced sums, her plantations would

soon produce a rich harvest, and even now be a sufficient security. M.

Emery was therefore willing to assist the daughter of Madame Tascher de

la Pagerie, and several times he advanced to Josephine considerable sums

which she had drawn upon her mother.

The cares of every-day life, its physical necessities, lifted Josephine

out of the sad melancholy in which she had lulled her sick, wounded

heart, within the solitude of Fontainebleau. She must not settle down in

this inactive twilight, nor wrap herself up in the gloomy gray veil of

widowhood! Life had still claims upon her; it called to her through

her children’s voices, for whom she had a future to provide, as well

as through the voice of her own youth, which she must not intrust

hopelessly to the gloomy Fontainebleau.

And the young mother dared not and wanted not to close her ears to these

calls; she arose from her supineness, and courageously resolved to

begin anew life’s battle, and to claim her share from the enjoyments and

pleasures of this world.

She first, by the advice of M. Emery, undertook a journey to Hamburg,

to make some arrangements with the rich and highly respectable

banking-house of Mathiesen and Sissen. Mathiesen, the banker, who had

married a niece of Madame de Genlis, had always shown the greatest

hospitality to all Frenchmen who had applied to him, and he had assisted

them with advice and deeds. To him Josephine appealed, at the request

of M. Emery, so as to procure a safe opportunity to send letters to her

mother in Martinique, and also to obtain from him funds on bills drawn

upon her mother.

M. Mathiesen met her wishes with a generous pleasure, and through him

Josephine received sufficient sums of money to protect her from further

embarrassments and anxieties, at least until her mother, who was on the

eve of selling a portion of her plantation, could send her some money.

On her return from her business-journey to Hamburg, as she was no longer

a poor widow without means, she adopted the courageous resolution of

leaving her asylum and returning to dangerous and deserted Paris, there

to prepare for her son an honorable future, and endeavor to procure for

her daughter an education suited to her rank and capacities.

At the end of the year 1795, Josephine returned with her two children

to Paris, which one year before she had left so sorrowfully and so

dispirited.

What changes had been wrought during this one year! How the face

of things had been altered! The revolution had bled to death. The

thirteenth Vendemiaire had scattered to the winds the seditious elements

of revolution, and the republic was beginning quietly and peacefully to

grow into stature. The Convention, with its Mountain, its terrorists,

its Committee of Safety, its persecutions and executions, had outlived

its power, which it had consigned to the pages of history with so many

tears and so much blood. In a strange contradiction with its own bloody

deeds, it celebrated the last day of its existence by a law which, as a

farewell to the thousand corpses it had sacrificed to the revolution,

it had printed on its gory brow. On the day of its dissolution the

Convention gave to France this last law: “Capital punishment is forever

abolished.” [Footnote: Norvins, “Histoire de Napoleon,” vol. i., p. 82.]

With this farewell kiss, this love-salutation to the France of the

future, to the new self-informing France, the Convention dissolved

itself, and in its stead came the Council of Elders, the Council of Five

Hundred, and lastly the Directory, composed of five members, among whom

had been elected the more eminent members of the Convention, namely,

Barras and Carnot.

Josephine’s first movement in Paris was to find the lovely friend whom

she made in the Carmelite prison, and to whom she in some measure owed

her life, to visit Therese de Fontenay and see if the heart of the

beautiful, celebrated woman had in its days of happiness and power

retained its remembrances of those of wretchedness and mortal fears.

Therese de Fontenay was now the wife of Tallien, who, elected to the

Council of the Five Hundred, continued to play an influential

and important part, and therefore had his court of flatterers and

time-serving friends as well as any ruling prince. His house was one

of the most splendid in Paris; the feasts and banquets which took place

there reminded one, by their extravagant magnificence, of the days of

ancient Rome, and that this remembrance might still be more striking,

ladies in the rich, costly costumes of patrician matrons of ancient

Rome appeared at those festivities not unworthy of a Lucullus. Madame

Tallien--in the ample robe of wrought gold of a Roman empress, shod with

light sandals, from which issued the beautiful naked feet, and the toes

adorned with costly rings, her exquisitely moulded arms ornamented with

massive gold bracelets; her short curly hair fastened together by a

gold bandelet, which rose over the forehead in the shape of a diadem,

bejewelled with precious diamonds; the mantle of purple, fringed

with gold and placed on the shoulders--was in this costume of such a

wonderful beauty, that men gazed at her with astonishment and women with

envy.

And this beautiful woman, often worshipped and adored, though sometimes

slandered, had amid her triumphs kept a faithful remembrance of the

past. She received Josephine with the affection of a true friend. In

her generosity she allowed her no time to proffer any request, but came

forward herself with offers to intercede for her friend, and to use all

the means at her disposal, omitting nothing that would help Josephine to

recover her fortune, her lost property. With all the eagerness of true

love she took the arm of her friend and led her to Tallien, and with the

enchanting smile and attitude of a commanding princess she told him that

he must help Josephine to become happy again, that every thing he could

do for her would be rewarded by an increasing love; that if he did not

do justice to Josephine, she would punish him by her anger and coldness.

Tallien listened with complacency to the praiseworthy commands of

his worshipped Therese, and promised to use all his influence to have

justice done to the will of the sacrificed General de Beauharnais. He

himself accompanied Josephine to Barras, that she might present her

application to him personally and request at his hands restitution of

her property. She was received by Barras, as well as by the other four

directors, with the greatest politeness; each promised to attend to

her case and to return to the widow and to the children of Alexandre de

Beauharnais the property which had been so unjustly taken from them.

It is true, weeks and months of waiting and uncertainty passed away,

but Josephine had hope for a comforter; she had, besides, her beautiful

friend Therese Tallien, who with affectionate eloquence endeavored to

instil courage into Josephine, and by her constant petitions and

prayers did not allow the Directory, amid its many important affairs

of government, to forget the case of the poor young widow. Therese took

care also that Josephine should appear in society at the receptions and

balls given by the members of the new government; and when made timid

through misfortune, and depressed at heart by the uncertainty of her

narrow lot, she desired to keep aloof from these rejoicings, Therese

knew how to convince her that she must sacrifice her love of retirement

to her children; that it was her duty to accept the invitations of the

Directory, so as to keep alive their interest and favor in her behalf;

and that, were she to retreat into solitude and obscurity, she would

thereby imperil her future and that of her children.

Josephine submitted to this law of necessity, and appeared in society.

She screened her cares and her heartsores under the covert of smiles,

she forced herself into cheerfulness, and when now and then the smile

vanished from her lip and tears filled her eyes, she thought of her

children, and, mastering her sorrows, she was again the beautiful,

lovely woman, whose elegant manners and lively and witty conversation

charmed and astonished every one.

At last, after long months of uncertainty, Therese Tallien, her face

beaming with joy, came one morning to visit her friend Josephine, and

presented to her a paper with a large seal, which Tallien had given her

that very morning.

It was an order, signed by the five directors, instructing the

administrator of the domains to relieve the capital and the property of

General Beauharnais from the sequestration laid upon them, and also to

remove the seals from his furniture and his movables, and to reinstate

the Widow Beauharnais in possession of all the property left by her

husband.

Josephine received this paper with tears of joy, and, full of religious,

devout gratitude, she fell on her knees and cried:

“I thank Thee, my God! I thank Thee! My children will no more suffer

from want, and now I can give them a suitable education.”

She then fell upon her friend’s neck, thanking her for her faithfulness,

and swore her everlasting friendship and affection.

The dark clouds which had so long overshadowed Josephine’s life were now

gone, and in its place dawned day, bright and clear.

But the sun which was to illumine this day with wondrous glory had

not yet appeared. Therese at this hour reminded her friend of a day in

prison when Josephine had assured her friends trembling for her life

that she was not going to die, that she would one day be Queen of

France.

“Yes,” said Josephine, smiling and thoughtful, “who knows if this

prophecy will not be fulfilled? To-day begins for me a new life. I have

done with the past, and it will sink behind me in the abyss of oblivion.

I trust in the future! It must repay me for all the tears and anxieties

of my past life, and who knows if it will not erect me a throne?”

CHAPTER XXI. THE NEW PARIS.

Yes, they were now ended, the days of sufferings and privations! The

wife of General Beauharnais was no more the poor widow who appeared as

a petitioner in the drawing-rooms of the members of the Directory, and

often obliged, even in the worst kind of weather, to go on foot to the

festivals of Madame Tallien, because she lacked the means to pay for

a cab; she was no longer the poor mother who had to be satisfied to

procure inferior teachers for her children, because she could not

possibly pay superior ones.

Now, as by a spell, all was changed, and gold was the magic wand which

had produced it. Thanks to this talisman, the Viscountess de Beauharnais

could now quit the small, remote, gloomy dwelling in which she had

hitherto resided, and could again procure a house, gather society round

about her, and, above all things, provide for the education of her

children.

This was her dearest duty, her most important obligation, with which

she busied herself even before she rented a modestly-furnished room.

Her Eugene, the darling of her heart, desired like his father to devote

himself to a military life, and his mother took him to a boarding-school

in St. Germain, where young men of distinguished families received their

education. Her twelve-year-old daughter Hortense, of whom Josephine had

said, “She is my angel with the gold locks, who alone can smile away

the tears from my eyes and sorrow from my heart”--Hortense entered

the newly-opened educational establishment of Madame Campan, once the

lady-in-waiting of Marie Antoinette. Josephine wept hot tears as she

accompanied her Hortense into the boarding-school, and, embracing her

blond curly-haired angel, she closely pressed her to her heart, and

said:

“Judge how much I love you, my daughter, since I have the courage to

leave you and to deprive myself of the greatest of my life’s enjoyments!

Ah, I shall be very lonesome, Hortense, but my thoughts will be with you

continually--with you and your brother Eugene. Live to be an honor to

your father, grow and prosper to be your mother’s happiness!”

Then with a kiss she took leave of her daughter, and comfortless and

alone she returned to her solitary apartments in Paris.

During the next eight days her doors were shut; she opened them to none,

not even to her friend Therese, and not once did Josephine leave her

dwelling during this time, nor did she accept any of the invitations

which came to her from all sides.

Her heart was yet wrapped in mourning for her separation from her

children, and, with all the intensity of an affectionate mother’s love,

she preferred leaving her anguish to die out of itself than to suppress

it with amusements and pleasures.

But after this last sorrow had been overcome, Josephine, with serenity

and a smile of cheerfulness, came again from her solitude into the

world which called her forth with all its voices of joy, pleasure,

and flattery. And Josephine no longer closed her ears to these sweet

attractive voices. She had long enough suffered, wept, fasted; now

she ought to reap enjoyments, and gather her portion of this life’s

pleasures; now she must live! The past had set behind her, and, as one

new-born or risen from the dead, Josephine walked into the world with a

young maiden heart, and a mind opened to all that is beautiful, great,

and good; her soul filled with visions, hopes, desires, and dreams.

Out of the widow’s veil came forth the young, charming Creole, and her

radiant eyes saluted the world with intelligent looks and an expression

of the most attractive goodness.

Her next care was to procure a pleasant, convenient home suited to her

rank. She purchased from the actor Talma a house which he possessed

in the Street Chautereine, and where he had, during the storms of the

revolution, received his friends as well as all the literary, artistic,

and political notables of the day with the kindest hospitality. It

was not a brilliant, distinguished hotel, no splendid building, but a

small, tastefully and conveniently arranged house, with pretty rooms, a

cheerful drawing-room, lovely garden, exactly suited to have therein a

quiet, agreeable, informal pastime. Josephine possessed in the highest

degree the art of her sex to furnish rooms with elegance and taste,

so as to make every one in them comfortable, satisfied, at ease, and

cheerful.

The drawing-room of the widow of General Beauharnais became soon the

central point where all her friends of former days found themselves

together again, and all the remnants of the good old society found

reception; where the learned, the artist, the poet, met with a refuge,

there to rest for a few hours from political strife, to put aside the

serpent’s skin of assumed republican manners, and again assume the

tone and forms of the higher society. Such drawing-rooms in these

revolutionary days were extremely few; no one dared to become

conspicuous; every one was reserved and quiet; every one shrank from

making himself suspected of being a ci-devant, even if under the

republican toga he left visible his dress-coat of the upper society with

its embroidery of gold. Men had entirely broken with the past, wishing

to deny it, and not be under the yoke of its forms and rules; it was

therefore necessary, out of the chaos of the republic, to create a

new world, a new society, new forms of etiquette, and new fashions.

Meanwhile, until these new fashions for republican France should be

found, men had recourse (so as not to go back to the days of the late

monarchy of France) to the republics of olden times; the ladies dressed

according to the patterns of the old statues of the deities of Greece

and Rome, giving receptions in the style of ancient Greece, and banquets

laid out in all the extravagant splendors of a Lucullus.

The members of the republican Directory, whose residence was in the

palace of the Luxemburg, took the lead in all these neo-Grecian and

neo-Roman festivities; and, whereas they loudly proclaimed that it was

necessary to furnish opportunities to the working-classes and laborers

to gain money, and that it was incumbent on all to promote industry,

they rivalled each other in their efforts to exhibit an extravagant

pomp and a brilliant display. On reception-days of the members of the

Directory the public streamed in masses toward the Luxemburg, there to

admire the splendors of the five monarchs, and to rejoice that the days

of the carmagnoles, the sans-culottes, the dirty blouse, and the bonnet

rouge were at least gone by. The five directors, to the delight of the

Parisian people, wore costly silk and velvet garments embroidered

with gold, and on their hats, trimmed also with gold lace, waved large

ostrich-plumes.

Luxury celebrated its return to Paris, after having had to secrete

itself, so long from the blood-stained hands of the sans-culottes,

in the most obscure corners of the deserted palaces of St. Germain.

Pleasure, which had fled away horrified from the guillotine and from the

terrorists, dared once more to show its rose-wreathed brow and smiling

countenance, and here and there make its cheerful festivities resound.

Men became glad, and dared to laugh again; they came out from the

stillness of their homes, which anxiety had kept closed, to search for

amusement, pleasure, and recreation; but no citizen dared to be select,

none dared to assume aristocratic exclusiveness. One had to be pleased

with a dinner at a tavern; with a glass of ice-water in a cafe, or to

take part in a public ball which was opened to every one who could pay

his fee of admission; and especially in the evening the public rushed to

the theatre with the same eagerness that was exhibited in the morning

to reach the shops of the bakers and butchers, where each received

his portion of meat or bread by producing a card signed by the circuit

commissioners. In front of these shops, as well as in front of the

theatres, the pressure was so great that for hours it was necessary to

fall into line, and sometimes go away dissatisfied; for the republic

had yet retained the system of equality, so that the rich and the

influential were not served any sooner than the poor and the unknown;

there was only one exception: only one condition received distinction

before the baker’s shop and the theatre: it was that of the mothers of

the future, those women whose external appearance revealed that they

would soon bring forth a future citizen, a new soldier for the republic,

which had lost so many of its sons upon the scaffold and on the

battle-field.

It was so long that one had been deprived of laughter and merriment, and

had walked with sad countenance and grave solemnity through the days

of blood and terror, that now every occasion for hilarity was received

eagerly and thankfully, and every opportunity for mirth and amusement

sought out. The theatres were therefore filled every evening with an

attentive, thankful audience; every jest of the actor, every part well

performed, elicited enthusiastic approbation. It is true no one yet

dared act any other pieces than those which had reference to the

revolution, and in some shape or other celebrated the republic, accusing

and vilifying the royalists. The pieces represented were--“The Perfect

Equality,” or else “Thee and Thou,” “The Last Trial of the Queen,”

“Tarquin, or the Fall of the Monarchy,” “Marat’s Apotheosis,” and

similar dramas, all infused with republicanism; still, men faint at

heart and satiated with the republic, hastened notwithstanding to the

theatre, to enjoy an hour of recreation and merriment.

To be cheerful, happy, and joyous, seemed now to the Parisians the

highest duty of life, and every thing was made subservient to it.

The people had wept and mourned so long, that now, to shake off this

oppressive heaviness of mind, they rushed with fanatical precipitancy

into pleasure; they gave themselves up to the wildest orgies and

bacchanals, and without disgust or shame abandoned themselves to the

most immoral conduct. All tears were dried up as if by magic; honest

poverty began to be ashamed of itself; and the wealth so carefully hid

until now, was again brought to light; even those who in the days

of revolutionary terror had become rich through the property of the

sacrificed victims, exposed themselves to public gaze with impunity

and without shame. They plundered and adorned themselves with a wealth

acquired only through cunning, treachery, and murder. Everywhere feasts,

banquets, and balls, were organized; and it was an ordinary event to

find in the same company the accuser and the accused, the executioner

and his victim, the murderer near the daughter of the man whose head he

had given over to the guillotine!

This was especially the case at the so-called victim balls (bals a la

victime) which were given by the heirs, the sons and fathers of

those who had perished by the guillotine. People gathered together

in brilliant entertainments and balls to the honor and memory of the

executed ones. Every one who could pay the large fee of admission to

these bals a la victime were permitted to enter. Those who came there,

not for pleasure, but to honor their dead, showed this intention by

their clothing, and especially by the arrangement of their hair. To

remind them that those who had been led to the guillotine had had their

hair cut close, gentlemen now had theirs cut short, and the dressing

of the hair a la victime was for gentlemen as much a fashion as the

dressing of the hair a la Titus (the Roman emperor) was for the ladies.

Besides this, the heirs of the victims wore some token of the departed

ones, and ladies and gentlemen were seen in the blood-stained garments

which their relatives had worn on their way to the scaffold, and which

they had purchased with large sums of money from the executioner, that

lord of Paris. It often happened that a lady in the blood-stained dress

of her mother danced with the son of the man who had delivered her

mother to the guillotine; that a son of a member of the Convention of

1793 led, in the minuet, the graceful “pas de chale,” with the daughter

of an emigrant marquis. The most fanatical men of the days of terror,

now exalted into wealthy land-owners, led on in the gay waltz the

daughters of their former landlords; and these women pressed the hand

soiled with the blood of their relatives because now, as amends for

their traffic in blood, they could offer future wealth and distinction.

It seemed that all Paris and all France had gone mad--that the whole

nation was drunk with blood as with intoxicating wine, and wanted

to stifle the voice of conscience in the horrible revelry of the

saturnalia.

Josephine never took part in these public balls and festivities;

never did the widow of General Beauharnais, one of the victims of the

revolution, attend these bals a la victime, where man prided himself on

his misfortune and gloried in his sorrows. The Moniteur--which then gave

daily notices of the balls and amusements that were to take place in

Paris, so as to let the world know how cheerful and happy every one

felt there, and which made it its business to publish the names of the

ci-devants and ex-nobles who had partaken in these festivities--never

in its long and correct list mentions the name of the widow of General

Beauharnais.

Josephine kept aloof from all these wild dissipations--these balls and

banquets. She would neither dance, nor adorn herself in the memory of

her husband; she would not take a part in the splendid festivities of

a republic which had murdered him, and had pierced her loyal heart with

the deepest wounds.

CHAPTER XXII. THE FIRST INTERVIEW.

In the midst of these joys and amusements of the new-growing Paris,

the storm of the thirteenth Vendemiaire launched forth its destructive

thunderbolts, and another rent was made in the lofty structure of the

republic. The royalists, who had cunningly frequented these bals a

la victime, to weave intrigues and conspiracies, found their webs

scattered, and the republic assumed a new form.

Napoleon with his sword had cut to pieces the webs and snares of the

royalists as well as of the revolutionists, and France had to bow to the

constitution. In the Tuileries now sat the Council of the Elders; in

the Salle du Manege sat the Five Hundred; and in the palace of Luxemburg

resided the five directors of the republic.

On the thirteenth Vendemiaire Paris had passed through a crisis of its

revolutionary disease; and, to prevent its falling immediately into

another, it permitted the newly-appointed commander-in-chief of the army

of the interior of France, General Napoleon Bonaparte, to have every

house strictly searched, and to confiscate all weapons found.

Even into the house of the Viscountess de Beauharnais, in the rue

Chantereine, came the soldiers of the republic to search for secreted

weapons. They found there the sword of Alexandre de Beauharnais, which

certainly Josephine had not hidden, for it was the chief ornament of her

son’s room. When Eugene, on the next Saturday, came to Paris from St.

Germain, as he did every week, to pass the Sunday in his mother’s house,

to his great distress he saw vacant on the wall the place where the

sword of his father had been hanging. With trembling voice and tears

in her eyes his mother told him that General Bonaparte, the new

commander-in-chief, had ordered the sword to be carried away by his

soldiers.

A cry of anger and of malediction was Eugene’s answer; then with

flaming eyes and cheeks burning with rage he rushed out, despite the

supplications of his affrighted and anxious mother. Without pausing,

without thinking--conscious only of this, that he must have again his

father’s sword, he rushed on. It was impossible, thought he, that the

republic which had deprived his father of the honors due to him, his

property, his money--that now, after his death, she should also take

away his sword.

He must have this sword again! This was Eugene’s firm determination,

and this made him bold and resolute. He rushed into the palace where the

general-in-chief, Bonaparte, resided, and with daring vehemence demanded

an interview with the general; and, as the door-keeper hesitated, and

even tried to push away the bold boy from the door of the drawing-room,

Eugene turned about with so much energy, spoke, scolded, and raged so

loudly and so freely, that the noise reached even the cabinet where

General Bonaparte was. He opened the door, and in his short, imperious

manner asked the cause of this uproar; and when the servant had told

him, with a sign of the hand he beckoned the young man to come in.

Eugene de Beauharnais entered the drawing-room with a triumphant

smile, and the eye of General Bonaparte was fixed with pleasure on the

beautiful, intelligent countenance, on the tall, powerful figure of the

fifteen-year-old boy. In that strange, soft accent which won hearts to

Napoleon, he asked Eugene his business. The young man’s cheeks became

pallid, and with tremulous lips and angry looks, the vehement eloquence

of youth and suffering, Eugene spoke of the loss he had sustained, and

of the pain which had been added to it by despoiling him of the sword of

his father, murdered by the republic.

At these last words of Eugene, Bonaparte’s brow was overshadowed, and an

appalling look met the face of the brave boy.

“You dare say that the republic has murdered your father?” asked he, in

a loud, angry voice.

“I say it, and I say the truth!” exclaimed Eugene, who did not turn away

his eyes from the flaming looks of the general. “Yes, the republic has

murdered my father, for it has executed him as a criminal, as a traitor

to his country, and he was innocent; he ever was a faithful servant of

his country and of the republic.”

“Who told you that it was so?” asked Bonaparte, abruptly.

“My heart and the republic itself tell me that my father was no

traitor,” exclaimed Eugene, warmly. “My mother loved him much, and she

regrets him still. She would not do so had he been a traitor, and then

the republic would not have done what it has done--it would not have

returned to my mother the confiscated property of my father, but would,

had he been considered guilty, have gladly kept it back.”

The grave countenance of Bonaparte was overspread by a genial smile, and

his eyes rested with the expression of innermost sympathy on the son of

Josephine.

“You think, then, that the republic gladly keeps what it has?” asked he.

“I see that it gladly takes what belongs not to it,” exclaimed Eugene,

eagerly. “It has taken away my father’s sword, which belonged to me, his

son, and my mother has made me swear on that sword to hold my father’s

memory sacred, and to strive to be like him.”

“Your mother is, it seems, a very virtuous old lady,” said Bonaparte, in

a friendly tone.

“My mother is a virtuous, young, and beautiful lady,” said Eugene,

sturdily; “and I am certain, general, that if you knew her, you would

not in your heart have caused her so much pain.”

“She has, then, suffered much on account of this sword being taken

away?” asked Bonaparte, interested.

“Yes, general, she has wept bitterly over this our loss, as I have.

I cannot bear to see my mother weep; it breaks my heart. I therefore

implore you to give me back my father’s sword; and I swear to you that

when I am a man, I will carry that sword only for the defence of my

country, as my father had done.”

General Bonaparte nodded kindly to the boy. “You are a brave defender of

your cause,” said he, “and I cannot refuse you--I must do as you wish.”

He gave orders to an ordnance officer present in the room to bring

General de Beauharnais’s sword; and when the officer had gone to fetch

it, Bonaparte, in a friendly and sympathizing manner, conversed with the

boy. At last the ordnance officer returned, and handed the sword to the

general.

With solemn gravity Bonaparte gave it to Eugene. “Take it, young man,”

said he, “but never forget that you have sworn to carry it only for the

honor and defence of your country.”

Eugene could not answer: tears started from his eyes, and with deep

affection he pressed to his lips the recovered sword of his father.

This manifestation of true childish emotion moved Bonaparte to tender

sympathy, and an expression of affectionate interest passed over his

features as he offered his hand to Eugene.

“By Heaven, you are a good son,” exclaimed he from his heart, “and you

will be one day a good son to your country! Go, my boy, take to your

mother your father’s sword. Tell her that I salute her, though unknown

to her--that I congratulate her in being the mother of so good and brave

a son.”

Such was the beginning of an acquaintance to which Josephine was

indebted for an imperial crown, and, for what is still greater, an

undying fame and an undying love.

Beaming with joy, Eugene returned to Josephine with his father’s sword,

and with all the glowing sentiments of thankfulness he related to her

how kindly and obligingly General Bonaparte had received him, what

friendly and affectionate words he had spoken to him, and how much

forbearance and patience he had manifested to his impassioned request.

Josephine’s maternal heart was sensitive and grateful for every

expression of sympathy toward her son, and the goodness and forbearance

of the general affected her the more, that she knew how bold and wild

the boy, smarting under pain, must have been. She therefore hastened

to perform a duty of politeness by calling the next day on General

Bonaparte, to thank him for the kindness he had shown Eugene.

For the first time General Bonaparte stood in the presence of the woman

who one day was to share his fame and greatness, and this first moment

was decisive as to his and her future. Josephine’s grace and elegance,

her sweetness of disposition, her genial cheerfulness, the expression of

lofty womanhood which permeated her whole being, and which protected

her securely from any rough intrusion or familiarity; her fine, truly

aristocratic bearing, which revealed at once a lady of the court and of

the great world; her whole graceful and beautiful appearance captivated

the heart of Napoleon at the first interview, and the very next day

after receiving her short call he hastened to return it.

Josephine was not alone when General Bonaparte was announced; and when

the servant named him she could not suppress an inward fear, without

knowing why she was afraid. Her friends, who noticed her tremor and

blush, laughed jestingly at the timidity which made her tremble at the

name of the conqueror of Paris, and this was, perhaps, the reason why

Josephine received General Bonaparte with less complacency than she

generally showed to her visitors.

Amid the general silence of all those present the young general

(twenty-six years old) entered the drawing-room of the Viscountess de

Beauharnais; and this silence, however flattering it might be to his

pride, caused him a slight embarrassment. He therefore approached the

beautiful widow with a certain abrupt and perplexed manner, and spoke

to her in that hasty, imperious tone which might become a general, but

which did not seem appropriate in a lady’s saloon. General Pichegru,

who stood near Josephine, smiled, and even her amiable countenance was

overspread with a slight expression of scorn, as she fixed her beautiful

eyes on this pale, thin little man, whose long, smooth hair fell in

tangled disorder on either side of his temples over his sallow,

hollow cheeks; whose whole sickly and gloomy appearance bore so little

resemblance to the majestic figure of the lion to which he had been so

often compared after his success of the thirteenth Vendemiaire.

“I perceive, general,” suddenly exclaimed Josephine, “that you are sorry

it was your duty to fill Paris once more with blood and horror. You

would undoubtedly have preferred not to be obliged to carry out the

bloody orders of the affrighted Convention?”

Bonaparte shrugged his shoulders somewhat. “That is very possible,” said

he, perfectly quiet. “But what can you expect, madame? We military men

are but the automatons which the government sets in motion according

to its good pleasure; we know only how to obey; the sections, however,

cannot but congratulate themselves that I have spared them so much.

Nearly all my cannon were loaded only with powder. I wanted to give a

little lesson to the Parisians. The whole affair was nothing but the

impress of my seal on France. Such skirmishes are only the vespers of my

fame.” [Footnote: Napoleon’s words.--See Le Normand, vol. i., p. 214.]

Josephine felt irritated, excited by the coldness with which Napoleon

spoke of the slaughter of that day; and her eyes, otherwise so full of

gentleness, were now animated with flashes of anger.

“Oh,” cried she, “if you must purchase fame at such a price, I would

sooner you were one of the victims!”

Bonaparte looked at her with astonishment, but as he perceived her

flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, the sight of her grace and beauty

ravished him, and a soft, pleasant smile suddenly illumined his

countenance. He answered her violent attack by a light pleasantry, and

with gladsome unaffectedness he gave to the conversation another turn.

The small, pale, gloomy general was at once changed into a young,

impassioned, amiable cavalier, whose countenance grew beautiful under

the sparkling intelligence which animated it, and whose enchanting

eloquence made his conversation attractive and lively, carrying with it

the conviction of a superior mind.

After the visitors who had met that morning in Josephine’s drawing-room

had departed the general still remained, notwithstanding the astonished

and questioning looks of the viscountess, paying no attention to her

remarks about the fine weather, or her intention to enjoy a promenade.

With rapid steps, and hands folded behind his back, he paced a few times

to and fro the room, then standing before Josephine he fixed on her face

a searching look.

“Madame,” said he, suddenly, with a kind of rough tone, “I have a

proposition to make: give me your hand. Be my wife!”

Josephine looked at him, half-astonished, half-irritated. “Is it a joke

you are indulging in?” said she.

“I speak in all earnestness,” said Bonaparte, warmly. “Will you do me

the honor of giving me your hand?”

The gravity with which Bonaparte spoke, the deep earnestness imprinted

on his features, convinced Josephine that the general would not

condescend to indulge in a joke of so unseemly a character, and a lovely

blush overspread the face of the viscountess.

“Sir,” said she, “who knows if I might not be inclined to accept your

distinguished offer, if, unfortunately, fate stood not in the way of

your wishes?”

“Fate?” asked Bonaparte, with animation.

“Yes, fate! my general,” repeated Josephine, smiling. “But let us speak

no more of this. It is enough that fate forbids me to be the wife of

General Bonaparte. I can say no more, for you would laugh at me.”

“But you would laugh at me if you could turn me away with so vague

an answer,” cried Bonaparte, with vivacity. “I pray you, explain the

meaning of your words.”

“Well, then, general, I cannot be your wife, for I am destined to be

Queen of France--yes, perhaps more than queen!”

It was now Bonaparte’s turn to appear astonished and irritated, and

using her own words he said, shrugging his shoulders, “Madame, is it a

joke you are indulging in?”

“I speak in all earnestness,” said Josephine, shaking her head. “Listen,

then: a negro-woman in Martinique foretold my fortune, and as her

oracular words have thus far been all fulfilled, I must conclude that

the rest of her prophecies concerning me will be realized.”

“And what has she prophesied to you?” asked Bonaparte, eagerly.

“She has told me: ‘You will one day be Queen of France! you will be

still more than queen!’”

The general was silent. He had remained standing; but now slowly paced

the room a few times, his hands folded on his back and his head inclined

on his breast. Then again he stood before the viscountess, and his eyes

rested upon her with a wondrous bright and genial expression.

“I bid defiance to fate,” said he, somewhat solemnly. “This prophecy

does not frighten me away, and in defiance of your prophetic

negro-woman, I, the republican general, address my prayer to the future

Queen of France: be my wife!--give me your hand.”

Josephine felt almost affrighted at this pertinacity of the general, and

a sentiment of apprehension overcame her as she looked into the pale,

decided countenance of this man, a stranger to her, and who claimed her

for his wife.

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed she, with some anguish, “you offer me your hand

with as much carelessness as if the whole matter were merely for a

contra-dance. But I can assure you that marriage is a very grave matter,

which has no resemblance whatever to a gay dance. I know it is so. I

have had my sad experience, and I cannot so easily decide upon marrying

a second time.”

“You refuse my hand, then?” said Bonaparte, with a threatening tone.

Josephine smiled. “On the contrary, general,” said she, “give me your

hand and accompany me to my carriage, which has been waiting for me this

long time.”

“That means you dismiss me! You close upon me the door of your

drawing-room?” exclaimed Bonaparte, with warmth.

She shook her head, and, bowing before him with her own irresistible

grace, she said in a friendly manner: “I am too good a patriot not to be

proud of seeing the conqueror of Toulon in my drawing-room. To-morrow I

have an evening reception, and I invite you to be present, general.”

From this day Bonaparte visited Josephine daily; she was certain to meet

him everywhere. At first she sought to avoid him, but he always knew

with cunning foresight how to baffle her efforts, and to overcome

all difficulties which she threw in his way. Was she at her friend

Therese’s, she could safely reckon that General Bonaparte would soon

make his appearance and come near her with eyes beaming with joy, and in

his own energetic language speak to her of his love and hopes. Was she

to be present at the receptions of the five monarchs of Paris, it was

General Bonaparte who waited for her at the door of the hall to offer

his arm, and lead her amid the respectful, retreating, and gently

applauding crowd to her seat, where he stood by her, drawing upon her

the attention of all. Did she take a drive, at the accustomed hour, in

the Champs Elysees, she was confident soon to see General Bonaparte

on his gray horse gallop at her side, followed by his brilliant staff,

himself the object of public admiration and universal respect; and

finally, if she went to the theatre, General Bonaparte never failed to

appear in her loge, to remain near her during the performance; and when

she left, to offer his arm to accompany her to her carriage.

It could not fail that this persevering homage of the renowned and

universally admired young general should make a deep and flattering

impression on Josephine’s heart, and fill her with pride and joy. But

Josephine made resistance to this feeling; she endeavored to shield

herself from it by maternal love.

She sent for her two children from their respective schools, and with

her nearly grown-up son on one side and her daughter budding into

maidenhood on the other, she thus presented herself to the general,

and with an enchanting smile said: “See, general, how old I am, with a

grown-up son and daughter who soon can make of me a grandmother.”

But Bonaparte with heart-felt emotion reached his hand to Eugene and

said, “A man who can call so worthy a youth as this his son, is to be

envied.”

A cunning, smiling expression of the eye revealed to Josephine that he

had understood her war-stratagem--that neither the grown-up son nor the

marriageable daughter could deter him from his object.

Josephine at last was won by so much love and tenderness, but she could

not yet acknowledge that the wounds of her heart were closed; that once

more she could trust in happiness, and devote her life to a new love,

to a new future. She shrank timidly away from such a shaping of her

destiny; and even the persuasions of her friends and relatives, even of

the father of her deceased husband, could not bring her to a decision.

The state of her mind is depicted in a letter which Josephine wrote

to her friend Madame de Chateau Renaud, and which describes in a great

measure the strange uncertainty of her heart:

“You have seen General Bonaparte at my house! Well, then, he is the one

who wishes to be the father of the orphans of Alexandre de Beauharnais

and the husband of his widow. ‘Do you love him?’ you will ask. Well,

no!--‘Do you feel any repugnance toward him?’ No, but I feel in a state

of vacillation and doubt, a state very disagreeable to me, and which

the devout in religious matters consider to be the most scandalizing. As

love is a kind of worship, one ought in its presence to feel animated

by other feelings than those I now experience, and therefore I long for

your advice, which might bring the constant indecision of my mind to

a fixed conclusion. To adopt a firm course has always appeared to my

Creole nonchalance something beyond reach, and I find it infinitely more

convenient to be led by the will of another.

“I admire the courage of the general; I am surprised at his ample

knowledge, which enables him to speak fluently on every subject; at the

vivacity of his genius, which enables him to guess at the thoughts of

others before they are expressed; but I avow, I am frightened at the

power he seems to exercise over every one who comes near him. His

searching look has something strange, which I cannot explain, but which

has a controlling influence even upon our directors; judge, therefore,

of his influence over a woman. Finally, the very thing which might

please--the violence of his passion--of which he speaks with so much

energy, and which admits of no doubt, that passion is exactly what

creates in me the unwillingness I have so often been ready to express.

“The first bloom of youth lies behind me. Can I therefore hope that this

passion, which in General Bonaparte resembles an attack of madness, will

last long? If after our union he should cease to love me, would he not

reproach me for what he had done? Would he not regret that he had not

made another and more brilliant union? What could I then answer? What

could I do? I could weep. ‘A splendid remedy!’ I hear you say. I know

well that weeping is useless, but to weep has been the only resource

which I could find when my poor heart, so easily wounded, has been hurt.

Write to me a long letter, and do not fear to scold me if you think

that I am wrong. You know well that everything which comes from you is

agreeable to me.” [Footnote: “Memoires sur l’Imperatrice Josephine,” par

Madame Ducrest p. 362.]

While Josephine was writing this letter to her friend, General Bonaparte

received one which produced upon him the deepest impression, though it

consisted only of a few words. But these words expressed the innermost

thought of his soul, and revealed to him perhaps for the first time its

secret wishes.

One evening as the general, returning home from a visit to the

Viscountess Josephine, entered into his drawing-room, followed by some

of his officers and adjutants, he observed on a large timepiece, which

stood on the mantel-piece, a letter, the deep-red paper and black seal

of which attracted his attention.

“Whence this letter?” asked he, with animation, of the servant-man

walking before him with a silver candlestick, as he pointed to the red

envelope.

But the waiter declared that he had not seen the letter, and that he

knew not where it came from.

“Ask the other servants, or the porter, who brought this red letter with

the black seal,” ordered Bonaparte.

The servant hurried from the room, but soon returned, with the news that

no one knew any thing about the letter; no one had seen it, no one knew

who had placed it there.

“Well, then, let us see what it contains,” said Bonaparte, and he was

going to break the seal, when Junot suddenly seized his hand and tore

the letter away from him.

“Do not read it, general,” implored Junot; “I beseech you do not open

this letter. Who knows if some of your enemies have not sent you a

letter a la Catharine de Medicis? Who knows if it is not poisoned--that

the mere touch of it may not produce death?”

Bonaparte smiled at this solicitude of his tender friend, yet he

listened to his pressing alarms, and, instead of opening and reading the

letter, he passed it to Junot.

“Read it yourself, if you have the courage to do so,” said be,

familiarly shaking his head.

Junot rapidly broke the black seal and tore the red paper. Then, fixing

his eyes on it, he threw it aside, and broke into loud, merry laughter.

“Well,” asked Bonaparte, “what does the letter contain?”

“A mystery, my general--nothing more than a mystery,” cried Junot,

presenting the letter to Bonaparte.

The letter contained but these words:

“Macbeth, you will be king.

“THE RED MAN.”

Junot laughed over this mysterious note, but Bonaparte shared not in

his merriment. With compressed lips and frowning brow he looked at

these strange, prophetic words, as if in their characters he wanted to

discover the features of him who had dared to look into the most hidden

recesses of his soul; then he threw the paper into the chimney-fire,

and slowly and thoughtfully paced the room, while in a low voice he

murmured, “Macbeth, you will be king.”

CHAPTER XXIII. MARRIAGE.

At last the conqueror of Toulon conquered also the heart of the young

widow who had so anxiously struggled against him; at last Josephine

overcame all her fears, all her terror, and, with joyous trust in the

future, was betrothed to General Bonaparte. But even then, after having

taken this decisive step, after love had cast away fear, even then she

had not the courage to reveal to her children that she had contracted

a new marriage-tie, that she was going to give to the orphans of the

Viscount de Beauharnais a new father. Ashamed and timid as a young maid,

she could not force herself into acknowledging to the children of

her deceased husband that a new love had grown in her heart--that the

mourning widow was to become again a happy woman.

Josephine, therefore, commissioned Madame de Campan to communicate this

news to her Eugene and Hortense; to tell them that she desired not only

to have a husband, but also to give to her children a faithful, loving

father, who had promised to their mother with sacred oaths to regard,

love, and protect them as his own children.

The children of General Beauharnais received this news with tears in

their eyes; they complained loudly and sorrowfully that their mother was

giving up the name of their father and changing it for another; that the

memory of their father would be forever lost in their mother’s heart.

But, through pure love for their mother, they soon dried up these tears;

and when next day Josephine, accompanied by General Bonaparte, came to

St. Germain, to visit Madame de Campan’s institution, she met there her

daughter and son, who both embraced her with the most tender affection,

and, smiling under their tears, offered their hands to General

Bonaparte, who, with all the sincerity and honesty of a deep, heart-felt

emotion, embraced them in his arms, and solemnly promised to treat them

as a father and a friend.

All Josephine’s friends did not gladly give their approbation to her

marriage with this small, insignificant general, as yet so little known,

whose success before Toulon was already forgotten, and whose victory of

the thirteenth Vendemiaire had brought him but little fame and made him

many enemies.

Among the friends who in this union with Bonaparte saw very little

happiness for Josephine was her lawyer, the advocate Ragideau, who for

many years had been her family’s agent, whose distinguished talent for

pleading and whose small figure had made him known through all Paris,

and of whom it was said that as a man he was but a dwarf; but as a

lawyer, he was a giant.

One day, in virtue of an invitation from the Viscountess de Beauharnais,

Ragideau came to the small hotel of the rue Chautereine, and sent his

name to the viscountess. She received his visit, and at his entrance

into her cabinet all those present retreated into the drawing-room

contiguous thereto, as they well knew that Josephine had some business

transactions with her lawyer.

Only one small, pale man, in modest gray clothing, whom Ragideau did

not condescend to notice, remained in the cabinet, who retired quietly

within the recess of a window.

Josephine received her business agent with a friendly smile, and spoke

long and in detail with him concerning a few important transactions

which had reference to her approaching marriage. Then suddenly passing

from the coldness of a business conversation to the tone of a friendly

one, she asked M. Ragideau what the world said of her second marriage.

Ragideau shrugged his shoulders and assumed a thoughtful attitude. “Your

friends, madame,” said he, “see with sorrow that you are going to marry

a soldier, who is younger than yourself, who possesses nothing but his

salary, and therefore cannot leave the service; or, if he is killed in

battle, leaves you perhaps with children, and without an inheritance.”

“Do you share the opinion of my friends, my dear M. Ragidean?” asked

Josephine, smiling.

“Yes,” said the lawyer, earnestly, “yes, I share them--yes. I am not

satisfied that you should contract such a marriage. You are rich,

madame; you possess a capital which secures you a yearly income of

twenty-five thousand francs; with such an income you had claims to a

brilliant marriage; and I feel conscientiously obliged, as your friend

and business agent, in whom you have trusted, and who has for you the

deepest interest, to earnestly remonstrate with you while there is

yet time. Consider it well, viscountess; it is a reckless step you are

taking, and I entreat you not to do it. I speak to your own advantage.

General Bonaparte may be a very good man, possibly quite a distinguished

soldier, but certain it is he has only his hat and his sword to offer

you.”

Josephine now broke into a joyous laugh, and her beaming eyes turned to

the young man there who, with his back turned to the party, stood at the

window beating the panes with his fingers, apparently heedless of their

conversation.

“General,” cried out Josephine, cheerfully, “have you heard what M.

Ragideau says?”

Bonaparte turned slowly round, and his large eyes fell with a flaming

look upon the little advocate.

“Yes,” said he, gravely, “I have heard all. M. Ragideau has spoken as an

honest man, and every thing he has said fills me with esteem for him. I

trust he will continue to be our agent, for I feel inclined to give him

full confidence.”

He bowed kindly to the little lawyer, who stood there bewildered and

ashamed, and, offering his arm to Josephine, Bonaparte led her into the

drawing-room. [Footnote: The little advocate Ragideau remained after

this Josephine’s agent. When Bonaparte had become emperor, he appointed

Ragideau notary of the civil list, and always manifested the greatest

interest in his behalf, and never by a word or a look did he remind him

of the strange circumstance which brought about their acquaintance.--See

Meneval. “Napoleon et Marie Louise,” vol. i., p. 202.]

The decisive word had been spoken: Josephine de Beauharnais was now the

bride of General Bonaparte. His hitherto pale, gloomy countenance was

all radiant with the bright light of love and happiness. The days of

solitude and privations were forgotten; the young, beautiful Desiree

Clary, whom Bonaparte so much loved a few months ago, and the amiable

Madame Permont, were also forgotten (and yet to the latter, in her loge

at the theatre, as a farce between acts, he had offered his hand); all

the little love-intrigues of former days were forgotten; to Josephine

alone belonged his heart, her alone he loved with all the impassioned

glow and depth of a first exclusive love.

But yet, now and then, clouds darkened his large pensive brow; even her

smile could not always illumine the gloomy expression on his features;

it would happen that, plunged in deep, sad cogitations, he heard not the

question which she addressed him in her remarkably soft and clear voice

which Bonaparte so much loved.

His lofty pride felt humiliated and disgraced by the part he was now

performing.

He was the general of the army of the interior, but beyond the frontiers

of France there stood another French army, whose soldiers had not the

sad mission to maintain peace and quietness at home, to fight against

brothers; but an army seeking for the foe, whose blood and victories

were to secure them laurels.

General Bonaparte longed to be with this army, and to obliterate the

remembrance of the 13th Vendemiaire and its sad victory by brilliant

exploits beyond the Alps. It was also to him a humiliating and

depressing feeling to become the husband of a wealthy woman, and not

bring her as a glorious gift or a wedding-present the fame and laurels

of a husband.

It has often been said that Josephine obtained for her husband, as

a wedding-gift, his appointment of commanding general of the army in

Italy; that she procured this appointment from Barras, with whom, before

her acquaintance with Bonaparte, she had been in closer relationship

than that of mere friendship. Even such historians as Schlosser have

accepted this calumny as truth, without taking pains to investigate

whether the facts justified this supposition. In the great historical

events which have shaken nations, it is really of little importance if,

under the light which illumines and brings out such events, a shadow

should fall and darken an individual. Even the hatred and scorn with

which a nation, trodden down in the dust, curses a tyrant, and endeavors

to take vengeance on his fame, ask not if the stone flung at the hated

one falls upon other heads than the one aimed at.

Not Josephine, but Bonaparte, did they wish to injure when stating she

had been the beloved of Barras. It was Bonaparte whom they wished to

humble and mortify, when historians published that, not to his merits,

but to the petitions of his wife, he was indebted for his commission as

general of the army in Italy.

But truth justifies not this calumny; and when with the light of truth

the path of the widow of General Beauharnais is lighted, it will be

found that this path led to solitude and quietness; that at none of the

great and brilliant banquets which Barras then gave, and which in the

Moniteur are described with so much pomp, not once is, the name of

Viscountess de Beauharnais mentioned; that in the numerous pasquinades

and lampoons which then appeared in Paris and in all France, and in

which all private life was fathomed, not once is the name of Josephine

brought out, neither is there any indirect allusion to her.

Calumny has placed this stain on Josephine’s brow, but truth takes it

away. And that truth is, that not Josephine, but Bonaparte, was the

friend of Barras; that it was not Barras, but Carnot, who promoted

Bonaparte to the rank of commanding general of the army in Italy.

Carnot, the minister of war of the republic, the noble, incorruptible

republican, whose character, pure, bright, and true as steel, turned

aside all the darts of wickedness and calumny, which could not inflict

even a wound, or leave a stain on the brilliancy of his spotless

character, has given upon this point his testimony in a refutation. At

a later period, when the hatred of parties, and the events of the 18th

Fructidor, had forced him to flee from France, he defended himself

against the accusation launched at him in the Council of the Five

Hundred, which pointed him out as a traitor to the republic; and this

defence gave a detailed account of the whole time of his administration,

and especially what he achieved for the republic, claiming as one of his

services the appointment of Bonaparte.

“It is not true,” says he, “that Barras proposed Bonaparte for the chief

command of the army in Italy. I myself did it. But time was allowed to

intervene, so as to ascertain whether Bonaparte would succeed before

Barras congratulated himself, and then only to his confidants, that it

was he who had made this proposition to the Directory. Had Bonaparte

not answered the expectations, then I should have been the one to

blame: then it would have been I who had chosen a young, inexperienced,

intriguing man; and I who had betrayed the nation, for the other members

did not interfere in war-matters; upon me all responsibility would

have fallen. But as Bonaparte is victorious, then it must be Barras

who appointed him! To Barras alone are the people indebted for this

nomination! He is Bonaparte’s protector, his defender against my

attacks! I am jealous of Bonaparte; I cross him in all his plans; I

lower his character; I persecute him; I refuse him all assistance; I, in

all probability, am to plunge him into ruin!”--such were the calumnies

which at that time filled the journals bribed by Barras. [Footnote:

“Response de L. N. M. Carnot, citoyen francais, l’un des fondateurs

de la republique, et membre constitutionnel du Directoire executif an

rapport fait sur la conjuration du 18 Fructidor an conseil des Cinq

Cents.”]

To Carnot, the secretary of war of the republic, did Bonaparte go, to

ask of him the command of the army in Italy. But Carnot answered him, as

he had already before Aubry, the minister of war, “You are too young.”

“Let us put appearances and age aside,” said Bonaparte, impatiently.

“Alexander, Scipio, Conde, and many others, though still younger than

I, marched armies to brilliant conquests, and decided the fate of whole

kingdoms. I believe I have given a few proofs of what I can achieve, if

I am set at the right place; and I burn with great longing to serve my

country, to obtain victories over despots who hate France because they

fear, calumniate, and envy her!”

“I know you are a good patriot,” said Carnot, slowly turning his head;

“I know and appreciate your services, and you may rest assured that

the obstacles which I place in your path are not directed against you

personally. But do you know the situation of our army? It is devoured

by the quartermaster; betrayed and sold, I fear, by its general, and

demoralized, notwithstanding its successes! That army needs every thing,

even discipline, whilst the enemy’s army has all that we need. We want

nearly a miracle to be victorious. Whoever is to lead to success our

disordered, famished, disorganized army must, above all things, possess

its full confidence. Besides which, without further events, I cannot

dismiss the commanding general, Scherer, but I must wait until some

new disgrace furnishes me the right to do so. You know all. Judge for

yourself.”

“I have already made all these objections within my own mind,” replied

Bonaparte, quietly; “yet I do not despair that if you will give me your

advice and assistance, I will overcome all these difficulties. Listen to

me, and I will let you know my plan for the arrangement of the war, and

I am convinced you will give it your sanction.”

With glowing eloquence, complete clearness and assurance, and the

convincing quietude of a persuaded, all-embracing, all-weighing mind,

Bonaparte unfolded the daring and astounding plan of his campaign. As he

spoke, his face brightened more and more, his eyes glowed with the

fire of inspiration, his countenance beamed with that exalted, wondrous

beauty which is granted to genius alone in the highest moments of its

ecstasy; the small, insignificant, pale young man became the bold,

daring hero, who was fully prepared gladly to tread a world under his

feet.

Carnot, who had looked on in astonishment, was finally carried away,

inspired by the persuasive eloquence of the young general, who in a

few words understood how to map out battle-fields, to measure whole

engagements, and to give to every one the needful and appropriate place.

“You are right,” cried Carnot, delighted, and offering his hand to

Bonaparte. “This plan must be carried out, and then we shall conquer our

enemies. I no longer doubt of the result, and from this moment you can

rely upon me. You shall be commander-in-chief of the army in Italy. I

will myself propose you to the Directory, and I will so warmly speak

in your favor, that my request will be granted.” [Footnote: “Memoires

historiques et militaires, sur Carnot,” vol. ii.]

On this day the face of General Bonaparte was irradiated with a still

deeper lustre than when Josephine avowed that his love was returned, and

when she consented to be his.

Josephine’s affianced, in the depths of his heart, retained a deep,

unfulfilled desire, an unreached aim of his existence. The commanding

general of the army in Italy had nothing more to wish, or to long

for; he now stood at hope’s summit, and saw before him the brilliant,

glorious goal of ambition toward which the path lay open before him.

Love alone could not satisfy the heart of Napoleon; the larger portion

of it belonged to ambition--to the lust for a warrior’s fame.

“I am going to live only for the future,” said Bonaparte, that day, to

Junot, as he related to him the successful result of his interview with

Carnot. “None of you know me yet, but you will soon. You will see what

I can do: I feel within me something which urges me onward. Too long has

the war been limited to a single district; I will take it into the heart

of the continent, I will bring it on fresh soil, and so carry it out

that the men of habit will lose their footing, and the old officers

their heads, so that they will no more know where they are. The soldiers

will see what one man, with a will of iron, can accomplish. All this

I will do--and from this day I strike out from the dictionary the word

‘impossible!’”

Carnot was true to his word. On the 23d day of February, 1796, Bonaparte

was appointed by the Directory commander-in-chief of the army of Italy.

From the face of the young general beamed forth the smile of victory;

he was now certain of the future! He now knew that to his Josephine he

could offer more than a hat and a sword, that he would bring her undying

fame and victory’s brilliant crown. This was to be the dowry before

which the twenty-five thousand francs’ yearly income, which the little

giant Ragideau had so highly prized, would fall into the background.

On the 9th of March the marriage between General Bonaparte and the widow

Viscountess Josephine de Beauharnais took place. Barras, as member of

the government, was Bonaparte’s first witness; his second was Captain

Lemarrois, his adjutant; and the choice of this witness was a delicate

homage which Napoleon paid to his dear Josephine: for Lemarrois was the

one who had first led the boy Eugene to Bonaparte, and had thus been the

means of his acquaintance with Josephine.

The two witnesses of Josephine were Tallien, who had delivered her from

prison, and to whom she owed the restoration of her property, and a

M. Calmelet, an old friend and counsellor of the Beauharnais family.

[Footnote: “Souvenirs historiques du Baron de Meneval,” vol. i., p.

340.]

In the pure modesty of her heart, Josephine had not desired that the two

children of her deceased husband should be the witnesses of her second

marriage, and Bonaparte was glad that Josephine’s bridal wreath would

not be bedewed with the tears of memory.

On this happy day of Bonaparte’s marriage, so much of the past was set

aside, that the certificate of baptism of the betrothed was forgotten,

and the number of years which made Josephine older than Bonaparte was

struck out.

The civil record, which M. Leclerc received of the marriage of Bonaparte

and Josephine, describes them as being nearly of the same age, for it

ran thus: “Napoleon Bonaparte, born in Ajaccio, on the 5th of February,

1768; and Marie Josephe Rosa Tascher de la Pagerie, born in Martinique,

the 23d of June, 1767.”

Bonaparte’s glowing and impassioned love led him--in order to spare his

Josephine the smallest, degree of humiliation--to alter and destroy the

dates of the certificate of their baptism; for Bonaparte was born on the

15th of August, 1769, and Josephine on the 23d of June, 1763. She was

consequently six years older than he; but she knew not that these six

years would, one day, be the abyss which was to swallow her happiness,

her love, her grandeur.

Two days after his marriage with Josephine, Bonaparte left Paris for the

army, to travel in haste, an uninterrupted journey toward Italy.

“I must hasten to my post,” said he smiling to Josephine, “for an

army without a chief is like a widow who can commit foolish deeds and

endanger her reputation. I am responsible for the army’s conduct from

the moment of my appointment.”

CHAPTER XXIV. BONAPARTE’S LOVE-LETTERS.

Carnot had told Bonaparte the truth concerning the state of the army in

Italy. His statements were sustained by the proclamation which the new

commander-in-chief of the army in Italy addressed to his soldiers, as

for the first time he welcomed them at Nice.

“Soldiers,” said he, “you are naked and badly fed; the government owes

you much, and can give you nothing. Your patience and the courage you

have exhibited amid these rocks are worthy of admiration; but you gain

no fame: no glory falls upon you here. I will lead you into the fertile

plains of the world; rich provinces and large cities will fall into

your power; there you will find honor, fame, and abundance. Soldiers of

Italy, would you fail in courage and perseverance?” [Footnote: Norvins,

“Histoire de Napoleon,” vol. i., p. 89.]

The mangled, ragged, half-starved soldiers answered with loud

enthusiastic shouts. When the vivats had died away, an old veteran

came out of the ranks, and with countenance half-defiant, half-smiling,

looking at the little general, he asked: “General, what must we do

that the roasted partridges, which are promised to us, may fly into our

mouths?”

“Conquer,” cried Bonaparte, with a loud resounding voice--“conquer!

To the brave, glory and good repasts! To the coward, disgrace! To the

faint-hearted, misery! I will lead you into the path of victory. Will

you follow?”

“We will, we will!” shouted the soldiers. “Long live the little general

who is to deliver us from our wretchedness, who is to lead us into

victory’s path!”

Bonaparte kept his word. He led them to Voltri, to the bridge of Arcola,

to Lodi. But amid his wild career of fights, hardships, vigils, studies, and

perils, the thought of Josephine was the guiding star of his heart.

His mind was with her amid the battle’s storm; he thought of her in

the camp, on the march, in the greatest conflict, and after the most

brilliant victories. This was shown in the letters he wrote every day

to Josephine; and in the brilliant hymns which the warrior, amid the

carnage of war, sung with the enthusiastic fervor of a poet to his love

and to his happiness.

It is the mission of eminent historians, when describing his victorious

campaign of Italy, to narrate his conquests; our mission is simply to

observe him in his conduct toward Josephine, and to show how under the

uniform of the warrior beat the heart of the lover.

The letters which Bonaparte then wrote to Josephine are consequently

what concerns us most, and from which we will select a few as a proof of

the impassioned love which Napoleon felt for his young wife.

LETTERS OF GENERAL BONAPARTE TO JOSEPHINE.

I. “PORT MAURICE, the 14th Germinal (April 3), 1796.

“I have received all your letters, but none has made so much impression

on me as the last one. How can you, my adored friend, speak to me in

that way? Do you not believe that my situation here is already horrible

enough, without your exciting my longings, and still more setting my

soul in rebellion? What a style! what emotions you describe! They glow

like fire, they burn my poor heart! My own Josephine, away from you,

there is no joy; away from you, the world is a wilderness in which I

feel alone, and have no one in whom I can confide. You have taken from

me more than my soul; you are the only thought of my life. When I feel

weary with the burden of affairs, when I dread some inauspicious result,

when men oppose me, when I am ready to curse life itself, I place my

hand upon my heart, your image beats there; I gaze on it, and love is

for me absolute bliss, and everything smiles except when I am away from

my beloved.

“By what art have you been able to enchain all my powers, and to

concentrate in yourself all my mental existence? It is an enchantment,

my dear friend, which is to end only with my life. To live for

Josephine, such is the history of my life! I am working to return to

you, I am dying to approach you! Fool that I am, I see not that I am

more and more drifting away from you! How much space, how many mountains

separate us! how long before you can read these words, the feeble

expression of a throbbing soul in which you rule! Ah, my adored wife, I

know not what future awaits me, but if it keeps me much longer away from

you, it will be intolerable; my courage reaches not that far. There was

a time when I was proud of my reputation; and sometimes when I cast

my eyes on the wrong which men could have done me, on the fate which

Providence might have in reserve for me, I prepared myself for the most

unheard-of adversities without wrinkling the brow or suffering fear; but

now the thought that my Josephine should be uncomfortable, or sick,

or, above all, the cruel, horrible thought that she might love me

less, makes my soul tremble, and my blood to remain still, bringing

on sadness, despondency, and taking away even the courage of anger and

despair. In times past I used to say, ‘Men have no power over him who

dies without regret.’ But now to die without being loved by you, to die

without the certainty of being loved, is for me the pains of hell, the

living, fearful feeling of complete annihilation. It is as if I were

going to suffocate! My own companion, you whom fate has given me, to

make life’s painful journey, the day when no more I can call your heart

mine, when nature will be for me without warmth, without vitality. ... I

will give way, my sweet friend (ma douce amie); my soul is sorrowful, my

body languishes; men weary me. I have a good right to detest them, for

they keep me away from my heart.

“I am now in Port Maurice, near to Oneglia; to-morrow I go to Albenga.

Both armies are moving forward; we are endeavoring to deceive each

other. Victory belongs to the swiftest. I am well satisfied with General

Beaulieu, he manoeuvres well; he is a stronger man than his predecessor.

I trust to beat him soundly. Be without care; love me as your eyes;

but no, that is not enough, as yourself, more than yourself, as your

thoughts, as your spirit, your life, your all! Sweet friend, pardon me;

I am beyond myself; nature is too weak for him who feels with passion,

for him whom you love.

“To Barras, Sucy, Madame Tallien, my heart-felt friendship; to Madame

Chateau Renaud, kindest regards; for Eugene and Hortense, my true love.

N. B.”

II. “ALBENGA, the 18th Germinal (April 7), 1796 [Footnote: The three

following letters have never been published until recently, and are not

to be found in any collection of letters from Napoleon and Josephine,

not even among those published by Queen Hortense: “Lettres de Napoleon a

Josephine, et de Josephine a Napoleon.” They are published for the first

time in the “Histoire de l’Imperatrice Josephine,” by Aubenas, and were

communicated to this author in Napoleon’s manuscript by the well-known

and famous gatherer of autographs, Feuillet de Couches.]

“I have just now received your letter, which you break off, as you say,

to go to the country; and then, you assume a tone as if you were envious

of me, who am here nearly overwhelmed by affairs and by exertion! Ah, my

dear friend, ... it is true, I am wrong. In the spring it is so pleasant

in the country; and then the beloved one of eighteen years will be so

happy there; how would it be possible to lose one moment for the sake

of writing to him who is three hundred miles away from you, who lives,

breathes, exists only in remembering you, who reads your letters as a

man, after hunting for six hours, devours a meal he is fond of.

“I am satisfied. Your last letter is cold, like friendship. I have not

found in it the fire which glows in your eyes, the fire which I have

at least imagined to be there. So far runs my fancy. I found that your

first letters oppressed my soul too much; the revolution which they

created in me disturbed my peace and bewildered my senses. I wanted

letters more cold, and now they bring on me the chill of death. The

fear of being no more loved by Josephine--the thought of having her

inconstant--of seeing her ... But I martyrize myself with anguish! There

is enough in the reality, without imagining any more! You cannot have

inspired me with this immeasurable love without sharing it; and with

such a soul, such thoughts, such an understanding as you possess, it

is impossible that, as a reward for the most glowing attachment and

devotion, you should return a mortal blow. ...

“You say nothing of your bodily sufferings; they have my regret.

Farewell till to-morrow, mio dolce amor. From my own wife a thought--and

from fate a victory; these are all my wishes: one sole, undivided

thought from you, worthy of him who every moment thinks of you.

“My brother is here. He has heard of my marriage with pleasure. He longs

to become acquainted with you. I am endeavoring to persuade him to go to

Paris, His wife has recently given birth to a daughter. They send you

a box of bonbons from Genoa as a present. You will receive oranges,

perfumes, and water of orange-flowers, which I send you. Junot and Murat

send their best wishes.

“N. B.”

The victory which Bonaparte implored from his destiny was soon to take

place; and the battle of Mondovi, which followed the capitulation of

Cherasco, made Bonaparte master of Piedmont and of the passes of the

Alps. He sent his brother Joseph to Paris, to lay before the Directory

pressing considerations concerning the necessity and importance of

concluding a permanent peace with the King of Sardinia, so as to isolate

Austria entirely in Italy. At the same time Junot was to take to the

Directory the conquered standards. Joseph and Junot travelled together

from Nice by means of post-horses, and they made so rapid a journey that

in one hundred and twenty hours they reached Paris.

The victor’s messengers and the conquered flags were received in Paris

with shouts of rapture, and with a glowing enthusiasm for General

Bonaparte. His name was on every tongue. In the streets and on the

squares crowds gathered together to talk of the glorious news, and to

shout their acclamations to the brave army and its general. Even the

Directory, the five monarchs of France, shared the universal joy and

enthusiasm. They received Joseph and Junot with affable complacency, and

communicated to the army and to its general public eulogies. In honor

of the messengers who had brought the standards and the propositions of

peace, they gave a brilliant banquet; and Carnot, proud of having been

the one who had brought about Bonaparte’s appointment, went so far in

his enthusiasm as at the close of the banquet to tear his garments open

and exhibit to the assembled guests Napoleon’s portrait which he carried

on his breast.

“Tell your brother,” cried he to Joseph, “that I carry him here on my

heart, for I foresee he will be the deliverer of France, and therefore

he must know that in the Directory he has only admirers and friends.”

[Footnote: “Memoires du Roi Joseph,” vol. i., p. 62.]

But something else, more glorious than these salutations of love from

France and from the Directory, was to be brought back by his messengers

to the victorious commander-his wife, his Josephine; he claimed her

as the reward of battles won. Joseph was not only the messenger of the

general, he was also the messenger of the lover; and before delivering

his papers to the Directory, he had first, as Bonaparte had ordered him,

to deliver to Josephine his letter which called her to Milan. Napoleon

had thus written to her:

III. “TO MY SWEET FRIEND!

“CAEN, the 3rd Floreal (May 24), 1796.

“My brother will hand you this letter. I cherish for him the most

intimate friendship. I trust he will also gain your affection. He

deserves it. Nature has gifted him with a tender and inexhaustibly good

character; he is full of rare qualities. I write to Barras to have

him appointed consul to some Italian port. He desires to live with his

little wife away from the world’s great stream of events. I recommend

him to you.

“I have received your letters of the 16th and of the 21st. You have

indeed for many days forgotten to write. What, then, are you doing? Yes,

my dear friend, I am not exactly jealous, but I am sometimes uneasy.

Hasten, then, for I tell you beforehand that if you delay I shall be

sick. So great exertion, combined with your absence, is too much.

“Your letters are the joys of my days, and my happy days are not too

many. Junot takes to Paris twenty-two standards. You will come back with

him, will you not? .... Misery without remedy, sorrow without comfort,

unmitigated anguish, will be my portion if it is my misfortune to

see him come back alone, my own adored wife! He will see you, he will

breathe at your shrine, and perhaps you will even grant him the special

and unsurpassed privilege of kissing your cheeks, and I, I will be far,

far away! You will come here, at my side, to my heart, in my arms!

Take wings, come, come! Yet, journey slowly; the road is long, bad,

fatiguing! If your carriage were to upset, if some calamity were to

happen, if the exertion. ... Set out at once, my beloved one, but travel

slowly!

“I have received a letter from Hortense, a very acceptable one indeed.

I am going to answer it. I love her much, and will soon send her the

perfumes she desires. N. B.”

But Josephine could not meet at once the ardent wishes of her husband.

She had, on the receipt of his letter, made with Joseph all the

necessary preparations for the journey; but the ailment which had so

long troubled her, broke out, and a violent illness prostrated her.

Bonaparte’s suffering and anger at this news were unbounded; a terrible

restlessness and anxiety took possession of him, and, to obtain speedy

and reliable news from Josephine, he sent from Milan to Paris a special

courier, whose only business it was to carry a letter to Josephine.

The general had nothing to communicate to the Directory; it was only

the lover writing to his beloved! What fire, what energy of passion,

penetrated him, is evident from the following letter:

IV. “TORTONA, at noon, the 27th Prairial,

“In the Year IV. of the Republic (15th June, 1796).

“To Josephine: My life is a ceaseless Alpine burden. An oppressive

foreboding prevents me from breathing. I live no more, I have lost more

than life, more than happiness, more than rest! I am without hope. I

send you a courier. He will remain only four hours in Paris, and return

with your answer. Write me only ten lines; they will be some comfort

to me. ... You are sick, you love me, I have troubled you; you are

pregnant, and I cannot see you. This thought bewilders me. I have done