Never did she advise him to a false step; and history has shown
that, regarding those plans and deeds of Napoleon, which results have
proved to have been unwise or grievous mistakes, the gentle voice of
Josephine had never failed to give prophetic warning.
As Napoleon stands forth pre-eminent amongst the famous men of history,
so does the name of Josephine shine with undying lustre among those
of the most celebrated heroines of the world. We are dazzled by
her gorgeous state and magnificence as empress. We admire her keen
intellect and exquisite tact, which never failed to suggest the most
perfect and pleasing demeanor, under every emergency, in a time of many
unsettled political opinions and tottering thrones. But we love the
gentle, unselfish _woman_, whose heart ever responded to every call
for sympathy; whose hand was ever open to bestow benefits; and whose
marvellous heroism could support her in the midst of such terrible
reverses and peculiar trials as only a woman’s heart could suffer, and
only a woman’s love could endure.
In writing the history of Josephine, we are forced to look upon the
darker side of Napoleon’s character. From the time he ceased to heed
her loving voice,—the persuasive sweetness of which, he himself
acknowledged; declaring, “that the first applause of the French people
sounded to my ear sweet as the voice of Josephine,”—from that time,
the hitherto invincible Napoleon made one false step after another,
allowing himself to be influenced by ambitious flatterers and deceived
by evil counsellors; following the _ignis fatuus_ of an overweening
ambition and thirst for power, which had taken the place of the noble
spirit of aspiring to the uplifting of his countrymen and defending the
sacred rights of the people, which had actuated his former deeds, and
covered his name with the splendid glory and well-deserved honor which
he had before achieved.
But now even his transcendent genius and glorious deeds of valor are to
be tarnished by grievous mistakes, and even crime.
The first false step taken, his downfall was as terrible and rapid as
his uprising had been sudden and glorious.
Already evil counsellors are whispering in his ear their diabolical
advice. Just here, with all our admiration for Napoleon, we are
amazed at him. That a man possessing such great genius, and with such
far-reaching intuitions, should have allowed his mind and deeds to
be influenced by the base flatterers who surrounded him, is strange
indeed. That Napoleon should not have discovered the Mephistopheles, in
Fouché, is surprising; equally amazing, that he should have become so
blinded as to turn from his truest friends and most unselfish advisers,
and have bared his breast to the poisonous fangs of the wily serpents,
who hissed around him like a nest of rattlesnakes.
That steadfastness of purpose which made Napoleon so invincible
in overcoming the most stupendous difficulties when his cause was
righteous, and which made him the wonder of the world, became the
greatest obstacle in his way when his cause was wrong and his resolves
pernicious.
The very element in his nature which made him transcendent for good,
rendered him also powerful for evil, when his resolution had once
been taken in a wrong direction. His unconquerable will, which bore
him upward through the most overwhelming difficulties, and crowned
him with well-merited success, when his aspirations were inspired by
true patriotism and the laudable desire to benefit his country,—that
same unconquerable will became his bane, and led him into the most
lamentable errors when his former high aspirations had been supplanted
by personal ambition and inordinate desire for power.
We cannot give a consecutive history of Napoleon’s errors and downfall
in this sketch, but they will appear from time to time, as we trace a
short outline of the life of Josephine. We do not pretend to say that
Josephine always consciously guided Napoleon’s career and moulded the
events of his life. His own genius raised him to his exalted position,
we admit; but we do contend that with Josephine he prospered, and
without her he fell.
And according to many authorities, it was Josephine’s bridal gift to
him that gave him the command of the army of Italy; for it was Barras
who recommended Bonaparte to the convention; and it was Barras who
assured Madame de Beauharnais that if she married General Bonaparte he
would contrive to have him appointed to that command.
We have space but to give two scenes in the life of Josephine before
she became Madame Bonaparte. The former occurred upon the island of
Martinique, when Josephine was a young girl; the latter, after she had
become Vicomtesse de Beauharnais.
One day, when Josephine was about fifteen years of age, she was walking
through the spacious grounds of her uncle’s West Indian plantation, in
the island of Martinique, when she observed a number of negro girls
gathered around an old woman who was engaged in telling their fortunes.
Josephine, with girlish curiosity, drew near; whereupon, the old sibyl
seized her hand, and, reading the lines there, appeared to be greatly
moved.
“What do you see?” inquired Josephine.
“You will not believe me if I speak,” answered the fortune-teller.
“Speak on, good mother,” said Josephine; “what have I to fear or hope?”
“On your own head be it then; listen,” said the old sibyl.
“You will be married soon; that union will not be happy; you will
become a widow, and then,—you will be queen of France! Some happy years
will be yours; but you will die in a hospital, amid civil commotion;”
after saying which, the old woman speedily disappeared.
Josephine thought little of this matter at the time, and only laughed
about it with her friends; and when she was residing at Navarre, after
the divorce, she thus commented upon it:—
“On account of the seeming absurdity of this _ridiculous prediction_,
I thought little of the affair. But afterwards, when my husband
had perished on the scaffold, in spite of my better judgment this
prediction forcibly recurred to my mind; and though I was then myself
in prison, the transaction assumed a less improbable character,
and when I, myself, had been also condemned to die, I comforted my
companions, who were weeping around me, by smilingly exclaiming:—
“‘That not only should I not die, but that I should become _Queen of
France_’.
“‘Why then do you not appoint your household?’ asked Madame
d’Aiguillon, who was also one of the prisoners of the Revolution.
“‘Ah! that is true,—I had forgotten. Well, my dear, you shall be maid
of honor; I promise you the situation.’
“Upon this the tears of those ladies flowed more abundantly; for they
thought, on seeing my coolness at such a crisis, that misfortune had
affected my reason. Such, ladies, is the truth about this so celebrated
prophecy. The end gives me but little inquietude. I live here
peacefully in retirement; I have no concern with politics; I endeavor
to do all the good in my power; and thus I hope to die calmly in my
bed.”
After the death of the Vicomte de Beauharnais on the scaffold, his wife
Josephine, who had also been imprisoned by the Jacobins, was at length
condemned to die.
A few days before her terrible doom was to have been sealed, Josephine
and Madame de Fontenay, also a prisoner, were standing together at the
barred window of their prison. M. Tallien, a man of much influence with
the rising power which was opposing the tyranny of Robespierre, was in
love with Madame de Fontenay, and daily walked past the convent of the
Carmelites, where Josephine and the other ladies of high birth were
imprisoned.
Observing M. Tallien, Madame de Fontenay made a sign for him to draw
near, and she then dropped from the window a piece of cabbage-leaf, in
which she had enclosed the following note:—
“My trial is decreed; the result is certain. If you love me as you say,
urge every means to save France and me.”
Roused by the danger of her whom he loved, M. Tallien proceeded to the
convention, and making an impassioned and eloquent speech, denouncing
Robespierre, he turned the tide of popular opinion against the
tyrant, and in a short time Robespierre’s head fell under the bloody
guillotine, where he had already caused so many thousands to perish.
The manner in which Josephine received the news of her enemy’s death
was strange and interesting. It was the day before that upon which it
had been decreed that Madame de Beauharnais should be put to death.
Josephine was standing at the window of her prison, calmly gazing upon
the outward world, while her fellow-prisoners were weeping around,
overcome with the thought of the terrible doom which awaited their
loved friend. But Josephine’s fortitude did not desert her, and she was
endeavoring to comfort her mourning companions, when her attention was
arrested by a woman in the street below, who seemed trying to give her
some information by various strange signs.
At first the woman held up her robe, pointing to it several times.
Josephine called out through the grated window, “_Robe?_” and the woman
eagerly made a sign of assent; and picking up a stone, which in French
is _pierre_, she held it up. Josephine cried out, “_Pierre?_” and the
woman joyfully nodded, and then pointed first to her robe and then to
the stone. Whereupon Josephine wonderingly exclaimed, “_Robespierre?_”
and the woman again assented with every mark of delight, and continued
to draw her hand around her throat, making the signs of cutting off a
head. The glad cry soon resounded through the prison, “_Robespierre is
dead!_”
Thus was the axe lifted from the neck of Josephine, and she soon walked
forth free, saying smilingly to her friends:—
“You see I am not guillotined; and _I shall yet be queen of France!_”
Thus not only had the life of the future empress of France, but the
fate of that great kingdom itself, depended at one time upon a tiny
cabbage-leaf, thrown by the hand of a feeble woman.
After Josephine de Beauharnais was betrothed to General Bonaparte, on
one occasion she requested him to accompany her to the residence of M.
Raguideau, an old lawyer, who had long been her confidential friend and
adviser, that she might inform him of her coming marriage. On arriving
at the lawyer’s office, Josephine withdrew her hand from the arm of
Bonaparte, and requested him to wait for her in the outer apartment
until she had spoken with her old friend alone. Neglecting, however, to
close the door which separated the two offices, Bonaparte was able to
overhear the conversation between his intended bride and the old lawyer.
“M. Raguideau,” said Madame de Beauharnais, “I have come to inform you
of my approaching marriage.”
“And with whom, madame?” exclaimed the astonished lawyer.
“I am about to marry General Bonaparte, sir.”
“General Bonaparte, do you say? Pshaw, madame! a soldier of fortune,
who has his way to make.”
“He will make it, my good friend!” replied Josephine, with flushed
cheeks.
“When, and how?” was the incredulous retort. “But first, what is he
worth at present?”
“Nothing, save his house in the Rue Chantereine.”
“A _shed!_ A likely fortune, indeed! And so you are really resolved to
marry this adventurer?”
“I am.”
“So much the worse for you, madame.”
“Explain yourself, sir!” said Josephine, with offended dignity.
“Because, madame, you had much better remain a widow than marry a
paltry general, without either name or prospects. You must assuredly
be mad! Will your Bonaparte ever be a Dumouriez or a Pichegru? Will
he ever be the equal of our great republican generals? I have a right
to doubt it. Moreover, let me tell you that the profession of arms is
worthless now; and I would much rather know that you were about to
marry an army-contractor than General Bonaparte.”
“Every one to his taste, monsieur,” disdainfully replied Josephine,
stung to the quick by the contemptuous tone of the old man, who had
always heretofore been fatherly to her. “You, sir, it would appear,
regard marriage merely as an affair of finance;” and she rose with
queenly dignity to take her leave.
“And you, madame,” broke in the excited and angry old man, “you see in
it only a matter of sentiment, and what you, no doubt, call love. Again
I repeat, all the worse for you, madame! all the worse for you! I had
given you more credit for good sense than to suspect that you would
allow yourself to be dazzled by a pair of gold epaulets. Reflect before
you make such a sacrifice; for rest assured, that if you are rash
enough to persist in this foolish scheme, you will repent your folly
all the days of your life. Who ever heard of a rational woman throwing
herself away upon a man whose whole fortune consists in his _sword_ and
his _great-coat?_”
General Bonaparte had listened to this extraordinary conversation with
rising excitement; and when he heard the words “sword” and “great-coat”
so contemptuously uttered, he sprang from his chair, with blazing eyes,
forgetting the presence of the astonished clerks; but, recovering
himself instantly, he sat down again, determined not to expose himself
to ridicule.
Josephine soon appeared, looking highly annoyed and indignant, followed
by the irate old lawyer; but Bonaparte, giving him no time for further
insult, drew the hand of his betrothed within his arm, and, making a
silent and contemptuous bow, withdrew.
Josephine had no idea that Bonaparte had been an unwilling listener;
but she noticed his marked increase of kind and courtly attention
on the way home; and not until the day of the coronation did either
Josephine or Raguideau entertain the slightest suspicion that their
conversation had been overheard by Bonaparte. On the day of the
coronation, when the emperor and empress were about to proceed to the
palace of the archbishop, Napoleon sent one of his chamberlains to M.
Raguideau, with the command that the emperor desired his immediate
presence at the Tuileries. The astonished lawyer, arriving with
breathless haste, overwhelmed with mingled feelings of fear and hope
at such unexpected summons, was ushered into the grand _salon_, where
Napoleon, attired in his royal robes, was conversing with Josephine,
who was also arrayed in her gorgeous coronation costume.
“Ah! here you are at last, M. Raguideau!” said Napoleon, with a
quizzical smile upon his imposing countenance; “I am very happy to see
you!”
“Sire,” began the trembling old man, not knowing whether that august
smile betokened promotion or decapitation.
“My good sir,” continued the emperor, not giving him time to reply,
“do you remember a day in 1796, when I accompanied to your house
Madame de Beauharnais, now _empress_ of the French?”—emphasizing the
word “empress” with all the depth of his magnetic voice. “Do you
remember the eulogy which you uttered on the military profession, and
the personal panegyric of which I was the object? Well, what say you
_now?_ Were you a true prophet? You declared that my fortune would
always consist of my sword and my great-coat; that I should never make
a name nor position, like Dumouriez or Pichegru; and that Madame de
Beauharnais was insane to sacrifice herself to a ‘_mere general_.’ I
have made my way, nevertheless, as you perceive, and in despite of
your sagacious predictions. Think you that the ‘_army-contractor_’
would have bestowed a brighter boon upon his wife, after eight years
of marriage, than a _crown_, and that crown the _imperial diadem of
France_?”
As he ceased speaking, Napoleon lovingly raised the hand of Josephine
to his lips, while she looked with amazement upon this bewildering
scene. The poor old lawyer, overwhelmed with consternation, stood
trembling in dumb despair; his eyes were cast upon the floor, and his
limbs shook as with an ague fit; while the emperor gazed upon him
with an amused smile, highly enjoying his discomfiture. At last the
frightened man stammered:—
“Sire, I could not foresee. Sire, did you really overhear?”
“Every word, M. Raguideau. You are aware that walls have ears, and I
owe you a severe reprisal; for, if my excellent Josephine had listened
to your advice, it would have cost her a throne, and me the best of
wives. You are a great culprit, M. Raguideau!”
At those terrible words “_reprisal_” and “_culprit_,” the poor old man
turned pale as a corpse; his tottering limbs almost refused to support
his agitated form.
“How could I tell? how could I imagine?” he gasped out; “I thought only
of her, of her fatherless children. I had loved them for years. I was
anxious to see them once more restored to prosperity and happiness.”
“I believe you,” said the emperor, touched by the emotion of the
gray-haired old man, who had been a friend to his wife in her days of
need; “you could not tell; you could not foresee;” and for a moment
Napoleon paused, and then continued in more solemn tones, “the future
is beyond the grasp of any living man.” Then, resuming his bantering
way: “So, now, we will return to the present; and, as I cannot
altogether overlook the injury which you sought to inflict upon me, I
condemn you to go this day to Nôtre Dame, and to witness the ceremony
of my coronation. Not in a corner, not behind a pillar, which will
prevent my having ocular evidence of your obedience, but in the seat
that I shall cause to be retained for you. Do you hear, sir? I must see
you both in the cathedral and in the line of the procession.”
Transported with the overwhelming relief and the ecstatic joy of such
an honor, the poor old lawyer was hardly able to express his gratitude,
and could scarcely maintain his dignity as he bowed himself from the
royal presence, and hastened to prepare for the coming august ceremony.
Napoleon having jested with his wife over the abject terror of the
trembling culprit, the emperor and empress entered their carriage,
and proceeded to the archbishopric. As they left the cathedral after
the magnificent ceremony of the coronation, Napoleon recognized the
old lawyer in the crowd; and as their eyes met the Emperor smiled
graciously upon his former enemy. The smile was answered by so profound
a bow, that Napoleon afterwards laughingly declared to Josephine, “that
for several seconds he was in doubt whether the sage prophet of 1796
would ever be able again to assume the perpendicular.”
During Napoleon’s campaigns, Josephine was at all times in receipt
of news from the army, brought to her by couriers from Bonaparte. No
matter at what time the despatches arrived, day or night, she always
received them with her own hands, and made inquiries of the courier of
all in the army whom she knew. She would always say some pleasant thing
to him, and reward him with a more or less costly gift, according to
the importance of the news received.
At one time, when Bourrienne had remarked to Josephine, “Madame, I
really believe that in spite of yourself you will be made queen or
empress,” Josephine exclaimed: “Bourrienne, such ambition is far from
my thoughts. That I may always continue the wife of the First Consul,
is all that I desire.”
During the Prussian campaign, nothing was talked of throughout Germany
but Napoleon’s generous conduct with respect to Prince Hatzfeld. Among
the letters seized at Berlin, and delivered to Napoleon, was one from
the prince to the king of Prussia, in which he revealed the condition
and strength of the French army. The prince was arrested, and tried as
a spy, and condemned to death. The remainder of the scene is described
in Napoleon’s letter to Josephine, which is as follows:—
“I have received your letter, in which you seem to reproach me for
speaking ill of women. It is true that I dislike female intriguers
above all things. I am used to kind, gentle, and conciliatory women.
I love them, and if they have spoiled me, it is not my fault, but
yours. However, you will see that I have done an act of kindness to
one deserving woman. I allude to Madame de Hatzfeld. When I showed
her her husband’s letter, she stood weeping, and in a tone of mingled
grief and ingenuousness, said, ‘It is indeed his writing!’ This went
to my heart, and I said: ‘Well, madame, throw the letter into the
fire, and then I shall have no proof against your husband.’ She burned
the letter, and was restored to happiness. Her husband now is safe;
two hours later, and he would have been lost. You see, therefore, that
I like women who are simple, gentle, and amiable; because they alone
resemble you.”
Josephine’s kindness and consideration for the comfort of every one in
her household, even down to the lowest menial, was proverbial. When
travelling with Napoleon, a picket-guard was appointed by the emperor
for her service. One cold night, in the early dawn, she heard marching
and coughing under her window. She wondered who could be out so late
in the chill of that hour; and upon inquiry, she learned that it was
the sentinel posted there. She thereupon sent for the officer of the
guard, and said to him, “Sir, I have no need of a sentinel at night;
these brave men have endured enough in the army when they followed it
to the wars; they must rest while in my service. I don’t want them to
catch cold.” The officer, smiling at the apprehensive solicitude of
the empress, and touched by her unexpected kindness, dismissed the
sentinel, and his place was not supplied.
Napoleon is said to have talked but little. When out of his own house,
if he chanced to stop and speak with any one, it was considered of
enough importance to be remarked and reported. The following is
Josephine’s portrait of Napoleon at home: “He had a fine intellect, a
sensible and grateful heart, simple tastes, and the qualities of an
amiable man; to the sentiments of an honest man, he united a prodigious
local memory.”
When Josephine spoke of her husband, she always said, “The emperor
says,” “the emperor wishes,” “the emperor orders,” etc. She very
rarely called him by name in public, and in private she called him
Bonaparte; while her tender name for him was _mon ami_. When speaking
of her, Napoleon usually called her _the empress_, or he would say,
“I am going to see _my wife_”; but in addressing her he called her
_Josephine_, unless he spoke with severity or on some serious occasion,
when he called her _Madame_, without other title or name.
It cannot be denied that Josephine had a great weakness for extravagant
jewels and adornments; but as she dressed always with perfect taste and
elegance, and as she was as lavish in her bounties as she was in her
personal expenditures, she may be pardoned this feminine weakness. She
at least never offended the eyes of admirers of good taste, and her
pleasing person, so becomingly adorned, was one of the most charming
sights of the court of the empire.
This was another cause of the jealousy of her sisters-in-law; and even
Pauline, the Bonaparte beauty, was often most sorely chagrined to find
her own boasted charms thrown in the shade by the refined elegance and
queenly bearing of the emperor’s wife.
An amusing story is told of the mortification of this proud beauty upon
one grand occasion, when she had resolved for once to outshine her
hated sister-in-law.
Pauline, Madame Le Clerc, after wearing her widow’s weeds for as short
a time as possible after the death of her first husband, General Le
Clerc, had wedded a real prince, and was accordingly to make her
_début_ at court as Princess Borghèse.
[Illustration: NAPOLÉON.]
Pauline has kept her own counsel about her _grande toilette_ for that
momentous occasion; but the rumor is afloat that she intends to make a
_grand coup_ with her gorgeous appearance, and quite extinguish her
august sister-in-law.
Josephine, having heard that she was to be crushed into utter
insignificance by the vain beauty, quietly determined a little
stratagem of her own. Confident of being mistress in the art of dress,
she accordingly resolved to assume a costume which should delight by
its very simplicity. But a simplicity so artistically arranged that
the very splendor of her rival should but heighten the effect of her
own toilet. Her dress was of the finest Indian muslin, bordered with
gold and embroidery, and gracefully draped to show the perfect elegance
of her figure. Her hair was dressed _à la grecque_, and banded with
pearls, while antique gems and pearls formed her sole ornaments.
“_Ravissante!_” exclaimed her ladies, as she entered the _salon_; and
even Napoleon’s usual gravity relents, as he cries:—
“_Josephine, je suis jaloux! Tu es divine!_” and he kisses her on the
forehead, pinching her ear laughingly, which was his favorite manner of
bestowing a gracious caress.
The time passes, but no princess. Napoleon impatiently retires from the
_salon_; his time is too precious to wait longer the “official visit,”
as he calls it, of the prince and princess.
At length the clatter of horses’ hoofs is heard. A carriage grand
enough, with its gilding and emblazonry, to have borne the _Grand
Monarque_ himself, dashes into the _Cour d’Honneur_ of St. Cloud.
Six gayly caparisoned horses are harnessed to this gorgeous vehicle,
and a large retinue of outriders surround it, bearing torches. On the
grand staircase are stationed the entire staff of domestics to receive
their princely guests.
Presently the _huissier_ opens the doors of the _salon_, and announces
with becoming grandiloquence:—
“_Monseigneur le Prince, and Madame la Princesse Borghèse_.”
The _grande entrée_ is made with imposing hauteur, and Pauline sees
with satisfaction that she has made a sensation. But her vain heart is
ruffled because she is obliged to cross the room to Josephine, instead
of being met by her, as _la grande princesse_ had of course expected.
But she comforted her wounded pride with the thought that this
promenade would give her the opportunity to display her velvet train
embroidered with diamonds.
Pauline was indeed magnificent. Her costume was a pale green velvet
embroidered with gold, and thickly sprinkled with flashing brilliants.
The front of her dress was a _tablier_ of diamonds, with diamond
stomacher, and the same glistening jewels upon her sleeves. Her
handsome head was adorned with a diadem of emeralds and diamonds, and
the same gems sparkled upon snowy arms, wrists, and throat. In fact,
she was loaded with the entire wealth of diamonds possessed by the
princely family of Borghèse; and as it was reported that when she
came back from St. Domingo, where her former husband died, she had
guarded carefully a coffin, containing the supposed remains of her late
husband, but in reality filled with diamonds and other precious stones.
If this was true, Pauline doubtless had diamonds of her own to add to
the vaunted store of the family of her second princely husband.
Be that as it may, Pauline flashed in diamonds from head to foot; nay
more, even to the end of her gorgeous train, where the same rich jewels
also sparkled.
She was indeed dazzling!
Josephine and Pauline are at length seated side by side. The proud
princess is forced to acknowledge that Josephine’s toilet is charming;
and all beholders are confirmed in their opinion that Madame
Bonaparte’s taste is faultless.
But horrors! What has happened? Pauline, _la princesse_, has grown
pale as death. Is she ill? Oh! worse than that. Oh, awful catastrophe!
Pauline, gazing into a large mirror before her, expecting to be
ravished with her own beauty, perceives this dreadful fact. The
furniture and draperies of the newly furnished _salon_, while giving
full effect to Josephine’s costume, actually transform herself into
a hideous spectacle. Wearing a _green velvet gown_, she has seated
herself upon a _blue velvet sofa_! It is positively _too shocking_
for her nerves to endure. Had her boasted triumph encountered such
ignominious defeat? Hastily rising, she made her adieus, and departed
to weep in mortified chagrin and baffled pride. Poor Pauline!
kind-hearted Josephine had not intended to achieve such an unexpected
triumph.
The Empress Josephine was very generous to her attendant ladies, often
making them costly presents. As she frequently gave them handsome
costumes and pretty novelties which she had worn but once or twice,
the ladies at length entered into quite a trade with certain Jews,
who came to the court to display their merchandise. As the robes of
the empress were often too rich for the ladies who received them to
wear themselves, they exchanged them for piece-goods, which the Jewish
merchants brought for sale. These garments of the empress became quite
the rage; and at one ball, Josephine might have beheld the ladies in
an entire quadrille, arrayed in her cast-off robes. Even princesses
were frequently the purchasers of these gowns from the Jews, who had
obtained them in exchange for the merchandise with which they had
supplied the ladies of Josephine’s court.
At one time an ambassador arrived from Persia, bringing very
magnificent presents to the Emperor Napoleon and costly cashmeres to
Josephine. For some time his Persian Excellency was all the rage, and
the ladies of the French court vied with each other in endeavoring
to show attention to these eastern guests. The parties given by the
Persian ambassador and his suite, at their residences, were largely
attended, and much curiosity was evinced to partake of the foreign tea
and queer cakes offered by their Persian hosts.
The empress at length determined to attend one of their parties
incognito, being accompanied by several of her ladies. On being
introduced to the ambassador, Josephine received a gracious smile, and
the Persian presented her with a small bottle of attar of roses, a kind
of present which, among the Persians, denoted a mark of high honor and
respect.
Josephine tasted several mysterious Persian dishes, and expressed
admiration of his Excellency’s pipe, which was brought to him by two
slaves, who kneeled when they offered it to their august master.
Josephine noticed that the tips of his Excellency’s finger-nails were
colored with different tints.
The ambassador being impressed with the manner and grace of the
empress, invited her to be seated by his side on his divan. She
graciously declined the attention, saying that such an honor belonged
only to privileged persons, fearing that her identity would be made
known. The Persian then asked, through his interpreter, if she would be
willing to go and reside with him in Persia, promising that he would
give her a high position.
Scarcely restraining her mirth, Josephine replied that she was married
and had two children, and that her duty and interests would keep her in
France. And with as much haste as courtesy would allow, the empress and
her ladies retired from the presence of their Persian host.
On the day of the ambassador’s public presentation at court, Josephine,
arrayed in all her imperial magnificence, received him with a gracious
smile. The poor, dumfounded Persian, who recognized in the empress the
woman whom he had vainly tried to captivate, was completely amazed, and
his manner and attitude expressed his astonished mortification.
But Josephine, with winning smile, quickly relieved him of his
embarrassment, saying, in her sweet persuasive tones:—
“You must admit, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, that I had good reason for
telling you that I preferred to remain in France. If you think well of
me, you will remain faithful to that beautiful wife of yours.” And with
a sign of respect, the humiliated Persian withdrew.
At Josephine’s early receptions as wife of the First Consul, the
costumes of the guests were very heterogeneous in style. The fashions
of the Republic had been copied after ancient Greek and Roman styles;
and the ladies of the Republic flaunted their Grecian tunics and Roman
sandals with great pride. But after a time it was remarked “that
military boots and pantaloons, clanking swords and cockades, were in
a considerable minority, and that silk stockings, shoes with buckles,
dress swords, and _chapeaux sous le bras_ were the rule. Some of the
company had, however, endeavored to spare their feelings too complete a
shock, by an attempt to unite the past and the present. While returning
to powder and embroidery, lace ruffles and cravats, they contrived to
retain in their costumes some reminiscence of the fast vanishing and
much regretted ‘_sans-culottism_’ of the Republic. This resulted in
amusing and startling incongruities.”
But during the empire, Napoleon was particular about the etiquette of
his court. He regarded it as the chief barrier of the throne, and of
great importance. He caused an exact account of all the ceremonies in
use at the courts of Louis XIV. and Louis XV. to be drawn up, and he
directed the most scrupulous attention to be paid to their performance.
Josephine was sufficiently a daughter of the Revolution to smile at too
strict etiquette; she said: “It was perhaps appropriate for princesses,
born to the throne and accustomed to the restraints it imposes; but
she, who had lived so many years as a private person, ought, she
considered, to be less exacting, less severely punctilious in her
intercourse with those who knew and remembered the circumstances of her
former life.” “And although she learned to wear her crown and mantle of
state and to sit on her throne right royally, she was ever unfailingly
indulgent in the matter of etiquette, and always pleased to throw aside
its restraints.”
After the imperial decree had ennobled many to whom the mysteries
of the court had hitherto been sealed books, very amusing incidents
occurred. The Faubourg St. Germain resented the indignity which had
been offered to their patrician prejudices; and the newly created
nobles were often treated with superb disdain by those entitled to such
rank from birth.
“The Duchesse de Chevreuse desired her waiting-woman to inform her
laundress that she should no longer intrust her with her linen, until
she became a countess; and the Comte de Brissac addressed a note to his
boot-maker as follows:—
“‘My dear baron! do not fail to bring me my boots to-morrow.’ And when
on the next day the astonished tradesman assured him that he had been
the recipient of no such title, De Brissac exclaimed with elegant
impertinence: ‘Can this be possible? You really astonish me! Console
yourself, however, Maizenat; for rest assured that you will be included
in the next baking.’”
But it was hardly to be wondered at, perhaps, that the old nobles
sneered at some of these new-titled persons, whose own presumptuous
pride made them fit subjects for mirth. This throng of new courtiers,
most of whom had sworn eternal hatred to kings and royalty, now danced
attendance at the _levées_ of the emperor, and vied with each other to
obtain a look or word from his imperial highness, that they might repay
him for it with the pompous titles of “Sire,” and “Your Majesty,” which
they did with an air of self-gratulation, which appeared as if the
individual considered himself to be ennobled by the privilege of merely
uttering the magic words. Among the strange actions related of some of
these “_newly baked dignitaries_,” one or two are quite amusing.
The wife of a marshal purchased several dresses of old brocade, such
as were worn at the Court of Louis XV., and kept them spread out upon
chairs in the hall leading to her bedroom, as if placed there to air.
When her curious visitors asked her what she was going to do with them,
she replied with apparent carelessness, under which lurked much pompous
pride: “Do with them? Oh! nothing at all; but they belonged to my
grandmother, and I wish to keep them as long as I can for her sake.”
Books on heraldry brought fabulous prices; and the father behind his
counter, and the mother at her wash-tub, were entertained by their
pretty daughters, endeavoring to master the high-bred French titles of
the _ancien régime_.
One soap-dealer, whose daughter had married an officer in the army, and
had embellished the panels of her carriage with a gloved hand grasping
a sword,—the military crest of her husband,—innocently thanked his
daughter for having tried to copy the golden arm which figured above
his shop-door; though he regretted that she should have had it painted
to look like iron, and generously stated that had he known of it, he
would willingly have paid the difference of cost himself.
The return to Paris of several _grandes dames_ promised a gradual
reorganization of “_la bonne compagnie_,” and several of the
contractors’ wives were ambitious to be received in the Faubourg St.
Germain; and one of them, Madame Privas, who was desirous of opening
her _salon_ to the _beau monde_, having read Madame de Genlis’ work,
“Adèle et Théodore,” at once exclaimed to her husband: “Privas! this
is the lady for us.” Whereupon Madame Privas arrayed herself in
resplendent robes, and attended by a negro servant in Moorish costume,
she entered her gorgeous carriage and proceeded to take Madame de
Genlis by storm.
She had not the least doubt of the success of her errand, which was no
less than the attempt to secure Madame de Genlis, who had returned to
Paris in pinched circumstances, to come to her magnificent hotel in the
Rue St. Dominique, and as a lady, receive for her: in short, put her
in the way of learning the old etiquette with which she should honor
people who were quite _comme il faut_. And so with pompous brusqueness
she announces the object of her visit to Madame de Genlis. She would
give her a salary of twelve thousand francs. She would promise not to
tyrannize over her, and even if she had a dear friend she also would be
welcome. What more could she require?
“Madame, I thank you for your obliging offer, which I have the honor to
inform you it is not in my power to accept,” replied Madame de Genlis,
rising with the courtly manner of a _grande dame_ of the court of the
_Grand Monarque_.
“You refuse it!” cried Madame Privas in astonishment. “Why, I offer
much more than you can get for your books. And besides, you would have
friends in us;—friends with a fortune of five millions. _C’est beau,
ca! eh?_”
“Madame,” replied Madame de Genlis, “I have answered you. It is
impossible.”
“Well, adieu then, my _bonne dame_. Privas and I made sure you would
jump at the offer. In case you should change your mind, I’ll leave you
my address. Write me, if you think better of it.” And with her plumes
waving in ruffled pride, and her velvets and satins rustling in their
gorgeous costliness, Madame Privas bounced out of the room, forgetting
her assumed elegance of manner at the affront offered to her darling
dollars.
Josephine’s manners, “_en representation_,” were charming. She appeared
a very queen at the emperor’s public receptions. Her air and attitude
were dignified, graceful, and yet natural. She conversed with ease and
fluency, employing the choicest terms of expression; and the spectator
could not resist a pleased astonishment at the gracious bearing which
charmed all classes of society, and at her alluring tact which enabled
her to address crowds of persons in quick succession, and yet with a
pleasing and appropriate word to each, turning with equal ease from a
tradesman to a monarch.
The emperor was one day about to undertake some important business,
when Josephine besought him to put it off for a time, remarking that
it was Friday, which was regarded as an unlucky day. Napoleon replied:
“’Tis so perhaps to you, Madame, but it is the most fortunate in my
life. I never shall forget that it was the day of our marriage.” The
empress was deeply touched at this mark of devotion from her husband,
and she ceased to enforce her request.
The time for the coronation ceremony had arrived. Josephine felt the
solemnity as well as the grandeur of the occasion, as is evinced from
these few lines written to Pope Pius VII. at this time:—
“Ah! truly do I feel, that in becoming empress of the French, I ought
also to become to them as a mother at the same time. What would it
avail to bear them in my heart, if I proved my affections for them only
by my intentions? _Deeds_ are what the people have a right to demand
from those who govern them.”
And truly, Josephine exemplified her words by her actions.
On the 2d of December, 1804, all was stir in Paris and the Tuileries
from an early hour.
“On this morning, which was to witness the completion of her greatness,
Josephine rose about eight o’clock, and immediately commenced her
momentous _grande toilette_. The body drapery of the empress was of
white satin, beautifully embroidered in gold, and ornamented on the
breast with diamonds. The mantle was of crimson velvet, lined with
satin and ermine, studded with golden bees, and fastened by an aigrette
of diamonds.
“The coronation jewels consisted of a crown, a diadem, and a ceinture.
The first used for the actual crowning, and worn only on state
occasions, consisted of eight branches, four wrought in palm, and four
in myrtle leaves of gold, incrusted with diamonds; round the circlet
ran a corded fillet set with eight very large emeralds, and the bandeau
which immediately enclosed the head, shone with resplendent amethysts.
“The diadem worn before the coronation, and on the more ordinary state
occasions, was composed of four rows of the finest pearls interlaced
with foliage of diamonds, the workmanship of which equalled the
materials; in front were several brilliants, the largest weighing one
hundred and forty-nine grains. The ceinture was of gold, so pure as to
be quite elastic, enriched with thirty-nine rose-colored diamonds.
“Napoleon’s coronation robes were equally magnificent. His close dress
was of white velvet, embroidered in gold, with diamond buttons; his
stockings of white silk, the gussets wrought in gold, harmonized with
the buskins of white velvet laced and bordered with gold; his upper
garment, as also the short mantle, were of crimson velvet, richly
embroidered in gold, with diamond fastenings. This mantle was similar
to that of the empress, but much heavier, weighing upwards of eighty
pounds.
“‘All very fine, Monsieur le Drôle,’ said Napoleon, to his favorite
valet, playfully pinching his ear; ‘all very fine; but we shall see the
accounts.’
“At eleven precisely the cavalcade moved from the Tuileries towards
Nôtre Dame. The imperial carriage, drawn by eight bays, had been
constructed with the entire panelling of glass, a circumstance which
accounts for the mistake made by their Majesties, who first seated
themselves, like criminals, with their backs to the horses. Josephine
was the first to discover this error, which she instantly rectified
by lightly assuming the proper position saying at the same time to the
emperor:—
“‘_Mon ami_, unless you prefer riding _vis-à-vis_, this is your seat,’
pointing to the rich cushion on the right. Napoleon, laughing heartily
at his blunder, moved to the place indicated.
“The procession advanced, attended by ten thousand horsemen, the flower
of ‘Gallic chivalry,’ who defiled between double lines of infantry,
selected from the bravest soldiers, and extending above a mile and a
half; while more than four hundred thousand spectators filled up every
space whence a lance could be obtained.
“The thunders of innumerable artillery, the acclamations of the
assembled multitude, expressed the general enthusiasm; and, as if to
light up the gorgeous spectacle, the sun suddenly broke through the
mists which till then had hung heavily over the city. The _cortège_
stopped at the archiepiscopal palace, whence a temporary covered
gallery, hung with the banners of the sixteen cohorts of the Legion of
Honor, conducted into the interior of the cathedral and to the throne.
“To this latter was an ascent of twenty-two semicircular steps, covered
with blue cloth, gemmed with golden bees, and crowded with the grand
officers of the empire.
“On the throne itself, hung with crimson velvet, under a canopy of the
same, appeared Napoleon, with Josephine on his left, attended by the
princesses of the empire, and on his right his two brothers, with the
archchancellor and archtreasurer.
“The religious ceremony continued nearly four hours, enlivened by
music composed for the occasion, and sung by more than three hundred
performers. The martial band was still more numerous, which executed
in the intervals marches afterwards adopted and still used in the
armies of France.
“Napoleon, in the midst of the ceremony, stood up and laid his hand
upon the imperial crown,—a simple diadem of gold wrought into a chaplet
of interwoven oak and laurel,—and placed it on his own head. Afterward,
Napoleon took the crown destined for the empress, and, first putting it
for an instant on his own, placed it upon his consort’s brow, as she
knelt before him on the platform of the throne.
“The appearance of Josephine was at this moment most touching. Even
then she had not forgotten that she was once an ‘obscure woman’; tears
of deep emotion fell from her eyes; she remained for a moment kneeling,
with hands crossed upon her bosom, then, slowly and gracefully rising,
fixed upon her husband a look of gratitude and tenderness. Napoleon
returned the glance. It was a silent but conscious interchange of the
hopes, the promises, and the memories of years.
“Cardinal Fesch, as grand almoner of France, now placed the Gospels on
the throne; Napoleon stood up, laid his hand on the sacred volume, and
in his deep and solemn tones pronounced the oaths with such firmness
and elevation of voice, that each word was distinctly heard by the vast
assembly.
“Shouts of ‘Long live the emperor! God bless the empress!’ resounded
through the cathedral, and were caught and repeated by the multitude
without; the organ pealed forth _Te Deum_, and the imposing ceremony
was over.
“The _cortège_ re-entered the palace at half-past six in the evening.
Josephine retired to her closet to give vent in secret to the fulness
of her heart, and to implore the protection of Him by whom kings reign.”
Josephine’s mode of life after she became empress is thus described:
“At the Tuileries, at St. Cloud, and during the grand journeys of the
court, her habit was to rise at eight in the morning, and commence her
toilet. While her hair was being dressed, she would glance over half
a dozen journals, and receive her _modistes_, or such other persons
as she could not admit into the _salon_. When she was fully dressed,
which operation lasted ordinarily about an hour, she would pass into
the _salon_ at ten or eleven o’clock, where she found the _dames de
service_ and those whom she had invited to breakfast with her. At noon
she sat at table at least an hour. Breakfast was in some sort her
only meal, for, on leaving her bed, she was in the habit of taking
nothing but a cup of tea with a little citron. I do not speak of her
breakfasting with the emperor; for he was always so engaged that he
scarcely had time to eat. After breakfast, if the weather was good, she
would ride out in a calèche, and go to Malmaison or on a hunting party.
“In case she did not go out, she received calls from all such persons
as had obtained the promise of a meeting, of which she was advised
either by the _dame d’honneur_, or the _chamberlain de service_. These
two functionaries could introduce only such persons as the empress was
unacquainted with, or knew but slightly, whilst all the ladies who
were admitted to her court came whenever they pleased, without a card
of invitation, unless there was a concert or a spectacle,—a matter
appertaining to the emperor’s chief chamberlain.
“From breakfast until four o’clock, Josephine would receive two or
three private visits in her separate apartment, or repose upon a sofa;
at four she retired to her cabinet, undressed, went to reading, and
took a little refreshment. This lasted till five, when a second toilet
commenced. She rarely received a call at this time, because it was the
hour at which the emperor came, unless engaged in council.”
M’lle Avrillion, _femme de chambre_ of the Empress Josephine, tells
several amusing stories regarding these visits of Napoleon while his
wife was making her _grande toilette;_ and the many suggestions he made
as to the becomingness of certain attire, and his marked antipathy to
some styles. The poor _femme de chambre_ dreaded these visits as much
as Josephine enjoyed them, for the emperor would always turn the entire
wardrobe topsy-turvy in making the selections of his favorite costumes,
and the jewel-caskets would suffer equal disarrangement. On one
occasion, when Josephine had unconsciously donned an attire displeasing
to the taste of her husband, he ruthlessly spattered ink upon the
obnoxious gown, so that the amiable empress was obliged to remove the
offending robe, and array herself to please her particular lord.
The emperor and empress usually dined together alone at six o’clock,
and afterwards Josephine again entered the _salon_, where she found the
_dames de service_. In the evening, the ministers, marshals, generals,
and others made their calls. Josephine conversed with ease with every
one, now and then playing a game of backgammon or whist. If the emperor
came in, which was never before nine o’clock, he remained only about a
quarter of an hour, unless he wished to form a party at play, and then
he would appoint the persons to compose it. His party always consisted
of ladies, never of gentlemen. But woe betide his partner! for such was
the preoccupation of his mind that he paid no attention to the card he
was playing, and did not notice his mistakes. No one dared to make any
remark upon his mode of playing. After going through with this kind of
game, the emperor left the apartment, Josephine meanwhile remaining in
the _salon_ until it was time to retire.
At Malmaison, the only difference in her mode of life was that she
saw somewhat less company, and spent much time in walking through the
delightful grounds of this rustic retreat. She had established at
Malmaison a botanical garden, a menagerie, and a school of agriculture.
Josephine preserved her simple tastes and her love for rural life
even after she became empress. One of her greatest delights was the
embellishment of her beautiful gardens. She was well versed in botany
and natural history, and France and Europe are indebted to her for the
camellia. Napoleon’s happiest days were spent at Malmaison; and after
the divorce, he continued to visit Josephine at this retreat. He would
lead her into the park, remain an hour or two, bring her back to the
_salon_, and then get into his carriage. She received him with perfect
politeness and dignity of manner, going forward to meet him; and when
he left, accompanying him to the door of the vestibule.
The appearance of Josephine after she became empress, is thus
described: “Her features were small and finely modelled, the curves
tending rather to fulness and the profile inclining to Grecian, but
without any statue-like coldness of outline. The habitual character of
her countenance was a placid sweetness, which perhaps would have given
at first an impression of lack of energy. But this could have been for
an instant only, for the real charm of this mild countenance resided
in its power of varied expression, changing with each vicissitude of
thought and sentiment. ‘Never’ says a very honest admirer, ‘did any
woman better justify the saying, The eyes are the mirror of the soul.’
Josephine’s were of a deep blue, clear and brilliant, even imposing
in their expression when turned fully upon any one; but in her usual
manner they lay half concealed beneath their long and silky eyelashes.
She had a habit of looking thus with a mild, subdued glance upon
those she loved, throwing into her regard such winning tenderness as
might not easily be resisted; and even in his darkest moods, Napoleon
confessed its tranquillizing power. Josephine’s long hair ‘was glossy
chestnut brown,’ whose sunny richness harmonized delightfully with a
clear and transparent complexion and neck of almost dazzling whiteness.
Her eyebrows were a shade darker, arching regularly, and pencilled
with extreme delicacy. The perfect modulation of her voice constituted
one of her most pleasing attractions, and rendered her conversation
extremely captivating.”
It was difficult for Napoleon ever to resist the persuasive voice of
Josephine.
On the eve of Napoleon’s departure for Germany, in April, 1809, having
taken leave of Josephine, she had retired to her apartment, and thrown
herself upon her bed in deep distress, because she could not obtain his
consent to allow her to accompany him to Strasburg.
The emperor, returning unexpectedly to her room at the last moment,
said to Josephine:—
“You have played the part of empress long enough; you must now become
again the wife of a general. I leave immediately; you will accompany me
to Strasburg.”