“I was not at all prepared for the journey, for only a few days before
he had refused to permit me to accompany him on the campaign. At three
o’clock in the morning we were travelling speedily on the Alsace road.
My husband scarcely gave me time to throw on a night-cloak, and all my
women had left the château _en déshabillé;_ so that when morning came,
the officers who accompanied us could scarcely preserve their gravity
at seeing us in such a plight. Napoleon was extreme in every thing, and
it was never until the decisive moment came that he expressed his final
resolution. I had been so long accustomed to his singular character,
that I ceased to be astonished at the striking contrasts which it
exhibited. Our journey was full of gayety; we met sundry original
characters on the way, who furnished us abundance of amusement. We
arrived at Strasburg. My husband had a secret presentiment that he
should return victorious. He said to me, on leaving me:—
“‘Josephine watches over all that I love, and my guardian angel will
never cease to utter her prayers for the safety and success of her
husband.’
“He knew me well, that mortal whose astonishing destiny had opened to
him the road to the most splendid throne on earth. I cherished not a
thought, I formed not a wish, which was not directed to his glory. If
certain political drones have dared accuse me of levity in my conduct,
let those unjust censors remember that it was under the mask of sincere
friendship that I sought to overawe certain powerful personages. Had I
regarded them with an eye of indifference, they might have surrounded
Napoleon with perils from which no human prudence could have rescued
him. Often did I, in concert with him, carry on a correspondence. I
flattered all parties, for I love to do justice to all. When Napoleon
supposed he had grounds of complaint against any of his military
officers, I warmly pleaded their cause. He would tell me:—
“‘It depends only on me whether I will be rid of that officer. I have
only to pronounce his doom.’
“‘You are right,’ I would reply; ‘you are right; but such language does
not become your generous and noble nature.’
“‘And who can oppose me in it!’ was his quick reply.
“‘Yourself, Napoleon. ’Twould arm against your person a multitude of
brave men who are necessary to you. Certainly, a great man should
fear nothing; but he captivates all hearts when he pardons. The first
function of kings and the firmest pillar of a throne is justice.’”
Thus Josephine’s influence was always on the side of mercy and justice.
She possessed the most perfect tact, which rendered her address
irresistibly winning when partisans were to be gained for Napoleon.
She was entirely engrossed in the welfare and glory of him to whom
her heart was most unselfishly devoted and loyal. She gained for him
friends on every side; as Napoleon himself acknowledged, saying, “I
conquer empires; but Josephine wins hearts.” Bonaparte was never so
prosperous, so well-served, and so well-beloved, as during the years
when he was blessed with the counsels and aided by the adoring love of
the faithful woman, who was always his best adviser and most constant
friend.
When on one occasion Josephine warned Napoleon to be on his guard
against the advice which might be given him by his flatterers, he
replied:—
“You are right, Madame, I know how to guard myself against all their
influences. You are my _wife_ and _friend_. I want none other. Your
lot is bound to mine forever; and woe to that one of us who shall be
the first to break our oath.”
And yet in 1809, he could not guard himself against the “bees” of his
court, who hummed in his ears:—
“You must separate from the Empress Josephine. A princess of the
blood of the Cæsars will esteem it a glory to give heirs to the great
Napoleon. Then will his dynasty be established forever.”
The divorce in 1809 was brought about by the joint efforts of all the
members of the Bonaparte family, aided by some of Napoleon’s most
confidential servants, whom Josephine, either as Madame Bonaparte, or
empress, had failed to make her friends, notwithstanding her ceaseless
endeavors to harmonize all the hostile elements around her. Even as
early as the time when Napoleon was in Egypt, these intriguers first
tried to lay snares for the unsuspicious and magnanimous Josephine, and
various scandals were originated and reported to the absent Bonaparte.
Junot was made their tool either willingly or unwillingly, and the
evil whispers became louder and louder. During the first months of the
Egyptian expedition, Bonaparte’s letters to his wife were affectionate
and confiding. But the poison was soon at work, and the rumors which
Junot had repeated to Bonaparte roused his jealous anger.
Poor Josephine knew naught of these dread scandals, until the letters
received from her husband, accusing her of errors of which she was
guiltless, stabbed her to the heart. Her appeals against these
injurious aspersions were in accordance with her own noble nature. We
can only quote a few lines from her letter to Napoleon:—
“Can it be possible, my friend? Is the letter indeed yours which I
have just received? Scarcely can I give it credence, on comparing the
present with those now before me, and to which your love gave so many
charms! My eyes cannot doubt that those pages which rend my heart are
too surely yours; but my soul refuses to admit that yours could have
dictated those lines, which to the ardent joy experienced on hearing
from you have caused to succeed the mortal grief of reading the
expressions of a displeasure, the more afflicting to me that it must
have proved a source of fearful pain to you.
“I am entirely ignorant in what I have offended, to create an enemy so
determined to ruin my repose by interrupting yours; but surely it must
be a great reason which can thus induce some one unceasingly to renew
against me calumnies of such a specious nature as to be admitted, even
for a moment, by one who hitherto has deemed me worthy of his entire
affection and confidence.
“Oh, my friend! in place of lending an ear to impostors, who, from
motives which I cannot explain, seek to ruin our happiness, why do you
not rather reduce them to silence by the recital of your benefits to a
woman whose character has never incurred the suspicion of ingratitude?
On hearing what you have done for me and for my children, my traducers
would be silent. Your conduct, admired as it has been throughout the
whole of Europe, has in my heart but awakened deeper adoration of
the husband who made choice of me, poor as I was, and unhappy. Every
step which you take adds to the splendor of the name I bear—and is
such a moment seized to persuade you that I no longer love you? What
absurdity, or rather what vileness, on the part of your companions,
jealous as they are of your marked superiority! I tremble when I think
of the dangers which surround you. God knows when or where this letter
may reach you. May it restore to you a repose which you ought never to
have foregone, and more than ever give you an assurance, that while
I live you will be dear to me as on the day of our last separation.
Farewell, my only friend! Confide in me, love me, and receive a
thousand tender caresses.”
This touching letter, from which we have only quoted a few lines, was
probably not received by Bonaparte until after his return to France.
And Napoleon returning to Paris found Josephine absent, for she had
started to meet him in wild impatience to welcome him; but missing him
on the road, he arrived home first and found his house deserted: but
his mother, sisters, and sisters-in-law, and in short every member of
his family, except Louis, who had attended Madame Bonaparte to Lyons,
came to him immediately, and insinuated the basest scandals about his
devoted wife, who was only absent because she had flown to meet him.
But the impression made upon him by his deserted home and the false
accusations of his family were profound and terrible; and nine years
afterwards, when the tie between himself and Josephine was broken,
he showed that he had not forgotten that time. From not finding his
wife with his family, he inferred that she felt herself unworthy
of his presence and feared to meet the man she had wronged; and he
considered her journey to Lyons a mere pretence,—so cruelly had these
evil slanderers blackened her lovely and devoted character. After the
reconciliation which followed, Bonaparte seemed for a time to have
forgotten these evil lies; but his family were intensely chagrined.
Madame Pauline Le Clerc was most vexed at the pardon which Napoleon had
granted his wife. Bonaparte’s mother was also very ill-pleased, for
she had never liked Josephine. Madame Bacchiocchi gave free vent to
her ill-humor and disdain, and Bonaparte’s brothers were at open war
with Josephine. No wonder that with such a host of evil-minded, envious
relations, poor Josephine was most terribly maligned! Bonaparte’s
brothers, desirous of obtaining entire dominion over Napoleon,
strenuously endeavored to lessen the influence which Josephine
possessed over him.
Napoleon would probably have adhered to his first idea of adopting
Eugène de Beauharnais as his successor, had it not been for his own
family, all eager for wealth and honors, all jealous of any favors
shown to Josephine or her children, all of them constantly urging a
divorce.
“Divorce her at once,” Joseph Bonaparte exclaimed; “you are not married
to her. The woman may die, and it will then be said you have poisoned
her,—that you found it to your interest to do so.”
Napoleon was staggered at these monstrous suggestions. His countenance
became of a deathlike paleness as these terrible insinuations fell upon
his ear. After a moment or two of silence he murmured:—
“You have forced on me an idea which would never have occurred to me,
and with it the possibility of a divorce.”
Thus was the evil working, which should end in the cruel blow to
Josephine and the downfall of Napoleon. Years elapsed before Napoleon
was induced to act upon these suggestions, but the tempters had begun
their diabolical work.
As Napoleon’s marriage with Josephine had at first been only a civil
ceremony,—the religious service having been only performed at the time
of the coronation, when religious worship had been reinstated in
France,—Joseph Bonaparte basely insinuated that the tie between them
was not binding; and as by some mistake the necessary witnesses had
not been present at the after religious ceremony, and a signature was
said to be wanting to make the certificate of marriage complete, these
circumstances were afterwards laid stress upon, in declaring that their
marriage had been irregular and could therefore be annulled. And either
by evil intent or inadvertence a notice of the religious ceremony did
not appear in the _Moniteur_, which described the coronation at great
length. Thus was the web spun by the political spiders closer and
closer around their poor innocent victim, Josephine, and she became the
subject of their vilest plots.
Napoleon’s attachment to Josephine withstood all suggestions during the
period preceding the Empire, and Josephine herself afterwards declared,
“that unless urged by others, he would not of himself have thought of a
separation.”
But at length, instigated by Fouché and his own relations and other
evil advisers, Napoleon determined to divorce Josephine. This same wily
Fouché hinted to Josephine her coming doom, and advised that she should
first broach the subject to the emperor; but Josephine indignantly
refused.
“It was on Sunday, on returning from church, that Fouché, the minister
of the police, leading Josephine to the embrasure of a window in the
château at Fontainebleau, gave her the first shock on the subject of
the divorce, which did not take place until two years after.”
The family of Bonaparte became more openly hostile to Josephine. One of
the writers of her memoirs says:—
“Joseph could not endure her, while on the other hand, his wife
rendered her the fullest justice. As to Madame Murat, she was by no
means careful to conceal her thoughts, and on many occasions sought
to humiliate Napoleon’s wife. Madame Bacchiocchi, Napoleon’s eldest
sister, considered Josephine as the earliest instrument of her
brother’s greatness. ‘But,’ said she, ‘the moment her power becomes
too great it must be broken down, and that without pity.’ She was one
of the first to advise that unrighteous separation, which worked so
much prejudice to the emperor and his whole family. Madame Letitia,
Napoleon’s mother, occasioned real trouble and vexation to her
daughter-in-law. Their feelings were in perpetual opposition. The one
was remarkable for her acts of benevolence; the other for her extreme
parsimony. The mother loudly disapproved of the luxury which reigned at
her son’s court, and charged the fault to Josephine.”
When Joseph Bonaparte became king of Naples, his sister Caroline,
then Grand Duchess of Berg, avoided as much as possible her modest
sister-in-law, the queen of Naples. But finding herself obliged to
give her the title of “Your Majesty,” she dared at length to complain
to Napoleon that he had not yet given her a crown. Napoleon replied:
“Your complaint astonishes me, madame! To hear you, one might suppose
I had deprived you of your right of succession to the throne of your
_ancestor_.”
No one of Napoleon’s evil advisers was more crafty, insidious, and
unscrupulous than Fouché. Like a Mephistopheles, with sardonic smile he
held his fingers on the keys which played the tune of politics. Through
his minions, the police, he entered even the closed doors of his
Majesty’s cabinet, and caught the rumors which dropped in idle gossip
from the rosy lips of the beauties of the court.
After his cool affront to Josephine, in endeavoring to persuade her
that she should herself suggest to Napoleon the divorce, she begged the
emperor to remove Fouché from his office of minister of police; but
Bonaparte, with strange blindness, kept the wily serpent near him, and
banished from his presence his own guardian angel. And when at last he
had been stung himself by the treacherous fangs of the insidious viper,
and Napoleon became at length convinced that Fouché was maintaining a
correspondence with England, through his spies, the emperor dismissed
him; but it was too late.
The same Fouché who had thrust the dagger into the heart of Josephine,
afterwards proved to be one of the chief instigators of the plots which
caused the second abdication of Napoleon. Bourrienne thus pithily
describes him:—
“Fouché had opinions, but he belonged to no party; and his political
success is explained by the readiness with which he always served
the party he knew must triumph, and which he himself overthrew in
its turn. He maintained himself in favor, from the days of blood and
terror until the time of the second restoration, only by abandoning and
sacrificing those who were attached to him. In all things he looked
only to himself; and to this egotism he sacrificed both subjects and
governments.
“Such were the secret causes of the sway exercised by Fouché during
the Convention, the Directory, the Empire, and after the return of
the Bourbons. He helped to found and to destroy every one of these
successive governments.”
Napoleon afterwards realized some of the treachery of this archtraitor,
and thus spoke of him at St. Helena:—
“Fouché is a miscreant of all colors;—a priest, a Terrorist, and one
who took an active part in many bloody scenes of the Revolution. He is
a man who can worm all your secrets out of you with an air of calmness
and of unconcern.”
What wonder that poor unsuspicious Josephine was betrayed by such a
Judas!
This smiling Mephistopheles might thus have counselled with his crafty
soul:—
“And so her Majesty beseeches that I be dismissed! We’ll see, my lady,
whether you or I shall conquer in this contest! You think you hold your
husband’s heart; but I hold the ear of his proud ambition. Which, think
you, will prevail? You are surrounded by his relations, who hate you
with envious and jealous hatred, than which there is none more bitter.
I am their confidant. Ha! methinks my cards in hand shall win the game,
even against the _Queen of Hearts_!”
Bourrienne relates the following conversation with Fouché, which bears
upon this point:—
“I said a few words to him about Bonaparte’s regret at not having
children. My object was to learn Fouché’s opinion on this subject;
and it was not without a feeling of indignation I heard him say, ‘It
is to be hoped the empress will soon die. Her death will remove many
difficulties. Sooner or later he must take a wife who will bear him
a child; for as long as he has no direct heir, there is every chance
that his death will be the signal for a revolution. His brothers are
perfectly incapable of filling his place, and a new party would rise up
in favor of the Bourbons, which must be prevented above all things.’”
And yet this same Fouché afterwards intrigued for the return of the
Bourbons.
Just before Napoleon signed his second abdication, a provisional
government was established with Fouché at the head. This crafty
schemer was at that time the agent of Louis XVIII. and of the Duke of
Wellington; and so it was Fouché, who, as a leader in the Chamber of
Deputies, forced Napoleon to sign the second abdication. The Marquis de
Bonnay wrote concerning his intrigues:—
“I know for a certainty that M. de M., who was sent to Vienna by
Fouché, has taken part in a dialogue to the following effect:—
“‘Do not go to war with us, and we will rid you of that man.’
“‘Well, then; rid us of him at once.’
“‘Would you like the king of Rome, or a regency?’
“‘No!’
“‘The Duke of Orleans?’
“‘No!’
“‘Well, Louis XVIII.?—since it must be so. But no nobility, no
priestcraft, and above all, no Blacas.’
“‘Begin by ridding us of Bonaparte and all his race.’”
And rid them of Bonaparte, Fouché did; and again this wily diplomat,
or base traitor,—according as the reader sides with one or the other
party,—came once more to the front, and received again the office of
minister of police under Louis XVIII. Thus Fouché had played his cards
and won, and Josephine and Napoleon had lost. Surely the title which
Lanfrey applies to Napoleon would most fittingly describe Fouché,—“_an
incorrigible gambler_.”
During their private conferences, previous to the direct announcement
of his determination, Napoleon endeavored to persuade Josephine of the
political necessity of a separation; veiling his real intentions, so
that they should appear only hints of the measure. Sometimes these
vague hints would be met by Josephine with tears and supplications; at
other times she would rise in calm dignity and defend her claims with
unanswerable facts and predictions. There are several most interesting
accounts given of various conversations between them at different
times, before the final announcement. The following is perhaps the most
impressive.
On one occasion Josephine dared predict to him, that the day he
separated himself from her his bright star of destiny should fade, and
that their parting hour would be the beginning of his downfall.
“You need,” she said, “a friend, and you have nothing but flatterers.
Do you believe that your generals are truly attached to you? No! the
most of them only wait a propitious moment to turn their arms against
you. Do you think they will, with unconcern, see the Emperor Napoleon
searching for a wife among the daughters of kings? No! they have been
bred in the same school as yourself; they have _earned true nobility_,
at the price of their blood; and the blazonry upon their armor, of
which they are so justly proud, is but the evidence of valor which has
given them the prodigious power they now enjoy in Europe.
“But remember! in you they but behold their equal. If they sustain the
glory of your throne, it is only because your elevation seems their
work. They believe you great, because the rays of your grandeur are
reflected by themselves. If they burn incense to you, they breathe
with delight the incense of a power which they share. But the moment a
foreign wife shall come and seat herself at your side, the court will
cease to be directed by the same influence. You are too _new_ a man to
attach to your person the ancient families. You may load them with
favors; you have it in your power, and it is your duty to make them
forget the wrongs inseparable from the Revolution. But beware you do
not humble the old generals who served their country before you. Banish
from your halls that too severe etiquette which was not made for them.
Their wives and children ought not to be made to blush, either in your
presence or in that of your future companion. The sword of the brave
will ever be your surest safeguard. I myself have ever been careful to
conciliate all parties, and to be indulgent to all opinions; so much
so, that, since your fortunes have become so wonderful, I have in a
manner taught your officers to forget the immense distance which exists
between General Bonaparte and the Emperor Napoleon.”
Some days before the divorce, Josephine is reported to have thus
addressed Napoleon:—
“Bonaparte, even now you have no confidence in the stability of
your power. You want an ally; and the very sovereign whom you have
lately vanquished, the sovereign who has just grounds to hate you,
sees himself flattered by the very man who has so lately overrun his
country. If such an enormous sacrifice as the giving his daughter to
you in marriage be necessary to give peace to his subjects, you cannot
but know that he will secretly despise you, and say to himself:—
“‘The man who so lately made me tremble, who imposed such cruel
conditions upon me, is on the eve of some dreadful catastrophe. Did he
suppose himself firmly seated upon his throne, he would not need to
resort to a foreign alliance; and the very circumstance that the mighty
conqueror is so anxious to obtain a companion of illustrious birth, is
evidence that he intends, should a storm ever arise, to lean upon that
foreign support.’”
It was indeed strange that the cry of the Revolution, “Down with the
_Autrichienne_!” did not warn Napoleon that it would be an impolitic
action to place another Austrian woman upon the throne of France.
The Empress Josephine, after having long dreaded the terrible
misfortune which at length overwhelmed her, was totally unprepared for
the shock when it fell. She had for a time been lulled into a fancied
security, and had regained tranquillity just as the blow came. Nothing
had been done to prepare her for it. Even when all Europe was talking
of this probable event, and after negotiations had been entered into
regarding her successor, still no direct word had been spoken to the
poor victim of this atrocious cruelty and perfidious crime.
The letter in which Napoleon told her of his approaching arrival at
Fontainebleau still exists. Its tone is particularly affectionate; and
he thus wrote: “_I am feasting on the thought of seeing thee again_;—I
embrace thee. Ever thine.” These were his words sent from Nymphenburg,
Oct. 21, 1809. When he arrived at Fontainebleau, however, Josephine
perceived that he was constrained and cold, which alarmed her; and the
triumphant airs of her sworn enemies, his sisters and brothers and
mother, who hastened to greet him with officious homage, betokened that
some new effront would soon be offered her.
While she was obliged to conceal beneath a smiling countenance her
consuming anxieties, in the midst of the brilliant _fêtes_ of the
court, she found that the communication between her suite of apartments
and those of the emperor had been closed by his orders, which announced
to her that her dreaded doom was nigh.
The Duchesse D’Abrantes gives this account of a visit to Josephine
just previous to the public announcement of the divorce: “I had an
interview with the empress at Malmaison. I had sent her a plant from
the Pyrenees, and she wished me to see it in the hot-house. But in
vain she attempted to employ herself with those objects which pleased
her the most; her eyes were frequently suffused with tears; she was
pale, and her whole manner marked indisposition. ‘It is very cold!’
she said, drawing her shawl about her; but, alas! it was the chill of
grief creeping about her heart, like the cold hand of death. ‘Madame
Junot,’ she said, ‘remember what I say to you this day here, in this
hot-house,—this place which is now a paradise, but which may soon
become a desert to me,—remember that this separation will be my death,
and it is they who will have killed me! I shall be driven in disgrace
from him who has given me a crown! Yet God is my witness that I love
him more than my life, and much more than that throne, that crown,
which he has given me.’ The empress may have appeared more beautiful,
but never more attractive than at that moment. If Napoleon had seen
her then, surely he could never have divorced her.” Lanfrey thus
comments upon this event: “On the evening of Nov. 30, the prefect of
the palace was on duty in an apartment adjoining the drawing-room
where the emperor and Josephine were sitting, when he heard piercing
cries, and with amazement recognized the voice of the empress. A few
moments afterwards the door opened, and Napoleon having called him
in, he beheld the empress suffering from a violent nervous attack,
and uttering exclamations of distress and despair. He then helped
Napoleon to carry her into her own apartment. In fact, the much-dreaded
explosion had taken place. The emperor had at first determined to
await the arrival of the Prince Eugène in Paris, in order that the
presence and consolations of the son whom Josephine so tenderly loved
might soften the bitterness of his intended communication. When he
announced the terrible news to her who alone was ignorant of it,—to the
woman who, by having brought him among her wedding presents the chief
command of the army in Italy, had so eminently contributed towards his
exalted fortune,—eight days had already elapsed since he had desired
Champagny to ask for him the hand of the Emperor Alexander’s sister. It
was Russia, his ally, not Austria, whom he thought it better to address
first.
“As the sad scene which had revealed the domestic trouble in the
imperial family was soon publicly known, the divorce became the subject
of conversation at the court and throughout the nation. The unfortunate
Josephine was supported, it is true, by the affection of her children,
who felt the blow scarcely less keenly than herself; but being
convinced of the absolute futility of resistance, she had, after the
deepest anguish, submitted, rather than resigned herself to that strong
will which henceforward became inflexible.
“In order to feign consent, it was necessary that she should show
herself in public. Hence she was dragged about to all the grand
official receptions, and the scandal-loving public watched her closely,
in order to note the extent and progress of her misfortune. The echoes
of the palace more than once repeated her sobs and complaints; but
it was desirable that this victim of pride and policy should appear
content to sacrifice herself, and she was not allowed the satisfaction
even of a display of grief. In the _fêtes_ given at the commencement
of December, to celebrate the anniversary of the coronation, Paris
beheld her, with death in her heart and a smile on her lips, bearing
the despair which was a torture to her, with grace playing her part
of sovereign for the last time; surrounded by her children, who, to
use the expression of a contemporary, were dancing at their mother’s
funeral.”
Upon his arrival in Paris, after the blow had fallen upon poor
Josephine, Prince Eugène had a mournful interview with his afflicted
mother.
“’Tis not,” said that noble woman in the agony of her heart, “’tis not
that I regret the throne, my son, but I feel that I am leaving the
emperor a prey to the evil-minded men who seek his ruin. I shall be no
longer here to warn him against their false-hearted counsels. The task
reserved for me henceforth will be to pity him, and to pray for him and
the French people whom I love. _My children will imitate my example._”
Bourrienne gives the following words of Josephine, regarding her
divorce:—
“I was ushered into the drawing-room at Malmaison, where I found
Josephine and Hortense. When I entered, Josephine stretched out her
hand to me, saying, ‘Ah, my friend!’ These words she pronounced with
deep emotion, and tears prevented her from continuing. She threw
herself on the ottoman on the left of the fireplace, and beckoned me to
sit down beside her. Hortense stood by the fireplace, endeavoring to
conceal her tears. After a struggle to overcome her feelings, Josephine
said:—
“‘I have drained my cup of misery. He has cast me off!—forsaken me! He
conferred upon me the vain title of empress only to render my fall the
more marked. Ah! I knew the destiny that awaited me; for what would
he not sacrifice to his ambition!’ As she finished these words, one
of Queen Hortense’s ladies entered with a message to her; Hortense
withdrew, so that I was left alone with Josephine.
“She seemed to wish for the relief of disclosing her sorrows. Josephine
confirmed what Duroc had told me respecting the two apartments at
Fontainebleau; then, coming to the period when Bonaparte had declared
to her the necessity of a separation, she said:—
“‘My dear Bourrienne, during all the years you were with us you know I
made you the confidant of my thoughts, and kept you acquainted with my
sad forebodings. They are now cruelly fulfilled. I acted the part of a
good wife to the very last. I have suffered all, and I am resigned!
“‘What fortitude did it require latterly to endure my situation, when,
though no longer his wife, I was obliged to seem so in the eyes of the
world! With what eyes do courtiers look upon a repudiated wife! I was
in a state of vague uncertainty worse than death, until the fatal day
when he at length avowed to me what I had long before read in his looks!
“‘On the 30th of November, 1809, we were dining together as usual.
I had not uttered a word during that sad dinner, and he had broken
silence only to ask one of the servants what it was o’clock. As soon as
Bonaparte had taken his coffee, he dismissed all the attendants, and
I remained alone with him. I saw in the expression of his countenance
what was passing in his mind, and I knew that my hour was come.
“‘He stepped up to me,—he was trembling, and I shuddered; he took my
hand, pressed it to his heart, and after gazing at me a few moments in
silence, he uttered these fatal words:—
“‘“Josephine! my dear Josephine! You know how I have loved you!... To
you, to you alone, I owe the only moments of happiness I have tasted in
this world. But, Josephine, my destiny is not to be controlled by my
will. My dearest affections must yield to the interests of France.”
“‘“Say no more!” I exclaimed, “I understand you: I expected this; but
the blow is not the less mortal.”
“‘I could not say another word,’ continued Josephine. ‘I know not what
happened after. I seemed to lose my reason; I became insensible, and
when I recovered I found myself in my chamber. Your friend Corvisart
and my poor daughter were with me. Bonaparte came to see me in the
evening; and oh! Bourrienne, how can I describe to you what I felt at
sight of him! even the interest he evinced for me seemed an additional
cruelty. Alas! I had good reason to fear ever becoming an empress!’”
The 15th of December, 1809, was the fatal day appointed for the
consummation of the divorce. The imperial council of state was
convened, and the official announcements of the coming separation were
made. Napoleon’s address on this occasion is well known. The prepared
response which Josephine attempted to read in acceptation of this cruel
decree, was too much for even her marvellous fortitude to endure; and
Eugène was obliged to take the paper from his weeping mother, and
finish for her the heart-breaking avowal which her quivering lips
refused to utter.
Upon the following day the council was again assembled with the
imperial family in the grand _salon_ at the Tuileries, to witness the
legal consummation of the divorce.
All were in court costume. Napoleon entered the apartment, clothed in
the imposing robes of state. Pale as a corpse, he stood leaning against
a pillar, with folded arms, motionless as a statue.
Again the poor victim of this cruel sacrifice must appear. The
keen-edged knife of the political guillotine of blind ambition must
this day perform its final act of political decapitation.
The door opens; a sad figure appears. Some reports clothe this
sorrowful, weeping woman in white muslin; others in black satin. As the
latter seems more fitting: to this funereal scene, we incline to that
supposition, which would surely appear more appropriate than bridal
white for this moment of public repudiation.
The graceful woman, bending like a weeping-willow before the storm of
sorrow which is crushing her to the earth, walks slowly to the seat
prepared for her, followed by her son and daughter. The pallor of
death is upon her brow. A coffin would have seemed less cruel than the
mocking chair of state waiting for her. Had she been Marie Antoinette
upon the scaffold, she could scarcely have suffered more; for Marie
Antoinette could at least love her dead husband without reproach; while
the living husband of poor Josephine holds in his hand the cruel dagger
which is piercing her bleeding heart, and his word tears from her brow
her rightful royal diadem of wifehood.
The iniquitous decree is read. The quivering victim must pronounce her
own sentence. Pressing her handkerchief to her streaming eyes for a
moment, she slowly rises, and the oath of acceptance passes her pallid
lips. The pen is handed to her, and she signs her own _death-warrant_;
and then glides like a mournful spectre from the grand _salon_ of
state, the imperial grandeur of which, together with the presence of
her triumphant foes, mock her unutterable woe.
It is the evening of the same day. The weeping woman has still another
heart-rending duty to perform. She must take her final farewell of
the man who has stabbed her to the heart; of the husband whom she
still adores with every heart-beat of her loyal, loving soul; of the
emperor who has crowned her, only to tear from her brow his royal
gift and bestow it upon another. Was ever woman’s soul torn with such
conflicting emotions? Pride and love have fought a terrible battle
within her heart, since the cruel public sacrifice of the morning. But
love has conquered; yes, so royally conquered, that there is no place
left in her soul for aught but overpowering devotion to the adored
husband of her heart.
Napoleon had retired to his apartments. His valet was about to be
dismissed for the night when the door opens, and upon the threshold
stands Josephine!—more irresistible in her infinite sorrow than in
her most imperial robes of dazzling splendor. Her tender eyes are
glistening through her tears; her hair falls in disordered locks around
her quivering face; her hands are clasped in agonizing despair. For
one moment she gazes upon the face of him who has been her life and
happiness;—then, forgetting all but her overpowering love, she throws
herself into his arms, exclaiming, in tones of commingled tenderness
and heart-broken anguish,—“My husband!—My husband!”
Napoleon was overpowered at last. With streaming eyes he beckoned to
his valet to retire, and the husband and wife were left alone for their
last sad interview. When an hour afterwards Josephine retired from the
apartment, still sobbing with irresistible emotion, the valet entered
to remove the lights, and found Napoleon with face buried in the pillow
and form convulsed with choking sobs.
The next morning, at eleven o’clock, Josephine was to bid a last adieu
to the Tuileries. At the appointed hour she appeared, heavily veiled
and leaning upon the arm of one of her lady attendants. Silently
she walked through the spacious halls, where all the household had
assembled to take final leave of their loved mistress. Not a word was
spoken; and as Josephine entered the close carriage she waved an adieu
to the weeping friends around her, and without another glance at the
grand palace which had witnessed her proud happiness and unutterable
woe, she was driven rapidly to her future sad retreat at Malmaison.
But the envious hate of the Bonaparte family received its just reward
on the occasion of the marriage of Napoleon to Maria Louisa; and they
were then obliged to swallow a more bitter pill of mortified pride than
any which had been administered to them during the reign of Josephine.
_Madame Mère Bonaparte_ and the queens of Holland and Naples, the
princesses Eliza and Pauline, and the kings Louis and Jerome, were
gathered to discuss the coming marriage ceremony of the future empress.
Murat, the handsome king of Naples, entered, attired in his rich gala
dress of fawn-colored satin embroidered with silver, and wearing a
purple mantle lined with ermine and clasped with jewels. The hilt and
sheath of his sword sparkled with gems, and his belt was covered with
rubies. He wore a sort of cap, of purple, surrounded by an open crown
of precious stones, while his boots were of purple velvet edged with
fur, and his knee-breeches and vest were of white satin. As he entered
the apartment, so proud and so handsome, all of his family exclaimed:
“What a handsome dress!”
“Yes, I flatter myself!” said Murat, gazing into the long mirror before
which _la Princesse Borghèse_ was paying court to her own beauty; “but
do you know, fair ladies, that you are about to be disgraced in the
eyes of all Europe?” continued Murat, holding up a printed paper.
“What is it?” exclaimed all in a breath.
“Read!—_mesdames les reines!_” replied Murat, “and you will learn that
_all, queens as you are_, you will to-morrow, in the chapel of the
Louvre, during the marriage ceremony, have the honor of bearing the
train of the imperial mantle of your august sister-in-law.”
“Napoleon can never request of us such an insulting office,” said one.
“It is no _request_,” said Jerome, “the emperor _commands_ it.”
“As for me,” cried la _Princesse Borghèse_, “I would like to see myself
touch her odious mantle!”
“Do not excite yourself, sister,” said the queen of Naples, “this
matter does not concern either you or the _grande duchesse_; you are
neither of you _queens_.”
“But I am more than a _parvenue_ queen,” gasped Pauline, between her
sobs, “my husband was a noble from birth.”
“I, for one, will not officiate as the waiting-woman of my
sister-in-law,” said the queen of Naples haughtily.
“I could not venture to hint at such a degradation to my wife,—the
daughter of the king of Wurtemberg,” declared Jerome.
“Sons and daughters, son-in-law and daughter-in-law,” said _Madame
Mère_, “bear in mind that Napoléoné is accustomed to be obeyed. He is
entirely wrong in this matter; but if he is resolved, you will obey.”
“The others may do as they like; but not _I_, _Madame Mère_” said the
spoiled beauty, Pauline.
“_You_, like the rest,” replied Madame Bonaparte, with decision.
At that moment the doors were thrown open, and the usher announced,
“The Emperor!”
It was in vain that Pauline tried to conceal her tears of rage; or that
the queen of Naples endeavored to smooth her ruffled brow; or that
Murat hastily sheathed his splendid sword, which he had just drawn in
mock defiance to the imperial command.
“_Madame la Princesse Borghèse!_ explain what all this means,” said
Napoleon, with severity.
“My sisters and I do not think it proper to carry the mantle of your
wife,” Pauline exclaimed defiantly.
“What! do you all refuse?” asked the emperor.
“I cannot disgrace my crown,” sobbed Caroline Murat.
“I will not publicly outrage my unhappy mother!” bravely said Hortense.
“And you, Eliza?” remarked Napoleon; “you probably dread the reproaches
of your husband. Ladies, what did I owe to you when I was called upon
to reign over France? I have placed you all on such a giddy elevation
that it has turned your heads. I have bestowed upon your husbands and
yourselves kingdoms, principalities, and splendid establishments; I
have overwhelmed you with wealth and honors. What are you without me?
Which of you could sustain yourself, if I did not stretch out my hand
to support you? Oh! so this is the tone that you assume! Your thrones
belong to you by feudal right? Mark me, ladies; the archchancellor
of state shall make to you, or rather to your husbands, an official
declaration; and whichever one among you ventures to disobey my
commands, shall be considered as a culprit, and shall be put under the
ban of the empire. And as regards you, Madame Borghèse, who honor us
by your alliance, as soon as the marriage _fêtes_ have terminated you
will leave Paris; and as you first gave the signal of resistance, so
you shall be the first to obey. It is my express determination that the
empress, archduchess of Austria, shall receive all the homage due to
her birth and rank.”
The emperor then haughtily withdrew. The poor Princess Borghèse fell
upon the floor in violent hysterics; and Napoleon, having been apprised
of the fact, sent his physician to attend her, bearing also the
information to her, that it was the _command_ of the emperor that she
should be perfectly recovered before the next day. So Pauline could
not feign sickness, and was obliged to resign herself to her fate. But
even Napoleon himself could not conquer women’s tears; and although
his unwilling relations were forced to obey his imperial command, that
fatal train of the empress, measuring twelve yards in length, was borne
by weeping queens and princesses, who did not even try to conceal
their tears of mortification; and they doubtless then realized that an
empress of _royal birth_ was not after all such a desirable acquisition
to their family as they had supposed. If poor Josephine had not been
too generous to be spiteful, and too sad to note aught but her own
humiliation and woe, she might have felt herself somewhat avenged by
her unconscious successor. As the gorgeous spectacle passed through the
magnificent gallery which connected the Tuileries with the Louvre, a
child exclaimed to its mother:—
“Mamma, why does the queen of Holland cry? I thought queens were always
laughing.”
Poor Hortense! It was indeed cruel in the extreme, that she should
have been forced to bear the mantle of the woman who was so unjustly
supplanting her own mother.
Whenever Josephine’s friends conversed in her presence regarding the
woman who had taken her place, she was careful to avoid the slightest
remark which could be construed into a censure of Maria Louisa,
though her sorrow could not be concealed. “He will never love her,”
she exclaimed with deep feeling; “he has sacrificed everything to his
politics; but his first wife—yes, his first wife, will forever possess
his confidence.” And she did not deceive herself in this belief,
for the ex-empress had reason upon many occasions to exult in the
irresistible ascendency she still exercised over Napoleon.
On hearing of the birth of the king of Rome, Josephine evinced her
generous sympathy by making a present to the baby archduke of a little
carriage drawn by two superb _merinos_. The emperor was much pleased
with this kind attention, but when he spoke of it to Maria Louisa, the
Austrian was offended; for she could never endure to hear a word of
praise regarding the woman who had preceded her, and she always tried
to prevent Napoleon’s visits to his former wife. But the emperor never
ceased to honor Josephine by frequent letters, hurried visits, and
constant delicate attentions. Josephine was never forgotten by him,
and he always spoke of her with new and increasing interest. He was
displeased with certain of his courtiers who affected to forget the
forsaken Josephine. “Have you been to Malmaison?” he would inquire of
them. “How does the empress?” and these fickle courtiers perceived
that if they would please the emperor, they must pay their respects
to Josephine. Often when returning from a hunt, Napoleon would go and
surprise Josephine at Malmaison with a visit, and walk with her in the
garden, conversing with the greatest interest about all his affairs;
she was still his most intimate confidant. To Josephine alone could he
confide his inmost thoughts, sure of never being betrayed, and always
receiving her most devoted interest. The emperor would often send
word to the grand _écuyer_ to detain the Empress Maria Louisa at the
riding-school; and then took advantage of the moment of liberty to go
and surprise Josephine at Malmaison. It is said that Napoleon was much
displeased with Madame de la R., because, having been in Josephine’s
service, she proposed to fulfil the same duties for the Empress Maria
Louisa. “No,” said he with indignation; “she shall not. Although I am
charged with ingratitude towards my wife, I will have no imitators,
especially among the persons whom she has honored with her confidence
and loaded with her favors.”
After her divorce, Josephine passed her time alternately at Malmaison
and the château of Navarre. She here dispensed daily bounty to
multitudes of poor families, who were the recipients of her generous
benevolence and the objects of her personal care. The following
touching incident is said to have occurred just before Napoleon set out
on his fatal campaign to Russia.
The Empress Josephine was seated in her gallery of paintings, when
the emperor came upon her unawares, and found her reading that
passage in the life of Diocletian relating to his abdication: “O ye,
who have seen me seated on a throne, come now and see the lettuce
which I have planted with my own hands!” Napoleon appeared to be
singularly impressed by these words, and said to Josephine with unusual
tenderness: “My wife” (for so he continued to call her), “I shall,
perhaps, terminate my course in the same way, and take pride in showing
the beautiful fruits of your gardens, cultivated by my own hands, to
the envoys of the different nations who may come to visit Napoleon the
_Philosopher_.”
“So much the better,” answered Josephine; “then should we be happy
indeed.” But soon her eyes filled with tears, and she said with
inexpressible sadness: “My friend, you have a new wife and a son; I
desire henceforth only to aid you by my counsels. But should you ever
be free, or should the blast of adversity ever deliver you to your
enemies, come, come, O Bonaparte, to my cherished asylum!”
Josephine was very desirous to behold the young king of Rome. Madame
Montesquieu, by the order of the emperor, went to Trianon with her
august _élève_. Hither Josephine went, and when she beheld the young
prince, she lavished her caresses upon his baby face, exclaiming with
streaming eyes: “I now pardon her freely for the wrong she did me in
coming to usurp my place. I am now willing to overlook all my husband’s
errors, and concern myself solely about the happiness of a father.”
Napoleon’s overthrow was the result of political errors, into which he
was led by evil advisers. They were:—
“1. The unjust war in Spain; an almost insupportable draught upon the
blood and treasure of France, and utterly unproductive of profit or
glory.
“2. The divorce of his wife Josephine,—a matter of cold-blooded
calculation; a wrong determination as to the results to arise from the
respective positions of the objects upon the political chessboard. It
was discarding a _French woman_ for an _Austrian princess_. It offended
France; it shocked all hearts by an apparent indifference to the love
of a noble-minded, innocent, faithful, and beautiful woman.
“3. The unfortunate campaign to Russia, an effort which France was
not then strong enough to sustain; though it was one of the grandest
displays of military power in the history of the world.”
And yet, with all Napoleon’s plans, it was not _his_ son who afterwards
sat upon the French throne, but the _grandson_ of _Josephine_,—the son
of Hortense and Louis Bonaparte who subsequently reigned over France as
Emperor Napoleon III. What had the cruel and iniquitous divorce availed
after all? Thus a wise Providence seems to declare to the sons of men
through the sequences resulting from such historical events, _Ye shall
not do evil, presuming to imagine that thereby good may arise_!
Napoleon’s unfortunate and unjust war with Spain proved in the end
to have been an enterprise regarding which the keen intuitions of
Josephine had not deceived her. She was endowed with an instinct so
perfect, which enabled her to foresee the future with such marvellous
skill, that it amounted with her almost to a gift of genius; and she
was seldom deceived respecting the good or evil tendency of any of
Napoleon’s measures. When informed that the emperor intended to place
Joseph Bonaparte upon the throne of Spain, she declared that “she was
seized with a feeling of indescribable alarm.”
“When Bonaparte separated from Josephine, he left the woman who had
exercised a great influence upon his destinies. It was she who had in a
manner launched him upon fortune’s car, who knew how to uphold him in
spite of envy, who was the guardian angel sent by Providence upon the
earth to repair a thousand wrongs; and from the moment he repudiated
her, Napoleon, the invincible Napoleon, began to be a prey to fearful
forebodings. This false step was a triumph to his enemies, and all
Europe was amazed that a man whose former achievements had covered him
with glory, should thus, with a sort of ostentation, run after the
daughter of a sovereign whom he had subdued by force of arms. ‘From
that moment’ (such was the general exclamation) ‘that Napoleon shall
start this scandalous project of a divorce, and, not content with
severing the bonds which are for him not less sacred than advantageous,
shall dare aspire to the hand of the august daughter of the Cæsars,
Napoleon is no longer anything of himself; he is but an ambitious man.
He will tremble for the result of the part he is acting, for he will
seek to sustain himself by force and not by popular favor.’”
As the disasters of his last days gathered around Napoleon, he said to
Josephine on one occasion, when paying her a visit at Malmaison:—
“Josephine, when my soul is filled with pain, I feel the need of a true
friend into whose bosom I may pour my sorrows. What astonishes me is,
that men should study every other science except that of happiness.
’Tis only in retirement that I have found it, and that I may, perhaps,
hereafter meet with it!”