JOSEPHINE
One of the phenomena of human affairs is the part destined for
Josephine, daughter of M. Joseph Gaspard Tascher de la Pagerie,
sugar-planter at Martinique, and friend of the Marquis de Beauharnais,
whose son Alexandre was fated to marry her when she was but sixteen
years of age. The marriage took place on December 13, 1779, at
Noisy-le-Grand. The pompous young bridegroom speaks of his young bride
in appreciative terms in a letter to his father, and in order that his
parent may not be disappointed as to her beauty, he explains that in
this respect she may not be up to his expectations. He regards the
pleasure of being with her as very sweet, and forms the resolution of
putting her through a course of education, as this had been grievously
neglected.
The father of Alexandre is said to have been charmed with the
sweetness of Josephine's character, but then he was not her husband,
and it soon became apparent that the union was ill-assorted, and so it
came to pass that marital relations were entirely broken off after the
birth of Hortense, subsequently dressmaker's apprentice, Queen of
Holland, and mother of Napoleon III. Alexandre had gone to Martinique,
and it was there the news of his daughter's birth came to him. He knew
before leaving France that his wife was enceinte, and expressed his
pleasure to her. The Marquis Beauharnais had assured his friend,
Joseph Tascher de la Pagerie, that his "son was worthy of being his
son-in-law, and that Nature had endowed him with fine and noble
qualities." These virtues seem to have been dissolved with remarkable
rapidity after his marriage, as it was well known before his departure
on the voyage to Martinique that he had been diligently unfaithful to
the poor "uneducated" little Creole girl who really thought she loved
him. From all accounts, and I have read many, Alexandre Beauharnais
was an ill-conditioned cruel prig. This excellent son with "fine and
noble qualities" had not been long at Martinique before he associated
himself with a lady of questionable virtue, who was much older than
he. This person's dislike to Josephine caused her to pour into his
willing ears and receptive mind scandalous stories of his childwife's
love intrigues before she left her native island. This gave Alexandre
a fine opportunity of writing a letter to her, disclaiming the
paternity of Hortense, and accusing her of intrigues with "an officer
in the Martinique regiment, and another man who sailed in a ship
called the _Cæsar_." He declares he knows the contents of her letters
to her lovers, and "swears by the Heaven which enlightens him that the
child is another's, and that strange blood flows in its veins," and
"it shall never know his shame"; and so the virtuous Alexandre goes
rambling on, until he comes to the slashing finish in the good old
style that persons similarly situated adopt to those whom they have
grievously injured. He soars between elegant politeness and old-time
aristocratic ferocity: "Goodbye, madam, this is the last letter you
will receive from your desperate and unhappy husband." Then comes the
inevitable postscript, with an avenging bite embodying the spirit of
murder. He is to be in France soon if his health does not break down
under the load she has cast upon him. He warns her to be out of the
house on his arrival, because, if she is not, "she will find in him a
tyrant." The whole letter is indicative of a low-down unworthy scamp,
a mere collection of transparent verbiage, intended as a means of
ridding himself of a woman he had nothing in common with, and a cover
to his own unfaithfulness.
But whatever may be the interpretation of his motives, on his coming
back to Paris he kept his word. Conjugal relations were not renewed.
His family were indignant at the treatment Josephine was receiving at
the hands of this pompous libertine, and he assures her that of "the
two, she is not the one to be most pitied."
M. Masson declares that there was never a reconciliation, and that
they lived apart, but met in society, and spoke to one another, mainly
about their children's education. Josephine caused him to withdraw
before her lawyer the gross and unfounded charges he had made against
her and to agree to a satisfactory allowance.
Alexandre, finding soldiering distasteful, embarked upon a political
career as an aristocrat Liberal. His rise to position was swift, and
after the death of Mirabeau he followed him as President of the
Assembly. Before his fall came, he was appointed Commander-in-Chief of
the Army of the Rhine, and at the head of sixty thousand men failed to
relieve Mayence and resigned his command.
His Liberal pretensions did not prevent him being included amongst the
proscribed. He was made captive, accused of attempting to escape,
condemned to death and guillotined. Josephine's device of reassuring
the Revolutionists of her conversion to Republicanism by apprenticing
Hortense to a dressmaker and Eugene to a carpenter did not avail. She
was suspected and sent to Les Carmes, where frequent conversations
took place between her philosophic and abandoned husband and herself,
mainly concerning their children's education, and had not the reaction
against the regime of blood brought about the fall of Robespierre, she
would assuredly have shared the fate of Alexandre; and had the cry of
"A bas le tyrant" been heard a few days earlier, Beauharnais would
have escaped too, and cheated Josephine of becoming Empress of the
French and Queen of Italy. As it was, some of the very same people who
but a short time before had harangued the mob to "Behold the friend of
the people, the great defender of liberty," switched their murderous
vengeance on to their late idol, and ere many hours the widow
Beauharnais was set free. The thought of the appalling end and the
brevity of time that seemed left to her impressed Josephine with all
its ghastly horror. She had shrieked and wept herself into a deathlike
illness. The doctor predicted that she could not survive more than a
week, and for this reason she escaped being brought before the
Tribunal.
A wondrous Providence this, which, with frantic speed, broke the
power of a hideous monster, and thereby saved the woman who was to
enter upon a new era, and to be borne swiftly on to share the glory of
an unequalled Empire.
M. Masson's theory is that Josephine's womanly grief had much to do
with awakening the sentiment of Paris, and breaking the Reign of
Terror; and, indeed, there is some reason in this view, for tears are
not only useful as an indication of sorrow, suffering, or conquest,
but an effective means of gaining sympathy. Josephine was an adept at
trying the efficacy of weeping, and if M. Masson has gauged the
influence of melting the heart of the spirit of massacre aright, then
Josephine was gifted with, and made the instrument of, a divine
instinct that should claim attention and reverence for all time, even
though her subsequent misdeeds occasionally incline us to avert the
eye.
But it is likely that the sombre satire of the pure and beautiful
Jeanne-Marie Philipon touched the heart of Paris more than the
shedding of tears and shrieking lamentations. The wife of Roland, led
to the scaffold, faced with the stern certainty of death, asks with
calm dignity for pen, ink, and paper, "so that she might write the
strange thoughts that were rising in her." The request was not
granted. Then looking at the statue of Liberty, she exclaimed with
fierce dignity, "O Liberty! What things are done in thy name!" and
these throbbing magical words reverberated through France with
wonderful effect. The guilty populace, shuddering with superstitious
awe at the revolting horrors committed in the name of Liberty,
Equality, Fraternity, or Death, flashed a thought on the scaffold of
the stainless victim, then on the loathsome prisons that were filled
with suspects, rich and poor, all over France. Then, in time, the
dooming to death of some of the prominent polecats who committed
murder in the name of liberty and fraternity brought Robespierreism to
an end. Robespierre himself was cursed on the scaffold by a woman who
sent him to "hell with the curses of all wives and mothers," and
Samson did the rest. And it may be logically assumed that the parting
words of Jeanne-Marie Philipon at the foot of the scaffold inoculated
the public mind, not only with the horrors that were being committed
in the name of Liberty, but what things were cantishly being said in
its name. I like to think of the stainless lady's inspired phrase
rather than Josephine's tears as being in some degree responsible for
the end of the Reign of Terror.
After her release, Josephine's shattered health was a cause of
anxiety, but this was soon re-established, and she quickly put her
emotions aside and plunged into gaiety with an alacrity that makes
one wonder whether she had more than spasmodic regret at the awful
doom that had come to her husband, who left a somewhat penitent letter
behind, wherein he speaks of his brotherly affection for her, bids her
"goodbye," exhorts her "to be the consoler of those whom she knows he
loves," and "by her care to prolong his life in their hearts."
"Goodbye," says he; "for the last time in my life I press you and my
children to my breast."
These posthumous reflections and instructions did not impress the
widow with any apparent interest. The picture recorded of their tragic
married life is not sweet. Neither lived up to the great essentials
which assure happiness.
Before her imprisonment the gossip-mongers were whispering round
rumours of violent flirtations, and even when she was in Les Carmes
they said that she and her fellow-prisoner, General Hoche, were too
familiar, and coupled the name of the ex-Count with that of a young
lady suspect. The truth of such accusations seems highly improbable,
and they may well be regarded as malicious slander. It is not unlikely
that Josephine was on friendly terms with the General before they met
in Les Carmes, but that it was more than friendship is a mere
hypothesis. Her relation with that unspeakable libertine Barras was
especially unfortunate. No doubt she was driven to extremities after
her release. Her fate was as hard as it is possible to conceive. She
was without the proper means of sustenance for herself and her family,
and appears to have lost no time in really becoming the chosen friend
of a creature who took advantage of her and then betrayed her to the
world. It is he who tells in his memoirs the sad and sickening story
of his connection with Josephine, and gloats over the opportunity it
gives him of repeating conversations he had with General Hoche as to
her love entanglements. He declares that she was "the patient mistress
of Hoche in the sight of the whole world."
The editor of the memoirs to some extent tones down the brutal
statements of the author. But a man who publicly exposes the relations
he has had with a fascinating woman who gives herself to him may not
be readily believed when he deliberately involves his own friends in
the liaisons. There is no question of what his part was in the
degradation of Josephine, but the luxury of dragging other names into
the moral quagmire, in order, it may be, to justify his own dealings
and to further debase her, could only be undertaken by a person soaked
with the venom of indecency, and, in this case, had no other object
than that of gratifying his malice against her husband. His
assumption of moral superiority is quite entertaining when he, the
seducer and corrupter, speaks of the unfortunate woman's
"libertinism," and calls her in his bitterness "a licentious Creole."
This representative of the Republic one and indivisible, embodying
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, at the end of the eighteenth
century, will forever disgrace the judgment and moral condition of the
France which knew Charlemagne.
"Citizen" Barras repudiates the story of Eugene asking the
Commander-in-Chief for his beheaded father's sword. He claims that
Napoleon himself invented the story. But it is highly improbable that
Napoleon would risk at the beginning of his career having his veracity
doubted. In itself, the incident is a small matter. The only real
interest attached to it is the touching pathos of the small boy asking
for and receiving the sword, which, of course, gave his mother the
opportunity of calling to thank the General for his goodness, and in
this way it has historic importance, as Napoleon and Josephine were
married four months after, _i.e._, March 9, 1796, her age being
thirty-two and his twenty-five.
The quibble is that of a small man searching in every pond for mud to
throw at his master's memory. Napoleon gave the facts to Barry
O'Meara at St. Helena, and they also appear in the "Memorial de St.
Helena." Had the introduction of these two remarkable people not come
about in this way, it would have been brought about in some other.
But, whether the story has any interest further than the writer has
stated or not, it is safer to believe Napoleon than Barras, who
boasted after the success of Napoleon in Italy that it was he who had
perceived in him a genius and urged the Directory to appoint him
Commander-in-Chief. Carnot is indignant at this impudent falsehood,
and declares that it was he and not Barras who nominated and urged the
appointment of Bonaparte. Certainly Carnot's story is the accepted
one. It matters little who the selected spokesman of the inspiration
was. France needed a man, and he was found.
On the eve of this obscure and neglected young soldier's departure to
spread the blessings of Fraternity in Italy, the voluptuous Barras was
commissioned by him to announce to the Directory his marriage with
Citizeness Tascher Beauharnais. Then began a period of devouring love
and war such as the world has never beheld. In the midst of strife and
strenuous responsibility, this young missionary, representing the
solacing new doctrine of symbolic brotherhood, neither shirks nor
forgets the responsibilities of his instructions to lay Italy at his
feet.
Nor does he for a moment forget his wedded obligations. He is in love,
nay, desperately in love. The image of Josephine is constantly soaring
around him, and he pours forth ebullitions of frantic devotion at the
cannon's mouth, in the Canton, anywhere, and everywhere. He is as rich
in phrase as he is in courage and resource. He finds time to scrawl a
few burning words of passion which indicate that his soul is at once
aflame with thoughts of her and the grim military task he has
undertaken.
He leads to battle flashing with the spirit of assured victory and
inspired by the belief that it has been written that he is the chosen
force which is to regenerate misgoverned nationalities. Order out of
chaos; moderation in the hour of victory; no interference with any
one's religious belief; stern discipline--these were some of the
behests of this young Titan, whose startling and victorious campaigns
were amazing an astonished world and causing significant apprehension
in the minds of the Directory, who decided to check the swift process
of ascendancy by giving instructions that he was to give over the
command of Lombardy to General Kellerman, and go south to commence
raiding other parts of Italy, including Rome and Naples.
To this he promptly sends a vigorous though respectful reply, which
is intended to convey that they are to have done with such impractical
foolery. It is a world-shaking fight he has on hand. The honour and
military glory of France are at stake. It is not for mere theoretic
upholders of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity to meddle with such
things. He says to them, "Kellerman is an excellent General, and could
lead an army as well as I," but then he goes on to plead the
superiority of his army, always modestly leaving himself outside the
praise he takes care to bestow on others, and adds with fervour, "The
command must remain in the hands of one man." "I believe," says he,
"that one bad General is better than two good ones." "The art of war,
like the art of government, is a matter of careful handling." Then
with delicious frankness he flashes out: "I cannot allow myself to
have my feet entangled." "A free hand or resignation." That is his
ultimatum. This thunderbolt of bewildering audacity sent a flutter
through the sanctuary of Fraternity, and in hot haste a message of
confidence, coupled with an order that he shall be left in supreme
control, was dispatched by a vigilant energetic courier. The Directory
were made to see that a great power had arisen which would hold
dominion over them.
And yet this young and terrible conqueror, who judiciously dominated
every will in the process of his achievements, he who defiantly told
his masters that he would not suffer his "feet to be entangled" by
their amateurish absurdities, was entangled for a time by a rapturous
infatuation and allowed a giddy woman with seductive habits and a
silken voice to cajole, dominate, ridicule, and ignore him. His
imploring theatrical appeals to her to come to him are piteously
pathetic. The rational parts of his letters are without example in
neat concise phrase, and portray a man possessed of great human
virtues. It is when the love-storm attacks him that he flies into
extravagances, such as when he writes that "she has more than robbed
him of his soul," and that "she is devouring his blood." He writes to
his brother Joseph that he loves her to madness, and to Carnot even he
does the same thing. Perhaps the most extravagant outburst of all is
when he begs that she is to let him see some of her faults, and to be
less kind, gracious, and beautiful. "Your tears drive away my reason
and scorch my blood." "You set my poor heart ablaze." He complains of
her letters being "cold as friendship," and adds, "But oh! how I am
infatuated."
Josephine has never been addressed in such consuming language before.
She is flattered, and her little head becomes swollen with the idea
of greatness. The ridiculous endearments amuse her. She must not
allow such opportunities of creating envy to pass, so she shows the
letters as they come along to her most intimate friends, amongst whom
Barras still continues high on the list, and with an air of dizzy
pride she playfully says Bonaparte is "very droll." And really,
Josephine was right. Some of his letters are "droll," but they are
genuine, and this highly honoured woman, launched into prominence and
position, and reaping the laurels of his work disgraced her womanhood
by showing his letters, and doubly disgraced herself by ridiculing
them.
It was not until Murat, Junot, and Joseph Bonaparte were sent by
Napoleon to Paris from the seat of war with important dispatches, and
also with letters to her, that it dawned upon her that she had carried
her unwillingness to join her husband far enough. Doubtless the
gallant commissioners had given her a hint that further refusal meant
inevitable reprisals. It is quite feasible that the rollicking Junot,
who was always prepared to give his soul for Bonaparte, was frank
enough to intimate that there was a risk of driving her husband into
the arms of some covetous female, many of whom were angling in the
hope of capturing the brilliant and rising General, and that already
he was showing signs of jealousy and suspicion of her good faith.
News of fresh victories was coming in, fêtes were held in honour of
them, crowds of people congregated, and at the sight of her leaning on
the arm of Junot after leaving the Luxembourg they shout, "Long live
General Bonaparte! Long live Citizeness Bonaparte!" She is enthralled
by the adulation which reflected glory showers upon her. Her spirit
rebels against leaving all its pleasures and pomps. But she has
exhausted every canon of truth in excuses, even that of being
pregnant, and finds herself inevitably driven to abandon the seat of
joy and easy morals and set off for Milan with her dog "Fortune" and
Eugene, her son. Tears flow copiously at the thought of her wrongs,
but these are dried up with the compensating opportunity of commencing
a flirtation with Murat, who is soon to become the husband of Caroline
Bonaparte.
The popular opinion was that it was Junot who was the object of her
designs, but the future Duchess d'Abrantès scornfully repudiates this,
and declares that Junot's devotion to his beloved General forbade him
reciprocating his wife's indiscretion, so he made love to Louise
Compoint, Josephine's waiting-maid, instead, the result being that
Louise was requested to leave the service of the offended Josephine.
On arrival at Milan, Napoleon was absent, so the honour of receiving
her was deputed to the Milanese Due de Serbelloni, who took her in
regal style to stay at his palace. On Napoleon meeting his wife for
the first time since their marriage his joy was unbounded. Marmont,
who betrayed him and France in later days, says that "at that time he
lived only for his wife, and never had purer, truer, or more exclusive
love taken possession of the heart of a man, and that a man of so
superior an order."
Napoleon had still much work to do, and many hard battles to fight, so
that they were frequently separated during the remaining months before
he had freed Italy and beaten the Austrians. On no occasion when he
was absent from her did he neglect sending letters on fire with the
assurance of unabated love, but they frequently indicate not only a
conviction of her indifference, but a suspicion that it is more, which
is promptly nullified by further explosions such as "kisses as burning
as my heart and as pure as you." Poor Napoleon! he is soon to be
disillusioned. She is the same old Josephine in Italy as she was in
Paris. He pleads with her to send him letters, for she must "know how
dear they are to him." "I do not live," he tells her, "when I am far
from you." "My life's happiness is in the society of my sweet
Josephine." Again he writes, "A thousand kisses as fiery as my soul,
as chaste as yourself! I have just summoned the courier; he tells me
that he crossed over to your house, and that you told him you had no
commands. Fie! Naughty, undutiful, cruel, tyrannous, jolly little
monster. You laugh at my threats, at my infatuation; ah! you well know
that if I could shut you up in my heart I would put you in prison
there!" This playful, gloomy, humorous, and tender quotation does not
emanate from the heart of a monster, but from an unequalled lovesick
soul confiding the innermost secrets of his mind to an inglorious
helpmate, whose follies during the first years of their married life
were a cruel humiliation to him.
She courted ruin with cool dissolute persistency. She deceived, lied,
and wept with the felicity of a fanatic. She sought and found
happiness at the cost of not only self-respect, but honour and virtue.
She was not a shrew, but a born coquette, without morals rather than
immoral, and, withal, a superb enigmatic who would have made the
Founder of our faith shed tears of sorrow. It is by distorting facts
that her eulogists make it appear that she was a loving and devoted
wife during the early years of her second marriage.
On her arrival at Milan from Paris she had presented to her many army
officers, amongst whom was a young Hussar, the friend and assistant
General of Leclerc, who became the husband of Paulette, the giddy
little schoolgirl sister of Napoleon. Josephine, at this period of her
history was famous for her aversion to chastity, so that it is not
altogether inexplicable that she should have sought the distinction of
making Hippolyte Charles her lover. He was fascinating, witty, dressed
with splendour, and was quite up to her standard of moral quality. The
friendship grew into intimacy, so that he became a frequent visitor to
Josephine during Napoleon's absence.
It was scarcely likely that this love affair, which was assuming
dramatic proportions, could be long kept from the knowledge of
Napoleon. The mocking critics of the camp and the stern moralists
amongst the civilians vied with each other in babbling commentary of
the growing dilapidated reputation that the Commander-in-Chief's wife
was precipitately acquiring. Wherever she is or goes, so long as
Bonaparte is at a safe distance, Charles is hanging on to her skirts.
Some writers have said that on the occasion of her visit to Genoa to
attend the fêtes given by the Republic he was in attendance, and it is
most likely that this clumsy act of strategy on the part of Josephine
brought about the climax. Unquestionably her movements were being
watched by members of the Bonaparte family. They not unnaturally felt
that the scandal was exposing them as well as their brother to
ridicule.
But, as frequently happens, great events are brought about in the most
unexpected way. The vivacious Paulette had fallen in love with Freron,
a man of forty, holding a high position in the Government service.
Napoleon was strongly averse to the match, so decided that she should
become the wife of General Leclerc, aged twenty-five, who was said to
be Napoleon's double. Hippolyte Charles had been the friend of
Leclerc, and Paulette resolutely set her mind on inflicting salutary
punishment on her sister-in-law for the wrong she was doing her
brother. She quickly managed to wriggle confidences out of Leclerc
concerning the Josephine-Charles connection, then peached. Charles was
banished from the army, and, on the authority of Madame Leclerc, we
learn that Josephine "nearly died of grief." The avenging little vixen
had put a big spoke in the wheel, although there were other powerful
agencies that had no small part in bringing light to the aching and
devout heart.
From this dates the fall of Josephine's complete magical divinity over
him, and a new era begins. We hear no more of "shutting her up in his
heart," or of sending her "kisses as fiery as his soul and as chaste
as herself"; though to the end his letters are studiously kind and
even reverential.
Meanwhile, the intrepid General, having brought the campaign of Italy
and Austria to a successful end, came back to Paris, received the
plaudits of a grateful and adoring nation, and the doubtful favour of
a jealous Directory. They banqueted him at the Luxembourg with every
outward sign of satisfaction. Talleyrand and Barras made eloquent and
flattering speeches of his accomplishments and talents, and the latter
folded him in his arms as a concluding token of affection. Josephine
revelled in the gaiety and honours that encompassed them, while her
husband sought the consolation of privacy.
After a short though not inactive stay in Paris, he was given command
of the Army of the East, and sailed from Toulon on May 19, 1798, in
the _Orient_ (which came to a tragic end at Aboukir), and Josephine
waved her handkerchief, soaked in tears, as the fleet passed from
view.
Her doings do not interest us until she again came across the young
ex-officer Charles in Paris, some time in 1799, and, at his request no
doubt, she introduced him to a firm of army contractors, and for the
ostensible purpose of showing his gratitude, he called at Malmaison to
thank her. This act of grace could have been done with greater
propriety by letter, though there may have been reasons for not
putting in writing anything that might associate the wife of the
Commander-in-Chief with having dealings with army contractors, even to
the extent of interesting herself on behalf of a man who was dismissed
the service for carrying on an intrigue with his General's wife, who
happened to be Josephine herself.
But putting aside the unpardonable breach of faith in allowing a
renewal of the intimacy with such a man, the fact of a lady in her
position being mixed up with a firm of this character might have
seriously compromised Napoleon, and for this reason alone her act was
highly reprehensible. Charles was not slow to avail himself of
Josephine's hospitality, and became a regular visitor. This further
lapse of loyalty to the absent husband was transmitted to Egypt, and
very naturally determined him on the necessity of taking proceedings
to get a divorce, but although Napoleon had ceased, so far as he
could, to be the dreadful simpleton lover of other days, he failed to
gauge the grip the old fascination had of him.
He believed the avenging spirit that guided him to definite
conclusions was real, and with the thought of "divorce, public and
sensational divorce," buzzing in his head, combined with another of
State policy lurking in the background, he set sail for France, and
created wild excitement in domestic and Directorial circles by
unexpectedly landing at Fréjus.
He then made his way, as quickly as the enthusiasm of the cheering
populace allowed him, towards his house in the Rue de la Victoire; but
the penitent (?) Josephine was not there. She had gone to meet him,
taken the wrong road, and missed throwing herself into his arms as was
her intention. He asks excitedly, "Is she ill?" and the significant
wink of her enemies threw him into paroxysms of grief. His friend
Collot calls and reminds him that the hope of the nation is centred on
him. His wrath is proof that he is still in love, and Collot fears
that the magical effect of her appearance will bring forgiveness.
"Never," shouts the irate husband. "How little you know me, Collot.
Rather than abase myself, I would tear my heart out and throw it on
the fire."
But Collot knew him better than he chose to admit he knew himself, and
we shall see that his heart was not thrown "on the fire," but given
again to the erring Josephine, who was travelling back post-haste from
Lyons. She arrived broken in spirit and wearied unto death. Napoleon,
obviously not quite sure of his determination to refuse her
admittance, had bolted the door, and was stamping about the room with
a glare in his piercing eye as though he were planning an onslaught
that was to be furiously contested. Josephine arrives, knocks at the
door, implores him to open it, and addresses him as "Mon ami, _mon bon
ami_." There is no response, and in her frenzy of despair she weeps
and beats her head against the door, and piteously pleads for the
opportunity of justifying herself. But still he holds out. And then
her unfailing resource suggests that Hortense and Eugene, whom he
loves so well, shall be brought as the medium of compassion to their
distracted mother. They come, and the bolts are drawn. Their
stepfather admits them to his presence. They kneel at his feet and
appeal to him to continue to be the good, kind father he has ever
been, and to receive their mother back to his affections.
It is all over now with Napoleon. He is never proof against tears, so
sends for their mother, who falls into his arms and faints. She is
tenderly laid into his bed, saved from her woeful fate, and when
Lucien Bonaparte arrived by command next morning, to take instructions
for the impending divorce proceedings, that horror had disappeared
from their outlook, and both Josephine and Napoleon were wrapped in a
drowsy joy.
Josephine, gifted with irresistible subtlety and skilful in the art
and use of hysteria, had rekindled the embers of infatuation that was
never more to be totally quenched. In all likelihood she would give a
different explanation of her conduct to Napoleon than that given him
by Lucien and other members of his family. It is not an undue stretch
of imagination to conclude that she assured him that her heart was
shared with none other, though the assertion may be regarded as a
daring fabrication. She did not gauge calmly, but she gauged well, the
supreme power she had over the man who had so abjectly shown her such
inflammable love. She knew, too, of his vanity, and hit him
caressingly on the spot. The cry of "he and none other," combined with
a beseeching wail that he should open his heart to an affectionate and
faithful love, was more likely to conquer than any admission of wrong.
Could she forget the oft-repeated declaration that his ruling
principle was that he would have no divided affection? It must be all
or none. The hypothesis is therefore that she played on his vanity,
and not on his confidence or judgment, the sequel being the complete
surrender of Napoleon.
Josephine, whether from fear of the penalty or the purity of her
motives, never again allowed herself to be placed in the same
hazardous position. She had been cured of unfaithfulness, and promised
that Hippolyte Charles should never be allowed to lead her into such
a scrape again. He was put out of her life, and was never more heard
of. He was seen but once more by Napoleon, and the sight of his evil
face nearly caused the Emperor the humiliation of a collapse.
Josephine's matrimonial transgressions, whatever they may have been,
were condoned with exuberant suddenness, and Napoleon rushed into
domestic tranquillity. The zealot of freedom forthwith concentrated
his wondrous talents with aggressive righteousness on the task of
destroying a decadence that was bearing France to her doom. Josephine
was enrolled as patron of deliverance from anarchy, and having all the
essential attributes which make for success in such an enterprise, she
daily filled her salon with men and women who had influence to aid her
husband and his friends in upsetting the Government. She had developed
into an attractive, graceful hostess, and was endowed with the knack
of cajoling which disarmed opposition and enthused supporters, and
unquestionably she played the part given to her with unmeasured
success, and Napoleon did the rest.
The _coup d'état_ had been dexterously planned, which enabled him to
bring about a bloodless overthrow. Josephine was deployed to win over
her friend Gohier, the President of the Directory. She invited him
and his wife to breakfast on the 17th Brumaire. Gohier wonders why
they should be asked so early as six in the morning. He thinks he
smells a rat, excuses himself, but sends his wife, who is ushered into
the presence of a houseful of officers of the National Guard, and the
hostess does not lose time in conveying to Gohier's former cook the
meaning of their being there. Bonaparte, be it known, is determined to
form a Government, and it grieves her that so good a friend as the
President of Directors should have been so thoughtless of his own
interests as not to accompany his wife on such an auspicious occasion.
"The inevitable is at hand, Madame Gohier," says Josephine in effect,
"and at this very moment Barras is being pressed to resign, and if he
disobeys his fate is sealed." Madame Gohier is aghast, stiffens her
back, and with as much dignity as her nature will allow, she bows,
withdraws, and hastens to the side of her husband, to convey all she
has seen and heard.
Meanwhile, events travel swiftly under the direction of the intrepid
General. He walks into the Council of Ancients and jerks out with
vivid flashes of oratory the object of his visit. The members see at a
glance its meaning. They become inarticulate with rage begotten of
fear. He thunders out, "I am here to demand a Republic founded on
true liberty," and swears that he will have it. In the Hall of the
Five Hundred he is met with cries of "Down with the Cromwell!" "No
Dictator!" "Outlaw him!" and so forth.
But these are mere futile belchings of exasperated gasbags, on whom he
darts a look of withering scorn, which they discern means trouble if
they do not conduct themselves with decorum. His guards are close at
hand, and he is daring enough to make use of them if there is any
resistance to that which he has undertaken. To the Directory, through
their envoy Dottot, he says in substance, and not without vigour, "Do
not sicken me with your imbecile arguments and lame, impotent
conclusions. What I want to know is: What have you done with this
France which I left you so glorious? I left you peace; I return and
find war! I left you victories; I find reverses! I left you the
millions of Italy; I find despoiling laws and misery throughout!" But
ere this terrific indictment had been thrust at them, they had become
conscious that their dissolute and chaotic regime was at an end, and
that Napoleon had become the ruler of the France he had left
prosperous and found tottering to pieces on his return from Egypt.
Josephine had played her part in the drama with surprising shrewdness
and marked devotion to her husband's cause. He was rewarded by being
made First Consul, and she by becoming the first lady of the Republic
and the leader of society. They quickly availed themselves of the
distinction by removing from their humble habitation, first to the
Petit Luxembourg and then to the Tuileries, where she occupied the
bedroom of the famous Marie Antoinette and the apartments formerly
inhabited by Louis, which were immediately above. They gathered round
them men of merit representing science, art, literature, law,
politics, military notables, and fashion. They set up, in fact, a
little Court, but lived a quiet, unostentatious life, so far as it was
diplomatic and permissive.
It was not until the advent of the Empire that gaiety and grandeur
began, excelling and putting into the shade every other Court in
Europe. Josephine wallowed in it, but Napoleon adopted and encouraged
it more from policy than taste. In fact, when in a whimsical mood, he
often said it bored him. That is not to say that he did not adapt
himself to what he believed was a necessity. An Oriental potentate
could not have carried the dignity of splendour more naturally than
he. Whilst in his secret heart he loathed its pomp and extravagance,
fixed in his memory was the impression of poverty and suffering that
he had passed through in his boyhood days, when, in the streets of
Paris, he was on the verge of starvation and at one time obliged to
sell his meagre possession of books to find food for the mouth of his
brother Louis, and went without himself. To his intimate friends he
was accustomed to relate the story, not in a whining manner, but with
a vividness and pathos that brought tears to the eyes of every one who
heard it.
The wilful and false conception of Napoleon's character that existed
amongst thousands of those who were contemporary with him, and the
persistent efforts to defame him, even now, by a section of the
world's community, are extraordinary, when so many convincing proofs
are available which show him to have been the reverse of what they say
he was. As brother, son, husband, father, or friend, his love,
devotion, and loyalty were matchless. He was never once known to
upbraid Josephine after the condonement of her infidelities. He paid
her colossal debts, not without protest, but rather than make her
unhappy he excused her extravagance and overlooked the capricious,
peevish way in which she gave her domestic confidences concerning
himself to her friends, who were oft-times his enemies, and so
forgiving was he of faults which were so glaring to others, that he
frequently caressed when he should have chastised.
Josephine played upon his purblindness where she was concerned in
most scandalous ways. She had no money sense, and combined with this
defect she had no moral sense in money matters. Her debts were
chronic, and periodically so enlarged that she adopted the most
monstrous methods to reduce them before the balances were put before
Napoleon by herself, or an inkling conveyed to him by a wily creditor;
but these subterfuges only added to her spending resources. It is said
that she actually did not shrink from receiving a thousand francs per
day from Fouché as the price of information given him of what was
going on in the Tuileries, and also that she received half a million
francs from Flachats, the predatory army contractors.
It is unthinkable that Napoleon, whose rigid uprightness in matters of
money has never been disputed, could have known that his wife was
involved in such shocking financial dealings, or he would have taken
salutary measures to put a definite end to them. He knew that he was
surrounded by men who were inveterate thieves, and when their
defalcations were brought to his knowledge, they were either cashiered
or made to disgorge. Bourrienne, Talleyrand, and Fouché, for instance.
But there is no evidence to show that he ever suspected Josephine at
any time, and let us hope that the Fouché-Flachats transactions were
either exaggerated or mere invention, though it is hard to believe
that there was no truth in the accusation.
Napoleon was no sooner made Consul than there began to be hints and
innuendoes of an heir, and as Josephine knew that she could not bear
him one, she was thrown into fits of despondency lest he should be
driven by designing persons in and outside his family to listen to a
scheme of divorce and remarriage. The alternative was to nominate one
of his brothers as his heir. Joseph and Lucien were impossible, so he
fixed his mind on Louis. But the plot to assassinate him on the way to
the opera, together with the Duc d'Enghien, Cadoudal, Moreau, and
Pichegru affair, brought the change from Life Consul to Emperor more
quickly. The marriage of Louis to Hortense eased Josephine's mind. She
had in view the fact that an heir might be born to them, and the
possibility of the inheritance going to him. In due course Napoleon
Charles was born, and an attempt made by Napoleon to carry his idea
out. Louis was at first in favour of it, but Joseph and Lucien had
envious conceptions of what the brothers' rights were. Louis became
impressed with their views, and ultimately decided against Napoleon's
wishes. The Senate passed a resolution in favour of "direct natural,
legitimate, and adoptive descendants of Napoleon Bonaparte, and on the
direct, natural, legitimate descendants of Joseph and Louis." The
plebiscite supported the resolution of the Senate, and Joseph and
Louis had the mortification of seeing that to them the succession was
barred.
This decision was regarded by Josephine as highly satisfactory to
herself. She made no fuss about it, but was greatly overjoyed at the
prospect of the effect it would have on Napoleon, and for a time no
more was openly heard of divorce; but the venom was insidiously eating
its way to that end all the same, and as he grew in power, so did the
conspiracy develop. His own family were eager that she should be put
away, but there were influences more powerful than that of Madame Mère
and her sons and daughters. Talleyrand and Fouché being the High
Commissioners who founded the direct hereditary idea, they
persistently worried him with the plea that the State claimed that he
should make the sacrifice. They knew that this was the strongest and
most effective reason they could put forward to a man who would have
given his soul in the service of his country.
The birth of Madame Eleonore Denuelle's son Leon on December 29, 1806,
made a great impression on the Emperor's mind. It was well known that
he was the father of the child, and now that there was no doubt as to
the possibility of him having an heir, it was only to be expected
that the advocates of divorce would press their claim that an
alliance should be made with one of the powerful ruling families. The
advantages to France would be inestimable, and would it not establish
himself and his dynasty more firmly on the throne? It is not unlikely
that Napoleon pondered over the great possibilities of such a
marriage, but he could not bring himself to the thought of divorcing
the woman he still loved. He went so far as to seek Josephine's
support in the plan of making his natural son his heir, and Masson
says that in support of his desire he vigorously used "precedents and
invented justifications." Happily he did not stretch the law of
hereditary succession further than this.
Leon, when he grew up, became a great source of trouble to all those
with whom he was connected. His features and physical make up had a
marked resemblance to his father's, but his mind was erratic. He had
inherited none of the steady, sane genius of the Emperor, though but
for a freak of nature which gave him a mental twist, he would have
been as near his prototype as may be. He was always full of great
schemes, which in the hands of a normally constituted person would
have been fashioned into public usefulness.
Masson gives a vivid and somewhat categorical account of his
predilections, which were "gambling, duels, politics, writing
pamphlets, the conception of colossal canal, railway, and commercial
undertakings that never got far beyond the initial and rocky mental
stage." He was one of the chief mourners when his father's remains
were brought to Paris from St. Helena in 1840, and in 1848 aspired to
the Presidency of the Republic, which fell to the lot of his cousin
Louis Napoleon, whose life he desired to take, but who, with great
generosity, gave him a pension and paid the legacy left him by
Napoleon. He died in 1881.
The birth of Leon gives him a prominent place in the history of the
political divorce, though so far as Napoleon was concerned or affected
by it, there is strong evidence to show that he really thought it was
a way out, and had he been left to his own inclinations, the
probability is that there would have been no second marriage so long
as Josephine lived. From 1807 to 1809 his brain was racked to pieces
with the inevitable shadow he struggled to evade. He could not bring
himself to sever the tie that bound them together in strong attachment
for nearly fifteen years. He invented every conceivable device to try
and find a more congenial solution than divorce.
For two years the Emperor lived in an atmosphere of intolerable
anguish which distracted him. The nearer he approached the dreaded
theme, the more fascinating his wife appeared to him, and the more
tenaciously he clung to the deep impressions that had been made by
that youthful passion that swayed his very being in other days. She
had frequently recaptured him from the subtle blandishments of an
agency that was ever on his track, and then his devotion became more
rapturous than ever. Fouché was frequently rebuked with stern severity
for his pertinacious advocacy of the separation. At another time we
hear of him falling into Josephine's arms, shedding copious tears,
and, choking with grief, he sobs out, "My poor Josephine! I can never
leave you," "I still love you," and so forth.
Those who pretend to see in these outbursts of devotion nothing but
artifice, cannot have informed themselves of the true character of
this extraordinary man. In truth, his was a sacrifice of affection
forced upon him for the benefit of the State. That is the conclusion
the writer has come to after much research. Even after he was
persuaded that he would have to submit, the recollections of the glory
they had shared together, and of their happy days, and the grief and
suffering the parting would cause, filled him with remorse and pity,
and then would come a period of wavering which exasperated his family
and the upholders of the stability of the Empire. At last he saw
clearly that it was an imperative duty that must be fulfilled.
The succession problem had been artfully revived, and the amiable
Marie Walewska, who was living close to Schönbrunn, was about to give
birth to a child which he knew to be his, and it is not improbable
that this double assurance that he might reasonably expect to have an
heir if he married again brought him to the definite decision to go on
with the divorce; and the Emperor Francis of Austria made haste to
form an alliance by offering his daughter Marie Louise in marriage.
At the end of December, 1809, the great political divorce was ratified
amid sombre signs of sympathy. Even the Bonapartes were compelled to
yield to emotion, and Napoleon himself was profoundly affected. The
subdued distress of Josephine pierced through the chilly hearts of
those who had looked on with composure while men and women were being
led to the guillotine during the Reign of Terror. But even Josephine's
tears and grief were graceful and fascinating, so that it was not
surprising that the spectators extended sympathy to her in her sorrow.
Almost immediately after the ceremony Napoleon became overcome with
grief. He allowed a little time to elapse before asking Meneval to
accompany him to Josephine's apartments. They found her in a condition
of inexorable despair. She flung herself into the Emperor's arms; he
embraced and fervently kissed her, but the ordeal was too great. She
collapsed and fainted. He remained with her until she showed signs of
consciousness, then left her in charge of Meneval and women
attendants. The sight of her grief was too much for him to bear.
Napoleon sought a delusive diversion at Trianon after Josephine had
taken up her abode at Malmaison. His sympathetic and affectionate
attentions from there could not have been more earnestly shown.
Nothing that would appease her grief and add to her comfort was
overlooked by him or allowed to be overlooked by others. An annual
income of three million francs was settled on her for life, which,
should he pre-decease her, was to be paid by his successors. She
retained the title of Empress and every other appearance of
sovereignty.
The negotiations for the second marriage were conducted from Trianon.
The Russian alliance fell through, ostensibly on religious grounds.
Napoleon did not like the thought of having Russian priests about him,
and besides, the Princess Anne was too young to marry, and even if
there had been no other difficulty, the Emperor Napoleon could not
wait. The Saxon alliance did not appeal to him, so he gave preference
to the House of Austria, and on March 11, 1810, His Majesty was
married by proxy at Vienna to the Austrian Archduchess, and on the 1st
of April the civil marriage took place at St. Cloud, and the following
day they were ecclesiastically united.[31]
Better for him and for France had he defied the advocates of royal
alliance and stuck to Josephine, or even married Marie Walewska. If it
was merely the policy of succession that was aimed at, he could have
adopted his natural son, the brilliant Alexander Walewska, whose
subsequent career in the service of France would have justified this
course.
The desire to unite the French Emperor with one of the powerful
reigning families in order to give stability to the Empire and put an
end to incessant warfare was a theory which proved to be a delusion,
and perhaps Napoleon, with his clear vision, foresaw the jealousies
and international complications that would arise through a political
marriage of this character. This, and his unwillingness to part with
Josephine, is a conclusion that may reasonably account for the
vacillation that was so pronounced from time to time.
The flippant attitude (which indicates the scope and summit of an
ill-informed mind) that he was the victim of abnormal ambition to be
connected with one or other of the royal families is ludicrous. If he
had been eager to have such distinction, it was within his reach at
any time after he became First Consul. He had only to impart a hint
and there would have been a competition of available princesses, the
choice of which would have bewildered him. Assuredly he showed no
youthful impetuosity in this respect, and it may not be an overdrawn
hypothesis to conclude that his marriage with Marie Louise was neither
popular with the French people as a whole nor with other
nationalities. It excited jealousy and mistrust amongst the larger
Powers, and in France itself the memory of the last ill-fated union of
France with Austria--that of Marie Antoinette and Louis--had left
rankling effects in the minds of the people of the Revolution.[32]
Murat had urged on his brother-in-law and the grand dignitaries the
fact that a marriage with a relative of Marie Antoinette, who was an
abhorrence to the adherents of the Revolution, would alienate a large
public, but Murat's objections were suspected of having personal
colour and overruled. It is, however, beyond conjecture that the King
of Naples had diagnosed aright; whether from self-interest or not, the
warning proved accurate. The most loyal and devoted of his subjects
felt that their invincible hero was drifting into a vortex of trouble.
They had learned by bitter experience the duplicity of Austrian
diplomacy. The remembrance of the cruel wars they had been cunningly
trapped into, the bleached bones of Frenchmen that lay on Austrian
soil, and the denuded homes that resulted from Austria's odious policy
of greed, worked on them like a subtle poison. And the glory of their
conquests over her was nullified by the eternal suspicion that she was
ever hatching new grounds of quarrel. They thought, indeed, their
premonition of Austria's perpetual treachery was clear and definite,
and that the new Empress would be a useful medium of their enemies'
machinations.
We can never fully estimate to what extent these impressions
influenced their minds and actions and the part they played in
hastening the great national humiliation. It is a pretty certain
conclusion that it was only the colossal successes and magical
personality of the Emperor that kept subdued the spirit of resentment
which the marriage had caused.
And we have historic evidence before us which clearly shows that the
well-balanced mind of Napoleon was torn and tattered between doubt and
conviction, and he fell into the fatal error of allowing his judgment
to be overruled either by circumstances or pride. Had he relied on his
superstition even, the chances are that St. Helena would never have
had the stigma of his captivity stamped upon it.
French and Austrian alliances have never, so far as they affected
political history, been very successful. The stability of earthly
things is governed, not by sentiment or theoretic doctrines, but by
facts as hard as granite, and no one knew this more thoroughly than
the man who fell a victim to the devices of the Austrians and their
French allies.
He was usually reticent about his domestic sorrows while in exile, but
when his thoughts were far off, reviewing the great mystery of human
destiny, he broke the rule, and with a sort of languid frankness spoke
the thoughts that crowded his mind, and it was during these spasmodic
periods that he opened his soul by declaring that it was his "having
married a princess of Austria that ruined him, and that his marriage
with Marie Louise was the cause of the expedition into Russia," and
that "he might not have been at St. Helena had he married a
Frenchwoman." It is said that he seriously thought of doing this, and
had some available ladies put before him with that object. These
dreamy utterances reveal that his mind was centred on the causes of
his misfortunes, and that he held definite views on the marriage
tragedy, and perhaps his sense of pride, the interests of his son (the
King of Rome), and the reluctance to admit that he knew he was going
wrong at the time, constrained him to withhold much that he thought
and knew. The impression we get is that he could not bring himself to
utter the whole of the unutterable canker which haunted him.
It is strange that this keen-sighted man should have yielded up his
own convictions and sunk under the admonitions of less capable judges.
Even so far back as the Directory days, when Bernadotte was insulted
at Vienna, he summed up the Austrian character in the following
terms:--"When the Austrians think of making war, they do not insult;
they cajole and flatter the enemy, so that they may have a better
chance to stick a knife into him." He told the Directory they did not
understand the Cabinet of Vienna; "it is the meanest and most
perfidious to be found." "It will not make war with you because it
cannot." "Peace with Austria is only a truce." His diagnoses were
confirmed by Bernadotte, and more than confirmed in after years. The
marvel is that he did not allow himself to benefit by his shrewd
observations at a moment when so much depended on strength, not
vacillation and weakness.
A vivid justification of the opposition to another Austrian princess
sharing the throne of France is embodied in the lofty ideals (?) of
the Emperor Francis to his daughter Marie Louise at Schönbrunn after
she had deserted Napoleon. He said to her:--"As my daughter, all that
I have is yours, even my blood and my life; as a sovereign, I do not
know you."
The benediction, pure and big of heart, benignly expressed, is
promptly qualified with kingly sternness; the orthodoxy being that so
long as Napoleon was in power she was his daughter, all that he had
was hers, including his life and blood, but now that he has fallen she
must not thwart his wishes, and loyally share the fate of him who was
the father of her son, who had given her unparalleled glory, and been
so merciful to Francis himself. If she elected to be at all wifely and
cling to her husband in his misfortune, then he would assert the
sovereign, and as readily gore her as he would Napoleon if, in his
patriarchal wisdom, he judged national interests were at stake. His
spirit-crushing rhetoric had a real ultra-monarchical ring about it.
But it was meant for other ears and a purpose other than that of
making his daughter shudder. So far as she was concerned, he might
have saved himself any anxiety on that score. She bowed her head in
conformity, and swiftly cast her amorous eyes on Neipperg, a man after
his and her own heart. This was the culminating event that brought her
destiny with Napoleon to an end, though _he_ tried to avert it, and
the causes are summarised in his own pathetic language, clearly
expressed from time to time.
His nephew, Napoleon III., taking a lesson from his folly, refused to
be buffeted into political matrimony by any of the matchmaking
factions. When his turn came he acted with independence and wisdom by
ignoring the blandishments of meddling advisers and royal
conventionalism, and elected to marry the lady on whom he had set his
affections.
Incidentally, it may be stated that Napoleon III.'s merits have been
overshadowed by the greater genius of his uncle, but as time separates
the reigns of the two men it will be realised that, though he was not
looked upon as a great military general, he had genius of a different
kind, and was unquestionably a great ruler, acting under somewhat
changed conditions, but subject to the same human caprices, and a time
will come when the benefits he bestowed upon the French nation will be
appreciated more than they are this day.
In 1812, Europe was in a state of dammed convulsion. The wars, though
always successful for France, had brought about no definite settlement
of international affairs. Peace was transitory, and the dread of
Napoleon's power and genius was the only check on rapacious designs on
his dominion.
What direct or indirect share Marie Louise had in bringing about the
war with Russia and then the great European struggle will never be
wholly known, but as the wife of Napoleon she would have opportunities
of hearing from himself and those who were in his confidence remarks
and even discussions on the complexities of the political situation.
She was in daily communication with Metternich, and constantly
corresponding with her father; and even allowing that her intentions
were loyal at that time to her husband and to the country of her
adoption, she may have unconsciously conveyed something that in the
hands of adroit diplomats would reveal the pivot on which great issues
might depend. Then, placing the Regency in her hands was an unchecked
temptation, and must be counted as one of Napoleon's great mistakes.
Imbued with an abundant share of Austrian predilection, and occupying
a mechanical or fictitious position towards France and its ruler, and
in view of her subsequent conduct, it is a reasonable assumption that
during the Regency she conveyed important information of military
movements and intentions to the Austrian Court, which it was not slow
to take advantage of; and if truth were told, it would be found that
the Allies owed much of their success to the Austrian Archduchess. May
it not have been part of the subtle policy of Austria in arranging the
marriage? Everything certainly points to it.
Instead of making Metternich a present at the Prague Congress of a
snuff-box which cost 30,000 francs, as a token of friendship, Fouché,
who always had his mind well stored with ideas of corruption,
suggested to the Emperor that, if it was intended to buy Austria off,
he ought to make it millions. If Napoleon had been a man after his own
heart, this might have been a successful solution for a time, but
only for a time. Meneval says that the Emperor, who had a horror of
corruption, replied to him with a gesture of disgust.
In the early part of 1812, when war with Russia had become imminent,
Napoleon carried out a promise that Josephine should see the King of
Rome. The meeting took place at Bagatelle. She hugged and kissed the
child with motherly affection, and her tears flowed with profusion.
The scene was touching, and proved to be the everlasting farewell.
Strange as it may appear, Josephine formed an enduring affection for
Napoleon's natural son, afterwards Count Colonna (Alexander Walewska),
and for his mother, Marie Walewska. She loved the child and treated
him with the same indulgence as she did her own grandchildren. The
mother was a regular visitor, and no one was more welcome at Malmaison
than she. These incidents of magnanimity, characteristic of Josephine,
would make her not only attractive but lovable, were it not there are
also left on record flaws which show that she was seriously lacking in
probity and fidelity to him to whom she owed everything. Her maternal
affection and loving care of her children are without reproach, and
her generosity to worthy and unworthy people was extraordinary. She
loved Napoleon with peculiar eccentricity. His honour and interests
were never a consideration. She allowed herself to be surrounded at
Malmaison during the Russian campaign with Royalist plotters and
treachery of the most implacable character. She poured out her woes to
them with acceptable results, and nothing that would damage him and
draw sympathy to herself was left uncommunicated. Her whole thought
was of herself. She did not intend to be false or cruel to him, and
yet she was both cruel and false.
As soon as the Allied Armies had taken possession of Paris, the
irrepressible Madame de Staël made a call on Josephine to ascertain
how she stood now towards her former husband. She promptly asked her
whether she still loved him. Josephine resented the impertinence, so
the Duchesse de Reggio relates, and told some of her visitors that she
had never ceased to love the Emperor in the days of his prosperity,
and it was unthinkable that she should cease to do so in his
adversity. Unhappily for Josephine, she adopted a most astounding
course of showing her devotion by agreeing to the visits, first, of
the Emperor of Russia, and then the other sovereigns and foreign
dignitaries. She gave balls and treated the enemies of France, and
especially the Tsar, as though they were the real descendants of the
builders of the Temple to Jehovah. She and Hortense walked about the
grounds linked to Alexander's arms during frequent visits, which was
indicative of strongly formed affection.
Had Josephine been possessed of a grain of discernment or a proper
estimate of her dignity, she would have seen that this was part of a
well-defined policy of striking a blow through her at the man she
professed to love still, even with a greater passion now that he was
the victim of combined and unrelenting hostility. Hortense, it would
appear, refused at first to have any dealings with Alexander, but this
sovereign's personal charms, winning manners, and homely ways soon
fascinated and captured her. She may be excused, but her mother did
not act the part of a nobleminded woman, and her memory must bear the
reproach of it.
Apart from the respect she owed to herself, she should have remembered
the duty and loyalty she owed to a vast French public, and to the
victim of her guests, who had been to her the most forgiving,
indulgent friend that ever a human soul was blessed with. He had been
a father to her children, and even when he was overwhelmed with the
consequences of great disaster, his tenderest and most generous
thoughts were sent to her.
A woman who had a high sense of duty and honour would not have
accepted a single favour from either one or the other of the inimical
sovereigns, even if it had been offered to her; much less would she
have cringed and whined indelicately in order that she might receive
either their smiles or their favours at so abhorrent a price.
Some writers have endeavoured to give Josephine credit for having
influenced Alexander in a way that secured for Napoleon better terms
than he would have otherwise got at the first abdication. The
suggestion is ludicrous. Presumably the alternative was that he should
be shot or confined in a fortress for the balance of his life. Either
of these ideas of disposing of his person would have created reaction
and public vengeance. The Allies shied at this, though some of the
most ferocious, but by no means the bravest, of the set clamoured for
shooting, which is always the way with spurious heroes.
The diplomats amongst them devised the more subtle plan of exiling him
first to Elba with the title of Emperor, and a pension of £200,000 per
annum, never a penny of which was paid, or, in the light of history,
was ever intended to be paid.
They had preconceived the notion of masking the St. Helena plan until
they thought they had cheated the public into believing that they were
inspired by humane motives and the necessity for the peace of Europe.
They laboriously studied out the most ingenious plots so that they
might be glorified for ridding Europe of a "monster."
Napoleon was kept advised, during his stay at Elba, of their designs
on the liberty they had graciously (?) given him (with a pension that
was designedly withheld), and, acting on certain specific information,
he promptly developed one of his most brilliant achievements--the
sudden landing in France, his triumphal march to Paris, and the
resultant flight of the Bourbons at his unexpected approach at the
head of an enthusiastic army.
The campaign which followed--ending with the Battle of
Waterloo--enabled the Allies, after his defeat, to satisfy the
cravings of their savage instincts by carrying out their plan as
mentioned above and sending him to martyrdom.
But one of their most brutal acts was in refusing the request that his
wife and child should accompany him to Elba. These are the ultimate
"better terms" that Josephine is said to have secured by coquetting
with Alexander of Russia!
She revelled in grasping at every fragment of wreckage that would be
of advantage to herself and her family, and Alexander's crafty
friendship unquestionably gave her opportunities to indulge unchecked
in complaints of her grievances against the man who had been so foully
betrayed. Her mania for the distribution of confidences of the most
sacred character was only equalled by her capacity for intriguing and
piling up debts, and these attributes never forsook her at any time.
Josephine's moral qualities cannot be accurately judged by her
frequent outpourings of admiration and affection for Napoleon to
Eugene and Hortense. In the letters to each which are extant, she
declares it would be impossible for anyone to be kinder, more amiable,
or considerate than he has always been, and even after the divorce she
writes that if she loved him less sincerely, he could not show more
anxiety to mitigate anything that might be painful to her.
But notwithstanding these declarations, she never failed to gratify
her insatiable love of pouring forth to his most inveterate enemies
faults and failings that her constitutional moral obliquity indicated
he had. It is not an unfair assumption, therefore, that their
Majesties and others had conveyed to them in handfuls (unwittingly
perhaps) much that was valuable to their pernicious purpose while they
were being entertained at Malmaison. It has been said that it was her
intention to be presented to the Bourbon King, and though we would
fain believe her to be incapable of such perfidy, it is quite in
keeping with the by-ways of her complex character, more especially as
Eugene had paid him a visit. The promises of the sovereigns that the
interests of herself and children would be protected became less
reassuring as the few days that were left to her went on. At last she
realised they were mere silken verbiage, and gave way to despair.
This, and the anxiety of entertaining her royal guests, accentuated
the illness she had contracted. Alexander paid his first visit on May
14th, and she died of quinsy or diphtheria on May 29, 1814.
The allied monarchs were all represented at her funeral, and the
Prince of Mecklenburg (the Queen of Prussia's brother) was amongst the
mourners. It was of him the Court gossipers assiduously circulated
reports that he was paying suspicious attention to Josephine after the
divorce. Napoleon, on hearing of the flirtation through Fouché,
rebuked her with justifiable vigour on the ground of it being a gross
violation of dignity to go about with the Prince and others of lower
ranks to second-rate theatres, even under the cover of incognito. He
does not appear to have thought there was anything more than
Josephine's habitual lack of respect for herself and the high position
he had preserved for her, though according to the unreliable Madame de
Remusat Napoleon suggested to his divorced wife that she should take
Prince Mecklenburg as her husband. The same authority (?) asserts that
the Prince had written to Napoleon asking his permission, and,
further, says that Josephine told her this curious story. It is
entirely unsupported by either the words or actions of the Emperor
himself, and may be put aside as another of the fabrications of the
memoir writer.
That there was a flirtation there can be little doubt, but the
Prince's object may have been part of the political intrigue, rather
than carnal intercourse with a woman of nearly fifty years of age.
Josephine, always sorry for herself, a sieve of the first water,
susceptible to flattery, blind to device, yearning for admiration and
pity, was rejoiced to find attention extended to her from any quarter,
but coming from the Royal House of Prussia or any other royal
personage it was a dazzling compliment to the high esteem in which she
believed she was held, and enhanced the luxury of feeling that she was
the centre of international sympathy.
It was not that she had any malicious intent to do deliberate wrong to
Napoleon, or any thought of degrading herself. Her mind did not work
in these grooves. She was merely carried off her feet by vain love of
self-approbation, which led her far beyond the bounds of honourable
prudence. She was interred at Rueil amidst quiet solemnity, and in
1825 Eugene and Hortense erected a monument in her memory.
The legend is that her last articulate utterance was the enchanted
name of "Napoleon"--"Elba." Corvisat, the Imperial physician, was
piteously asked by the Emperor on his return why he allowed her to
die, and the nature of the malady that took her spirit away. He
replied that she "Died of grief and sorrow." Her own doctor, Horeau,
told him pretty much the same thing, which brought forth the sad
reply, she was a "good woman" and "loved me well." The intimation that
she had spoken often and kindly of him brought back all the old
passion for her and filled him with emotion. He had heard of her death
while at Elba, and told Corvisat that it was a most acute grief to
him, and although she had her failings _she_ at least would "never
have abandoned him"; and possibly this latter expressed opinion, so
often repeated, might have been fulfilled had he at once thrown Marie
Louise over after her desertion of him.
The popular charges against Napoleon, by those who are either
prejudiced or have failed to inform themselves of his history, are
that he must have been a cruel and barbarous husband or he would not
have divorced his wife, and that, as a ruler, he thirsted for blood.
Each of these, as well as many other silly things that are said and
believed of him, is palpably false. As a husband, so far as kindness
and indulgence goes, he was exemplary. As a soldier, First Consul, and
Emperor, his desire at all times was for peace. History has revealed
the real man, and in recent years it has been convincingly proved that
he was the very antithesis of the monster he has been given out and
supposed to be. Now, in the light of more accurate knowledge and
calmer judgment, the world is showing a desire to do him the justice
he never ceased to believe that it would do him.
His unexampled personality and fame is spreading and inspiring
everywhere. His faults are being put in the limelight of public
opinion, and the growing desire to treat even these with proper
generosity is an indication that reason and knowledge are taking the
place of stereotyped international prejudice, political and personal.
We are beginning to see more clearly through the fog of enmity that he
had rare virtues, besides having unparalleled genius. The divorce of
Josephine was unquestionably political, though had he been the
ferocious creature he has been made to appear, the opportunities she
gave him so frequently would have justified the divorce at a much
earlier stage on other than political grounds.
It ill becomes a nation which knew George I., George IV., and Henry
VIII. to take such unctuous exception to the gentle and benevolent
attitude of Napoleon before and after the annulment of the marriage.
FOOTNOTES:
[31] It has been asserted that when Josephine found the divorce to be
inevitable she herself suggested the alliance with Marie Louise. One
reason for believing that this might be the case lies in the fact that
the affection of Josephine's children for Napoleon suffered no
diminution on account of the divorce--indeed, Eugene took a leading
part in the negotiations for the marriage.
[32] In the notorious "Letters from the Cape," addressed to Lady
Clavering and variously attributed to an Englishman, Las Cases, and
even Napoleon himself, there is noted a curious coincidence with
regard to the two Franco-Austrian alliances. Both marriage contracts
were signed under somewhat similar circumstances, and in both cases
fêtes were held in honour of the event. At the marriage fête of Louis
XVI. and Marie Antoinette a calamity occurred which resulted in the
loss of about two thousand lives. To celebrate the union of Napoleon
and Marie Louise, Prince Schwartzenberg gave a fête, at which a fire
occurred, the Prince's wife and some twenty other people being burnt
to death. The superstitious drew attention to the coincidence, and it
is said that Napoleon looked upon it as an evil omen.