This seemed to be a year of fetes, and I dwell upon it with pleasure
because it preceded one filled with misfortunes. The years 1811 and 1812
offered a striking contrast to each other. All those flowers lavished on
the fetes of the King of Rome and his august mother covered an abyss, and
all this enthusiasm was changed to mourning a few months later. Never
were more brilliant fetes followed by more overwhelming misfortunes. Let
us, then, dwell a little longer upon the rejoicings which preceded 1812.
I feel that I need to be fortified before entering upon reminiscences of
that time of unprofitable sacrifices, of bloodshed without preserving or
conquering, and of glory without result. On the 25th of August, the
Empress's fete was celebrated at Trianon; and from early in the morning
the road from Paris to Trianon was covered with an immense number of
carriages and people on foot, the same sentiment attracting the court,
the citizens, the people, to the delightful place at which the fete was
held. All ranks were mingled, all went pell-mell; and I have never seen
a crowd more singularly variegated, or which presented a more striking
picture of all conditions of society. Ordinarily the multitude at fetes
of this kind is composed of little more than one class of people and a
few modest bourgeois that is all; very rarely of people with equipages,
more rarely still people of the court; but here there were all, and there
was no one so low that he could not have the satisfaction of elbowing a
countess or some other noble inhabitant of the Faubourg St. Germain, for
all Paris seemed to be at Versailles. That town so beautiful, but yet so
sadly beautiful, which seemed since the last king to be bereft of its
inhabitants, those broad streets in which no one was to be seen, those
squares, the least of which could hold all the inhabitants of Versailles,
and which could hardly contain the courtiers of the Great King, this
magnificent solitude which we call Versailles, had been populated
suddenly by the capital. The private houses could not contain the crowd
which arrived from every direction. The park was inundated with a
multitude of promenaders of every sex and all ages; in these immense
avenues one walked on foot, one needed air on this vast plateau which was
so airy, one felt cramped on this theater of a great public fete, as at
balls given in those little saloons of Paris built for about a dozen
persons, and where fashion crams together a hundred and fifty.
Great preparations had been made for four or five days in the delightful
gardens of Trianon; but the evening before, the sky became cloudy, and
many toilets which had been eagerly prepared were prudently laid aside;
but the next day a beautiful blue sky reassured every one, and they set
out for Trianon in spite of the recollections of the storm which had
dispersed the spectators at the fete of Saint Cloud. Nevertheless, at
three o'clock a heavy shower made every one fear for a short while that
the evening might end badly. "Afternoon shower making its obeisance," as
the proverb says; but, on the contrary, this only made the fete
pleasanter, by refreshing the scorching air of August, and laying the
dust which was most disagreeable. At six o'clock the sun had reappeared,
and the summer of 1811 had no softer or more agreeable evening.
All the outlines of the architecture of the Grand Trianon were ornamented
with lamps of different colors. In the gallery could be seen six hundred
women, brilliant with youth and adornments; and the Empress addressed
gracious words to several among them, and all were charmed by the cordial
and affable manners of a young princess who had lived in France only
fifteen months.
At this fete, as at all the fetes of the Empire, there were not wanting
poets to sing praises of those in whose honor they were given. There was
a play which had been composed for the occasion, the author of which I
remember perfectly was M. Alissan de Chazet; but I have forgotten the
title. At the end of the piece, the principal artists of the opera
executed a ballet which was considered very fine. When the play was
over, their Majesties commenced a promenade in the park of the Petit-
Trianon, the Emperor, hat in hand, giving his arm to the Empress, and
being followed by all his court. They first visited the Isle of Love,
and found all the enchantments of fairyland and its illusions there
united. The temple, situated in the midst of the lake, was splendidly.
illuminated, and the water reflected its columns of fire. A multitude of
beautiful boats furrowed this lake, which seemed on fire, manned by a
swarm of Cupids, who appeared to sport with each other in the rigging.
Musicians concealed on board played melodious airs; and this harmony, at
once gentle and mysterious, which seemed to spring from the bosom of the
waves, added still more to the magic of the picture and the charms of the
illusion. To this spectacle succeeded scenes of another kind, taken from
rural life,--a Flemish living picture, with its pleasant-faced, jolly
people, and its rustic ease; and groups of inhabitants from every
province of France, giving an impression that all parts of the Empire
were convened at this fete. In fine, a wonderful variety of attractions
in turn arrested the attention of their Majesties. Arrived at the saloon
of Polhymnie, they were welcomed by a charming choir, the music composed,
I think, by Paer, and the words by the same M. Alissan de Chazet. At
last, after a magnificent supper, which was served in the grand gallery,
their Majesties retired at one o'clock in the morning.
There was only one opinion in this immense assembly as to the grace and
perfect dignity of Marie Louise. This young princess was really
charming, but with peculiarities rather than traits of character. I
recall some occurrences in her domestic life which will not be without
interest to the reader.
Marie Louise talked but little with the people of her household; but
whether this arose from a habit brought with her from the Austrian court,
whether she feared to compromise her dignity by her foreign accent before
persons of inferior condition, or whether it arose from timidity or
indifference, few of these persons could remember a word she had uttered.
I have heard her steward say that in three years she spoke to him only
once.
The ladies of the household agreed in saying that in private she was kind
and agreeable. She did not like Madame de Montesquieu. This was wrong;
since there were no cares, endearments, attentions of all sorts, which
Madame de Montesquieu did not lavish on the King of Rome.
The Emperor, however, appreciated highly this excellent lady who was so
perfect in every respect. As a man he admired the dignity, perfect
propriety, and extreme discretion of Madame de Montesquieu; and as a
father he felt an infinite gratitude for the cares she lavished on his
son. Each one explained in his own way the coolness which the young
Empress showed to this lady; and there were several reasons assigned for
this, all more or less untrue, though the leisure moments of the ladies
of the palace were much occupied with it. What appeared to me the most
likely solution, and most in accordance with the artless simplicity of
Marie Louise, was this: The Empress had as lady of honor Madame de
Montebello, a charming woman of perfect manners. Now, there was little
friendship between Madame de Montesquieu and Madame de Montebello, as the
latter feared it is said to have a rival in the heart of her august
friend; and, in fact, Madame de Montesquieu would have proved a most
dangerous rival for this lady, as she combined all those qualities which
please and make one beloved. Born of an illustrious family, she had
received a distinguished education, and united the tone and manners of
the best society with a solid and enlightened piety. Never had calumny
dared to attack her conduct, which was as noble as discreet. I must
admit that she was somewhat haughty; but this haughtiness was tempered by
such elegant politeness, and such gracious consideration, that it might
be considered simple dignity. She was attentive and assiduous in her
devotion to the King of Rome, and was entitled to the deep gratitude of
the Empress; for she afterwards, actuated by the most generous devotion,
tore herself from her country, her friends, her family, to follow the
fate of a child whose every hope was blasted.
Madame de Montebello was accustomed to rise late. In the morning when
the Emperor was absent, Marie Louise went to converse with her in her
room; and in order not to go through the saloon where the ladies of the
palace were assembled, she entered the apartment of her lady of honor
through a very dark closet, and this conduct deeply wounded the feelings
of the other ladies. I have heard Josephine say that Madame de
Montebello was wrong to initiate the young Empress into the scandalous
adventures, whether true or false, attributed to some of these ladies,
and which a young, pure, simple woman like Marie Louise should not have
known; and that this was one cause of her coldness towards the ladies of
her court, who on their side did not like her, and confided their
feelings to their neighbors and friends.
Josephine tenderly loved Madame de Montesquieu, and when they were parted
wrote to her often; this correspondence lasted till Josephine's death.
One day Madame de Montesquieu received orders from the Emperor to take
the little king to Bagatelle, where Josephine then was. She had obtained
permission to see this child, whose birth had covered Europe with fetes.
It is well known how disinterested Josephine's love for Napoleon was, and
how she viewed everything that could increase his glory and render it
more durable; and there entered into the prayers she made for him since
the burning disgrace of the divorce, even the hope that he might be happy
in his private life, and that his new wife might bear this child, this
firstborn of his dynasty, to him whom she herself could not make a
father.
This woman of angelic goodness, who had fallen into a long swoon on
learning her sentence of repudiation, and who since that fatal day had
dragged out a sad life in the brilliant solitude of Malmaison; this
devoted wife who had shared for fifteen years the fortunes of her
husband, and who had assisted so powerfully in his elevation, was not the
last to rejoice at the birth of the King of Rome. She was accustomed to
say that the desire to leave a posterity, and to be represented after our
death by beings who owe their life and position to us, was a sentiment
deeply engraved in the heart of man; that this desire, which was so
natural, and which she had felt so deeply as wife and mother, this desire
to have children to survive and continue us on earth, was still more
augmented when we had a high destiny to transmit to them; that in
Napoleon's peculiar position, as founder of a vast empire, it was
impossible he should long resist a sentiment which is at the bottom of
every heart, and which, if it is true that this sentiment increases in
proportion to the inheritance we leave our children, no one could
experience more fully than Napoleon, for no one had yet possessed so
formidable a power on the earth; that the course of nature having made
her sterility a hopeless evil, it was her duty to be the first to
sacrifice the sentiments of her heart to the good of the state, and the
personal happiness of Napoleon sad but powerful reasoning, which policy
invoked in aid of the divorce, and of which this excellent princess in
the illusion of her devotion thought herself convinced in the depths of
her heart.
The royal child was presented to her. I know nothing in the world which
could be more touching than the joy of this excellent woman at the sight
of Napoleon's son. She at first regarded him with eyes swimming in
tears; then she took him in her arms, and pressed him to her heart with a
tenderness too deep for words. There were present no indiscreet
witnesses to take pleasure in indulging irreverent curiosity, or observe
with critical irony the feelings of Josephine, nor was there ridiculous
etiquette to freeze the expression of this tender soul; it was a scene
from private life, and Josephine entered into it with all her heart.
From the manner in which she caressed this child, it might have been said
that it was some ordinary, child, and not a son of the Caesars, as
flatterers said, not the son of a great man, whose cradle was surrounded
with so many honors, and who had been born a king. Josephine bathed him
with her tears, and said to him some of those baby words with which a
mother makes herself understood and loved by her new born. It was
necessary at last to separate them. The interview had been short, but it
had been well employed by the loving soul of Josephine. In this scene
one could judge from her joy of the sincerity of her sacrifice, while at
the same time her stifled sighs testified to its extent. Madame de
Montesquieu's visits were made only at long intervals, which distressed
Josephine greatly; but the child was growing larger, an indiscreet word
lisped by him, a childish remembrance, the least thing, might offend
Marie Louise, who feared Josephine. The Emperor wished to avoid this
annoyance, which would have affected his domestic happiness; so he
ordered that the visits should be made more rarely, and at last they were
stopped. I have heard Josephine say that the birth of the King of Rome
repaid her for all sacrifices, and surely never was the devotion of a
woman more disinterested or more complete.
Immediately after his birth the King of Rome was confided to the care of
a nurse of a healthy, robust constitution, taken from among the people.
This woman could neither leave the palace nor receive a visit from any
man; the strictest precautions were observed in this respect. She was
taken out to ride for her health in a carriage, and even then she was
accompanied by several women.
These were the habits of Marie Louise with her son. In the morning about
nine o'clock the king was brought to his mother; she took him in her arms
and caressed him a few moments, then returned him to his nurse, and began
to read the papers. The child grew tired, and the lady in charge took
him away. At four o'clock the mother went to visit her son; that is to
say, Marie Louise went down into the king's apartments, carrying with her
some embroidery, on which she worked at intervals. Twenty minutes after
she was informed that M. Isabey or M. Prudhon had arrived for the lesson
in painting or drawing, whereupon the Empress returned to her apartments.
Thus passed the first months which followed the birth of the King of
Rome. In the intervals between fetes, the Emperor was occupied with
decrees, reviews, monuments, and plans, constantly employed, with few
distractions, indefatigable in every work, and still not seeming to have
anything to occupy his powerful mind, and happy in his private life with
his young wife, by whom he was tenderly beloved. The Empress led a very
simple life, which suited her disposition well. Josephine needed more
excitement; her life had been also more in the outside world, more
animated, more expansive; though this did not prevent her being very
faithful to the duties of her domestic life, and very tender and loving
towards her husband, whom she knew how to render happy in her own way.
One day Bonaparte returned from a hunt worn out with fatigue, and begged
Marie Louise to come to him. She came, and the Emperor took her in his
arms and gave her a sounding kiss on the cheek. Marie Louise took her
handkerchief and wiped her cheek. "Well, Louise, you are disgusted with
me?"--"No," replied the Empress, "I did it from habit; I do the same with
the King of Rome." The Emperor seemed vexed. Josephine was very
different; she received her husband's caresses affectionately, and even
met him half way. The Emperor sometimes said to her, "Louise, sleep in
my room."--"It is too warm there," replied the Empress. In fact, she
could not endure the heat, and Napoleon's apartments were constantly
warmed. She had also an extreme repugnance to odors, and in her own
rooms allowed only vinegar or sugar to be burnt.
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