DEVELOPMENTS OF CHARACTER.
A.D. 1800-A.D. 1801
Second Italian campaign.--Its brilliant results.--Napoleon's desire to
leave a name.--A faithful correspondent.--Delicate attentions of
Napoleon to Josephine.--Her pastimes.--Retirement at Malmaison.--Private
theatricals.--The game of "Prisoners."--The mode of playing it.--
Napoleon's favorite amusement.--He is no misanthrope.--Josephine's
expansive benevolence.--Josephine's unwearied exertions in behalf of
the emigrants.--The Marquis of Decrest.--Accidental death of his
son.--Josephine arrests the grief of Decrest.--Her tenderness.--The
Infernal Machine.--Its power.--Hortense wounded.--Napoleon proceeds
to the opera.--Narrow escape of Josephine.--Treachery of the
Royalists.--Fouche.--Josephine's letter to the Minister of Police.--She
pleads for lenity in behalf of the guilty.--Character of Louis
Napoleon.--He is disappointed in love.--Napoleon tries to heal the
wound.--Character of Hortense.--She is married to Louis.--An
uncongenial union.--Marriage of Duroc.--Letter from Josephine to
Hortense.--She advises Hortense to be more kind to Louis.--Unhappy
disposition of Louis.--Errors of Hortense.--Happiness to which she
might have attained.--The spirit of Josephine.--Character of
Hortense.--Calumnies against Napoleon.--They fail in their effect.--
Unjust remarks of Hortense.--Josephine's reply.--The love of glory
Napoleon's ruling passion.
During Napoleon's absence in Egypt the Austrians had again invaded
Italy. The French troops had been beaten in many battles, and driven
from vast extents of territory, over which Napoleon had caused the flag
of the Republic to float in triumph. The first consul having, with
almost superhuman energy, arranged the internal affairs of his
government, now turned his thoughts toward the defeated armies of
France, which had been driven back into the fastnesses of the Alps. "I
must go," said he, "my dear Josephine. But I will not forget you, and I
will not be absent long." He bade adieu to his wife at the Tuilleries on
the 7th of May, 1800. At midnight of the 2d of July he returned, having
been absent less than two months. In that brief period he drove the
Austrians from all their strongholds, regained Italy, and by a campaign
more brilliant than any other which history has ever recorded, added
immeasurably to his own moral power. These astonishing victories excited
the Parisians to a delirium of joy. Night after night the streets were
illuminated, and whenever Napoleon appeared, crowds thronged him,
filling the air with their acclamations. These triumphs, however,
instead of satisfying Napoleon, did but add fuel to his all-absorbing
ambition. "A few more great events," said he, "like those of this
campaign, and I may really descend to posterity. But still it is little
enough. I have conquered, it is true, in less than two years, Cairo,
Paris, Milan. But, were I to die to-morrow, half a page of general
history would, after ten centuries, be all that would be devoted to my
exploits."
During his absence Josephine passed her time at Malmaison. And it surely
is indicative not only of the depth of Napoleon's love for Josephine,
but also of his appreciation of those delicate attentions which could
touch the heart of a loving wife, that in this busiest of campaigns, in
which, by day and by night, he was upon the horse's back, with hardly
one moment allowed for refreshment or repose, rarely did a single day
pass in which he did not transmit some token of affection to Malmaison.
Josephine daily watched, with the most intense interest the arrival of
the courier with the brief and almost illegible note from her husband.
Sometimes the blurred and blotted lines were hastily written upon
horseback, with the pommel of his saddle for his writing-desk. Sometimes
they were written, at his dictation, by his secretary, upon a drum-head,
on the field of carnage, when the mangled bodies of the dying and the
dead were strewed all around him, and the thunders of the retreating
battle were still echoing over the plains. These delicate attentions to
his wife exhibit a noble trait in the character of Napoleon. And she
must have been indeed a noble woman who could have inspired such a mind
with esteem and tenderness so profound.
Josephine employed much of her time in superintending those improvements
which she thought would please her husband on his return; creating for
him pleasant little surprises, as she should guide his steps to the
picturesque walk newly opened, to the rustic bridge spanning the stream,
to the rural pavilion, where, in the evening twilight, they could
commune. She often rode on horseback with Hortense, who was peculiarly
fond of all those pleasures which had the concomitants of graceful
display.
After Napoleon's triumphant return from Italy, the visits to Malmaison
were more frequent than ever before. Napoleon and Josephine often spent
several days there; and in after years they frequently spoke of these
hours as the pleasantest they had passed in life. The agreeable
retirement of Malmaison was, however, changed into enjoyment more public
and social by the crowds of visitors with which its saloons and parks
were filled. Josephine received her guests with republican simplicity,
united with the utmost elegance. Her reception-room was continually
thronged with the most distinguished officers of the government,
renowned generals, and all the men most illustrious for birth and talent
the metropolis contained.
The circle assembled here was, indeed, a happy one. A peculiar bond of
union existed throughout the whole household, for Napoleon, as well as
Josephine, secured the most devoted attachment of all the servants. One
of their favorite amusements was family theatricals. Eugene and Hortense
took an active part in these performances, in which both had talents to
excel.
But the favorite and most characteristic amusement at Malmaison was the
game of "Prisoners," a common game among the school-boys of France,
though comparatively little known in this country. The company is
divided into two parties. Those who are appointed leaders choose each
their respective sides. Bounds are assigned to each party, and a
particular point as a fortress. If any one is caught away from the
fortress by one who left his own station after the captive left the
hostile fort, he is a prisoner, and must remain at the appointed
prison until rescued. For instance, Hortense leaves her fortress, and
cautiously invades the territory of the enemy. Josephine darts after
her, and eagerly pursues her over the greensward. Eugene, who remains at
his fortress until after Josephine left hers, bounds after his mother.
It is now her turn to flee. But others of her party, who have remained
under the protection of their fortress, rush to her rescue. Eugene,
however, succeeds in touching his mother before they reach him, and
leads her off in triumph a prisoner. A tree, perhaps, at a little
distance, is her prison. Here she must remain until rescued by a touch
from one of her own party. But if the one who is rushing to her rescue
is touched by one of the other party who left his fortress an instant
later, another captive is taken to stand by her side.
In this mimicry of war Napoleon always delighted to engage. After
dinner, upon the lawn at Malmaison, the most distinguished gentlemen and
ladies, not of France only, but of all Europe, were often actively and
most mirthfully engaged in this sport. Kings, and queens, and princes of
the blood royal were often seen upon the lawn at Malmaison pursuing and
pursued. Napoleon and Josephine, and most of the friends who surrounded
them, were in the vigor of athletic youth, and, in entire abandonment to
the frolic of the hour, the air resounded with their shouts. It was
observed that Napoleon was ever anxious to choose Josephine as the first
on his side, and he seemed nervously excited, if she was taken prisoner,
until she was rescued. He was a poor runner, and often fell, rolling
over headlong upon the grass, while he and all his associates were
convulsed with laughter. When there was no special engagement demanding
attention, this sport often continued for hours. Napoleon was often
taken captive. But when Josephine was imprisoned, he was incessantly
clapping his hands, and shouting, "A rescue! a rescue!" till she was
released. A gloomy misanthrope, wrapped in self, could not have enjoyed
these scenes of innocent hilarity.
But the life of Josephine was not devoted to amusement. While she
entered with warmth into these sports, being the soul of every festive
party, her heart was consecrated to the promotion of happiness in every
way in her power. When a child, playing with the little negresses of
Martinique, she was adored as their queen. When in penury, crossing the
Atlantic, by kind sympathy manifested for the sick and the sorrowful,
she won the hearts of the seamen. When a prisoner, under sentence of
death, by her cheerfulness, her forgetfulness of self, and her hourly
deeds of delicate attention to others, she became an object of universal
love in those cells of despair. When prosperity again dawned upon her,
and she was in the enjoyment of an ample competence, every cottage in
the vicinity of Malmaison testified to her benevolence. And now, when
placed in a position of power, all her influence was exerted to relieve
the misfortunes of those illustrious men whom the storms of revolution
had driven from their homes and from France. She never forgot the
unfortunate, but devoted a considerable portion of her income to the
relief of the emigrants. She was at times accused of extravagance. Her
nature was generous in the extreme, and the profusion of her
expenditures was an index of her expansive benevolence.
Napoleon, soon after he became first consul, published a decree,
inviting the emigrants to return, and did what he could to restore to
them their confiscated estates. There were, however, necessarily
exceptions from the general act of amnesty. Cases were continually
arising of peculiar perplexity and hardship, where widows and orphans,
reduced from opulence to penury, sought lost property, which, during the
tumult of the times, had become involved in inextricable embarrassments.
All such persons made application to Josephine. She ever found time to
listen to their tales of sorrow, to speak words of sympathy, and, with
great soundness of judgment, to render them all the aid in her power.
"Josephine," said Napoleon, in reference to these her applications for
the unfortunate, "will not take a refusal. But, it must be confessed,
she rarely undertakes a case which has not propriety, at least, on its
side." The Jacobin laws had fallen with fearful severity upon all the
members of the ancient aristocracy and all the friends of royalty. The
cause of these victims of anarchy Josephine was ever ready to espouse.
A noble family by the name of Decrest had been indebted to the
interposition of the wife of the first consul for their permission to
return to France. As nearly all their property had disappeared during
their exile, Josephine continued to befriend them with her influence
and her purse. On the evening of a festival day, a grand display
of fire-works was exhibited on the banks of the Seine. A rocket,
misdirected, struck a son of the marquis on the breast, and instantly
killed him. The young man, who was on the eve of his marriage to the
daughter of an ancient friend, was an officer of great promise, and the
hope of the declining family. His death was a terrible calamity, as well
as a most afflictive bereavement. The father abandoned himself to all
the delirium of inconsolable grief, and was so utterly lost in the
depths of despair, that it was feared his mind would never again recover
its tone. The Duke of Orleans was grand-uncle of the young man who was
killed, and Madame Montesson, the mother of Louis Philippe, sent for her
distressed relatives that she might administer to their consolation. All
her endeavors, however, were entirely unavailing.
In the midst of this afflictive scene, Josephine entered the saloon of
Madame Montesson. Her own heart taught her that in such a grief as this
words were valueless. Silently she took by the hand the eldest daughter,
a beautiful girl, whose loveliness plead loudly for a father's care, and
in the other arm she took their infant child of fifteen months, and,
with her own cheeks bathed in tears, she kneeled before the stricken
mourner. He raised his eyes and saw Josephine, the wife of the first
consul, kneeling before him, and imploringly presenting his two
children. He was at first astonished at the sight. Then, bursting into
tears, he exclaimed, "Yes! I have much for which I am yet bound to live.
These children have claims upon me, and I must no longer yield to
despair." A lady who was present on this occasion says, "I witnessed
this scene, and shall never forget it. The wife of the first consul
expressed, in language which I will not attempt to imitate, all that
tenderness which the maternal bosom alone knows. She was the very image
of a ministering angel, for the touching charm of her voice and look
pertained more to heaven than to earth." Josephine had herself seen days
as dark as could lower over a mortal's path. Love for her children was
then the only tie which bound her to life. In those days of anguish she
learned the only appeal which, under these circumstances, could touch a
despairing father's heart.
Several conspiracies were formed about this time against the life of
the first consul. That of the Infernal Machine was one of the most
desperate, reckless, and atrocious which history has recorded. On the
evening of December 24, 1800, Napoleon was going to the opera. Three
gentlemen were with him in his carriage. Josephine, with Hortense and
one or two others, followed in another carriage. In passing from the
Tuilleries to the theater, it was necessary to pass through the narrow
street St. Nicaire. A cart, apparently by accident overturned,
obstructed the passage. The coachman, however, who was driving his
horses very rapidly, crowded his way by. He had barely passed the cart
when a terrific explosion took place, which was heard all over Paris.
Eight persons were instantly killed and more than sixty wounded. Some of
the houses in the vicinity were nearly blown down. The windows of both
the carriages were shattered, and Hortense was slightly wounded by the
broken glass. Napoleon drove on to the opera, where he found the
audience in the utmost consternation, for the explosion had shaken the
whole city. He entered with a countenance as perfectly calm and
untroubled as if nothing unusual had occurred. Every eye was fixed upon
him. As soon as it was perceived that his person was safe, thunders of
applause shook the walls of the theater. On every side Napoleon was
greeted with the most devoted expressions of attachment. Soon Josephine
came in, pale and trembling, and, after remaining half an hour, they
both retired to the Tuilleries. Napoleon found the palace crowded with
all the public functionaries of Paris, who had assembled to congratulate
him upon his escape.
The life of Josephine was saved on this occasion by apparently the
merest accident. She had recently received a magnificent shawl, a
present from Constantinople, and was preparing to wear it that evening
for the first time. Napoleon, however, in playful criticism, condemned
the shawl, remarking upon its pattern and its color, and commending
one which he deemed far more beautiful. "You are a bold man," said
Josephine, smiling, "in venturing to criticise my toilette. I shall take
my revenge in giving you a lesson how to attack a redoubt. However," she
continued, turning to one of her attendants, "bring me the general's
favorite. I will wear that." A delay of a few moments was caused in
exchanging the shawls. In the mean time, Napoleon, with his friends,
entered his carriage and drove on. Josephine soon followed. She had but
just entered the street when the explosion took place. Had she followed,
as usual, directly behind Napoleon, her death would have been almost
inevitable.
It was subsequently ascertained, greatly to the surprise of Napoleon and
of all Europe, that the Royalists were the agents in this conspiracy.
Napoleon had been their benefactor, and while he knew it to be
impossible to replace the Bourbons upon the throne of France, he did
every thing in his power to mitigate the misfortunes which Jacobin
violence had inflicted upon their friends. The first consul made no
disguise of his utter detestation of the Jacobins, and of their reign of
merciless tyranny. He consequently supposed that they were the authors
of the atrocious crime. The real authors of the conspiracy were however,
soon discovered. Fouche, whom Bonaparte disliked exceedingly for his
inhuman deeds during the Revolution, was the Minister of Police. Upon
him mainly devolved the trial and the punishment of the accused.
Josephine immediately wrote a letter to Fouche, most strikingly
indicative of the benevolence of her noble heart, and of that strength
of mind which could understand that the claims of justice must not pass
unheeded.
"CITIZEN-MINISTER,--While I yet tremble at the frightful
event which has just occurred, I am disquieted and
distressed through fear of the punishment necessarily to be
inflicted on the guilty, who belong, it is said, to families
with whom I once lived in habits of intercourse. I shall be
solicited by mothers, sisters, and disconsolate wives; and
my heart will be broken through my inability to obtain all
the mercy for which I would plead.
"I know that the clemency of the first consul is great, his
attachment to me extreme; but the crime is too dreadful that
terrible examples should not be necessary. The chief of
the government has not been alone exposed; and it is that
which will render him severe--inflexible. I conjure you,
therefore, to do all in your power to prevent inquiries
being pushed too far. Do not detect all those persons who
may have been accomplices in these odious transactions. Let
not France, so long overwhelmed in consternation by public
executions, groan anew beneath such inflictions. It is even
better to endeavor to soothe the public mind than to
exasperate men by fresh terrors. In short, when the
ring-leaders of this nefarious attempt shall have been
secured, let severity give place to pity for inferior
agents, seduced as they may have been by dangerous
falsehoods or exaggerated opinions.
"When just invested with supreme power, the first consul,
as seems to me, ought rather to gain hearts than to be
exhibited as ruling slaves. Soften by your counsels whatever
may be too violent in his just resentment. Punish--alas!
that you must certainly do--but pardon still more. Be also
the support of those unfortunate men who, by frank avowal or
repentance, shall expiate a portion of their crime.
"Having myself narrowly escaped perishing in the Revolution,
you must regard as quite natural my interference on behalf
of those who can be saved without involving in new danger
the life of my husband, precious to me and to France. On
this account, do, I entreat you, make a wide distinction
between the authors of the crime and those who, through
weakness or fear, have consented to take a part therein.
As a woman, a wife, and a mother, I must feel the
heart-rendings of those who will apply to me. Act, citizen
minister, in such a manner that the number of these may be
lessened. This will spare me much grief. Never will I turn
away from the supplications of misfortune. But in the
present instance you can do infinitely more than I, and you
will, on this account, excuse my importunity. Rely on my
gratitude and esteem."
Hortense was now eighteen years of age. Louis Napoleon, brother of
the first consul, was twenty-four. The plan was formed by Napoleon
and Josephine of uniting them in marriage. Louis was a studious,
imaginative, pensive man, with no taste for the glitter and pomp of
fashion, and with a decided aversion to earth's noisy ambition. He loved
communing with his own thoughts, the falling leaf, the sighing wind--the
fireside with its books, its solitude, its sacred society of one or two
congenial friends. He belonged to that class of men, always imbued with
deep feeling, whose happiness is only found in those hallowed affections
which bind kindred hearts in congenial pursuits and joys. As Napoleon
was riding triumphantly upon his war-horse over the Austrian squadrons
in Italy, achieving those brilliant victories which paved his way to the
throne of France, Louis, then a young man but nineteen years of age, met
in Paris a young lady, the daughter of an emigrant noble, for whom he
formed a strong attachment, and his whole soul became absorbed in the
passion of love. Napoleon was informed of this attachment, and,
apprehensive that the alliance of his brother with one of the old
Royalist families might endanger his own ambitious projects, he sent him
away on a military commission, and with his inflexible will and strong
arm broke off the connection. The young lady was soon afterward married
to another gentleman, and poor Louis was plunged into depths of
disappointment and melancholy, from whence he never emerged. Life was
ever after to him but a cloudy day, till, with a grief-worn spirit, he
sank into the grave.
Napoleon, conscious of the wound he had inflicted upon his sensitive
brother, endeavored, in various ways, to make amends. There was very
much in his gentle, affectionate, and fervent spirit to attract the
tender regard of Napoleon, and he ever after manifested toward him a
disposition of peculiar kindness. It was long before Louis would listen
to the proposition of his marriage with Hortense. His affections still
clung, though hopelessly, yet so tenaciously to the lost object of his
idolatry, that he could not think, without pain, of his union with
another. More uncongenial nuptials could hardly have been imagined.
Hortense was a beautiful, merry, thoughtless girl--amiable, but very
fond of excitement and display. In the ball-room, the theater, and other
places of brilliant entertainment, she found her chief pleasures. In
addition to this incongruity, she was already in love with the handsome
Duroc, the favorite aid of Napoleon. It is not strange that such a
young lady should have seen as little to fancy in the disappointed and
melancholy Louis as he could see attractive in one who lived but for the
pageantry of the passing hour. Thus both parties were equally averse to
the match. The tact of Josephine, however, and the power of Napoleon
combined, soon overcame all obstacles, and the mirth-loving maiden and
the pensive scholar were led to their untoward nuptials. Hortense became
more easily reconciled to the match, as her powerful father promised, in
consequence of this alliance, to introduce her to seats of grandeur
where all her desires should be gratified. Louis, resigning himself to
any lot in a world which had no further joy in store for him, suffered
himself to be conducted submissively to the altar.
At the fete given in honor of this marriage, the splendors of ancient
royalty seemed to be revived. But every eye could see the sadness of the
newly-married bride beneath the profusion of diamonds and flowers with
which she was adorned. Louis Napoleon, the present President of the
French Republic, is the only surviving offspring of this uncongenial
union.
The gay and handsome Duroc, who had been the accepted lover of Hortense,
was soon after married to an heiress, who brought him, with an immense
fortune, a haughty spirit and an irritable temper, which embittered all
his days. The subsequent life of Hortense presents one of the most
memorable illustrations of the insufficiency of human grandeur to
promote happiness. Josephine witnessed with intense solicitude the utter
want of congeniality existing between them, and her heart often bled as
she saw alienation growing stronger and stronger, until it resulted in
an entire separation. Hortense might easily have won and retained the
affections of the pensive but warm-hearted Louis, had she followed the
counsels of her noble mother. Josephine, herself the almost perfect
model of a wife, was well qualified to give advice in such a case. The
following letter, written to Hortense some time before her separation
from Louis, exhibits in a most amiable light the character of
Josephine.
_To Queen Hortense._
"What I learned eight days ago gave me the greatest pain.
What I observe to-day confirms and augments my sorrow. Why
show to Louis this repugnance? Instead of rendering him more
ungracious still by caprice, by inequality of character,
why do you not rather make efforts to surmount your
indifference? But you will say, he is not amiable! All that
is relative. If not in your eyes amiable, he may appear so
to others, and all women do not view him through the medium
of dislike. As for myself, who am here altogether
disinterested, I imagine that I behold him as he is, more
_loving_, doubtless, than _lovable_, but this is a great and
rare quality. He is generous, beneficent, feeling, and,
above all, an excellent father. If you so willed, he would
prove a good husband. His melancholy, his love of study and
retirement, injure him in your estimation. For these, I ask
you, is he to blame? Is he obliged to conform his nature to
circumstances? Who could have predicted to him his fortune?
But, according to you, he has not even the _courage_ to
bear that fortune. This, I believe, is an error; but
he certainly wants the _strength_. With his ascetic
inclinations, his invincible desire of retirement and study,
he finds himself misplaced in the elevated rank to which he
has attained. You desire that he should imitate his brother.
Give him, first of all, the same temperament. You have not
failed to remark that almost our entire existence depends
upon our health, and that upon our digestion. Let poor Louis
digest better, and you would find him more amiable. But,
such as he is, there can be no reason for abandoning him, or
making him feel the unbecoming sentiments with which he
inspires you. Do you, whom I have seen so kind, continue to
be so at the moment when it is precisely more than ever
necessary. Take pity on a man who has to lament that he
possesses what would constitute another's happiness; and,
before condemning him, think of others who, like him, have
groaned beneath the burden of their greatness, and bathed
with their tears that diadem which they believed had never
been destined for their brow."
This, surely, was admirable counsel, and, had Hortense followed it, she
would have saved herself many a long year of loneliness and anguish. But
the impetuous and thoughtless bride could not repress the repugnance
with which she regarded the cold exterior and the exacting love of her
husband. Louis demanded from her a singleness and devotedness of
affection which was unreasonable. He wished to engross all her faculties
of loving. He desired that every passion of her soul should be centered
in him, and was jealous of any happiness she found excepting that which
he could give. He was even troubled by the tender regard with which she
cherished her mother and her brother, considering all the love she gave
to them as so much withheld from him. Hortense was passionately fond of
music and of painting. Louis almost forbade her the enjoyment of those
delightful accomplishments, thinking that she pursued them with a
heartfelt devotion inconsistent with that supreme love with which she
ought to regard her husband. Hortense, proud and high-spirited, would
not submit to such tyranny. She resisted and retaliated. She became,
consequently, wretched, and her husband wretched, and discord withered
all the joys of home. At last, the union of such discordant spirits
became utterly insupportable. They separated. The story of their
domestic quarrels vibrated upon the ear of Europe. Louis wandered here
and there, joyless and sad, till, weary of a miserable life, alone and
friendless, he died. Hortense retired, with a restless and suffering
heart, to the mountains of Switzerland, where, in a secluded castle, she
lingered out the remaining years of her sorrowful pilgrimage. It was an
unfortunate match. Having been made, the only possible remedy was in
pursuing the course which Josephine so earnestly recommended. Had
Josephine been married to Louis, she would have followed the course she
counseled her daughter to pursue. She would have leaned fondly upon his
arm in his morning and evening walks. She would have cultivated a lively
interest in his reading, his studies, and all his quiet domestic
pleasures. She would, as far as possible, have relinquished every
pursuit which could by any possibility have caused him pain. Thus she
would have won his love and his admiration. Every day her power over him
would have been increasing. Gradually her influence would have molded
his character to a better model. He would have become proud of his wife.
He would have leaned upon her arm. He would have been supported by her
affection and her intellectual strength. He would have become more
cheerful in character and resolute in purpose. Days of tranquillity and
happiness would have embellished their dwelling. The spirit of
Josephine! It is _noble_ as well as _lovely_. It accomplishes the most
exalted achievements, and diffuses the most ennobling happiness. There
are thousands of unions as uncongenial as that of Hortense and Louis.
From the woes such unions would naturally engender there is but one
refuge, and Josephine has most beautifully shown what that refuge is.
Hortense, proud and high-spirited, resolved that she would not submit to
the exacting demands of her husband. In her sad fate we read the warning
not to imitate her example.
Hortense is invariably described as an unusually fascinating woman. She
had great vivacity of mind, and displayed much brilliance of
conversational powers. Her person was finely formed, and she inherited
much of that graceful demeanor which so signally characterized her
mother. She was naturally amiable, and was richly endowed with all those
accomplishments which enable one to excel in the art of pleasing. Louis,
more than any other of the brothers, most strongly resembled Napoleon.
He was a very handsome man, and possessed far more than ordinary
abilities. Under less untoward circumstances he might have been
eminently happy. Few persons, however, have journeyed along the path of
life under a darker cloud than that which ever shed its gloom upon the
footsteps of Louis and Hortense.
Among the various attempts which had been made to produce alienation
between Napoleon and Josephine, one of the most atrocious was the
whispered insinuation that the strong affection which the first consul
manifested for Hortense was a guilty passion. Napoleon exhibited in
the most amiable manner his qualities as a father, in the frequent
correspondence he carried on with the two children of Josephine, in the
interest he took in their studies, and in the solicitude he manifested
to promote their best welfare. He loved Hortense as if she had been his
own child. Josephine was entirely impregnable against any jealousy to be
introduced from that quarter, and a peaceful smile was her only reply
to all such insinuations. Hortense had also heard, and had utterly
disregarded, these rumors. The marriage of Hortense to a brother of
Napoleon had entirely silenced the calumny, and it was soon forgotten.
Subsequently, when Hortense had become entirely alienated from her
husband, and was resolved upon a separation, Josephine did every thing
in her power to dissuade her from an act so rash, so disgraceful, so
ruinous to her happiness. She wrote to her in terms of the most earnest
entreaty. The self-willed queen, annoyed by these remonstrances, and
unable to reply to them, ventured to intimate to her mother that perhaps
she was not entirely disinterested in her opposition. In most guarded
terms she suggested that her mother had heard the groundless accusation
of Napoleon's undue fondness, and that it was possible that her strong
opposition to the separation of Hortense from her husband might
originate in the fear that Hortense might become, in some degree, her
rival in the affections of Napoleon. Josephine very promptly and
energetically replied,
"You have misunderstood me entirely, my child. There is
nothing equivocal in my words, as there can not exist an
uncandid sentiment in my heart. How could you imagine that
I could participate in opinions so ridiculous and so
malicious? No, Hortense, you do not think that I believe you
to be my rival. We do, indeed, both reign in the same heart,
though by very different, yet by equally sacred rights. And
they who, in the affection which my husband manifests for
you, have pretended to discover other sentiments than those
of a parent and a friend, know not _his_ soul. His mind is
too elevated above that of the vulgar to be ever accessible
to unworthy passions. The passion of glory, if you will,
engrosses him too entirely for our repose; but glory, at
least, inspires nothing which is vile. Such is my profession
of faith respecting Napoleon. I make this confession to you
in all sincerity, that I may allay your inquietudes. When I
recommended you to love, or, at least, not to repulse Louis,
I spoke to you in my character of an experienced wife, an
attentive mother, and a tender friend, and in this threefold
relation do I now embrace you."