THE DIVORCE AND LAST DAYS.
A.D. 1807-A.D. 1814
Napoleon's prospective heir.--Death of the child.--Grandeur of Napoleon.
--Struggle in his bosom.--Dejection of Napoleon.--His energy.--Grief of
Josephine.--Her forebodings.--Napoleon absents himself from her
society.--Anguish of Napoleon.--Difficulty in selecting a bride.--A
silent dinner at Fontainebleau.--The communication to Josephine.--
Effects thereof.--Agitation of Napoleon.--A night of anguish.--
Anniversary of the victory at Austerlitz.--Eugene summoned from Italy.
--Interview with Napoleon.--He is not without feeling.--The council
assembled.--Address of Napoleon.--He is still the friend of
Josephine.--Her response.--The council again assembled.--Consummation
of the divorce.--Entrance of Josephine.--Emotion of Hortense.--Josephine
signs the divorce.--Anguish of Eugene.--Last private interview between
Josephine and Napoleon.--The final adieu.--Mental anguish of
Napoleon.--Malmaison assigned to Josephine as her future residence.--
Josephine leaves the Tuilleries.--Madame de Rochefoucault.--Josephine
submissive to her lot.--Morning parties.--Social habits.--Daily routine
at Malmaison.--The airing.--The dinner hour.--Mirthful evenings.--
Marriage of Napoleon and Maria Louisa.--Birth of the King of Rome.
--Letter from Josephine.--Josephine's interest in the son of Napoleon.
--Her joy at his birth.--Her desire for information.--A letter from
Napoleon.--Deep emotion of Josephine.--Amiability of Napoleon.--He
presents his son to Josephine.--Generous conduct of Josephine.--Letter
to her superintendent.--Refined taste of Josephine.--Continued grief of
Josephine.--Palace of Navarre.--Letter to Napoleon.--Josephine desires
repose.--Occupations of Josephine at Navarre.--M. Bourlier.--Character
of Josephine's household.--Conversation between Napoleon and Josephine.
--Their last interview.--Napoleon continues his correspondence.--Days
of disaster.--Approach of the allied armies.--Alarm of Josephine.--
Accident.--Josephine at Navarre.--A melancholy incident.--Brutality of
the Cossacks.--Affecting note from Napoleon.--His downfall.--Letter
from Napoleon to Josephine.--False friends.--Josephine resolves not to
abandon Napoleon.--Honor paid to Josephine.--Commendation of Alexander.
--Letter to Napoleon.--Illustrious party at Malmaison.--Illness of
Josephine.--Josephine always desired the happiness of France.--Affecting
prayer.--Death of Josephine.--Tribute to her memory by Alexander.--
Funeral ceremonies.--Monumental inscription.
Allusion has already been made to the strong attachment with which
Napoleon cherished his little grandchild, the son of Hortense and of his
brother Louis. The boy was extremely beautiful, and developed all those
noble and spirited traits of character which peculiarly delighted the
emperor. Napoleon had apparently determined to make the young prince his
heir. This was so generally the understanding, both in France and in
Holland, that Josephine was quite at ease, and serene days dawned again
upon her heart.
Early in the spring of 1807, this child, upon whom such destinies were
depending, then five years of age, was seized suddenly and violently
with the croup, and in a few hours died. The blow fell upon the heart of
Josephine with most appalling power. Deep as was her grief at the loss
of the child, she was overwhelmed with uncontrollable anguish in view of
those fearful consequences which she shuddered to contemplate. She knew
that Napoleon loved her fondly, but she also knew the strength of his
ambition, and that he would make any sacrifice of his affection, which,
in his view, would subserve the interests of his power and his glory.
For three days she shut herself up in her room, and was continually
bathed in tears.
The sad intelligence was conveyed to Napoleon when he was far from home,
in the midst of the Prussian campaign. He had been victorious, almost
miraculously victorious, over his enemies. He had gained accessions of
power such as, in the wildest dreams of youth, he had hardly imagined.
All opposition to his sway was now apparently crushed. Napoleon had
become the creator of kings, and the proudest monarchs of Europe were
constrained to do his bidding. It was in an hour of exultation that the
mournful tidings reached him. He sat down in silence, buried his face in
his hands, and for a long time seemed lost in the most painful musings.
He was heard mournfully and anxiously to repeat to himself again and
again, "To whom shall I leave all this?" The struggle in his mind
between his love for Josephine and his ambitious desire to found a
new dynasty, and to transmit his name and fame to all posterity, was
fearful. It was manifest in his pallid cheek, in his restless eye, in
the loss of appetite and of sleep. But the stern will of Bonaparte was
unrelenting in its purposes. With an energy which the world has never
seen surpassed, he had chosen his part. It was the purpose of his
soul--the purpose before which every thing had to bend--to acquire the
glory of making France the most illustrious, powerful, and happy nation
earth had ever seen. For this he was ready to sacrifice comfort, ease,
and his sense of right. For this he was ready to sunder the strongest
ties of affection.
Josephine knew Napoleon. She was fully aware of his boundless ambition.
With almost insupportable anguish she wept over the death of this
idolized child, and, with a trembling heart, awaited her husband's
return. Mysterious hints began to fill the journals of the contemplated
divorce, and of the alliance of Napoleon with various princesses of
foreign courts.
In October, 1807, Napoleon returned from Vienna. He greeted Josephine
with the greatest kindness, but she soon perceived that his mind was ill
at ease, and that he was pondering the fearful question. He appeared sad
and embarrassed. He had frequent private interviews with his ministers.
A general feeling of constraint pervaded the court. Napoleon scarcely
ventured to look upon his wife, as if apprehensive that the very sight
of one whom he had loved so well might cause him to waver in his firm
purpose. Josephine was in a state of the most feverish solicitude, and
yet was compelled to appear calm and unconstrained. As yet she had only
fearful forebodings of her impending doom. She watched, with most
excited apprehension, every movement of the emperor's eye, every
intonation of his voice, every sentiment he uttered. Each day some new
and trivial indication confirmed her fears. Her husband became more
reserved, absented himself from her society, and the private access
between their apartments was closed. He now seldom entered her room, and
whenever he did so, he invariably knocked. And yet not one word had
passed between him and Josephine upon the fearful subject. Whenever
Josephine heard the sound of his approaching footsteps, the fear that he
was coming with the terrible announcement of separation immediately
caused such violent palpitations of the heart that it was with the
utmost difficulty she could totter across the floor, even when
supporting herself by leaning against the walls, and catching at the
articles of furniture.
The months of October and November passed away, and, while the emperor
was discussing with his cabinet the alliance into which he should enter,
he had not yet summoned courage to break the subject to Josephine. The
evidence is indubitable that he experienced intense anguish in view of
the separation, but this did not influence his iron will to swerve from
its purpose. The grandeur of his fame and the magnitude of his power
were now such, that there was not a royal family in Europe which would
not have felt honored in conferring upon him a bride. It was at first
contemplated that he should marry some princess of the Bourbon family,
and thus add to the stability of his throne by conciliating the
Royalists of France. A princess of Saxony was proposed. Some weighty
considerations urged an alliance with the majestic empire of Russia, and
some advances were made to the court of St. Petersburgh, having in view
a sister of the Emperor Alexander. It was finally decided that proposals
should be made to the court of Vienna for Maria Louisa, daughter of the
Emperor of Austria.
At length the fatal day arrived for the announcement to Josephine. It
was the last day of November, 1809. The emperor and empress dined at
Fontainebleau alone. She seems to have had a presentiment that her doom
was sealed, for all that day she had been in her retired apartment,
weeping bitterly. As the dinner-hour approached, she bathed her swollen
eyes, and tried to regain composure. They sat down at the table in
silence. Napoleon did not speak. Josephine could not trust her voice to
utter a word. Neither ate a mouthful. Course after course was brought in
and removed untouched. A mortal paleness revealed the anguish of each
heart. Napoleon, in his embarrassment, mechanically, and apparently
unconsciously, struck the edge of his glass with his knife, while lost
in thought. A more melancholy meal probably was never witnessed. The
attendants around the table seemed to catch the infection, and moved
softly and silently in the discharge of their duties, as if they were in
the chamber of the dead. At last the ceremony of dinner was over, the
attendants were dismissed, and Napoleon, rising, and closing the door
with his own hand, was left alone with Josephine. Another moment of most
painful silence ensued, when the emperor, pale as death, and trembling
in every nerve, approached the empress. He took her hand, placed it upon
his heart, and in faltering accents said, "Josephine! my own good
Josephine! you know how I have loved you. It is to you alone that I owe
the only few moments of happiness I have known in the world. Josephine!
my destiny is stronger than my will. My dearest affections must yield to
the interests of France."
Josephine's brain reeled; her blood ceased to circulate; she fainted,
and fell lifeless upon the floor. Napoleon, alarmed, threw open the door
of the saloon, and called for help. Attendants from the ante-room
immediately entered. Napoleon took a taper from the mantel, and uttering
not a word, but pale and trembling, motioned to the Count de Beaumont to
take the empress in his arms. She was still unconscious of every thing,
but began to murmur, in tones of anguish, "Oh, no! you can not surely do
it. You would not kill me." The emperor led the way, through a dark
passage, to the private staircase which conducted to the apartment of
the empress. The agitation of Napoleon seemed now to increase. He
uttered some incoherent sentences about a violent nervous attack; and,
finding the stairs too steep and narrow for the Count de Beaumont to
bear the body of the helpless Josephine unassisted, he gave the light to
an attendant, and, supporting her limbs himself, they reached the door
of her bed-room. Napoleon then, dismissing his male attendants, and
laying Josephine upon her bed, rang for her waiting-women. He hung over
her with an expression of the most intense affection and anxiety until
she began to revive. But the moment consciousness seemed returning, he
left the room. Napoleon did not even throw himself upon his bed that
night. He paced the floor until the dawn of the morning. The royal
surgeon, Corvisart, passed the night at the bed-side of the empress.
Every hour the restless yet unrelenting emperor called at her door to
inquire concerning her situation. "On recovering from my swoon," says
Josephine, "I perceived that Corvisart was in attendance, and my poor
daughter, Hortense, weeping over me. No! no! I can not describe the
horror of my situation during that night! Even the interest he affected
to take in my sufferings seemed to me additional cruelty. Oh! how much
reason had I to dread becoming an empress!"
A fortnight now passed away, during which Napoleon and Josephine saw
but little of each other. During this time there occurred the
anniversary of the coronation, and of the victory of Austerlitz. Paris
was filled with rejoicing. The bells rang their merriest peals. The
metropolis was refulgent with illuminations. In these festivities
Josephine was compelled to appear. She knew that the sovereigns and
princes then assembled in Paris were informed of her approaching
disgrace. In all these sounds of triumph she heard but the knell of her
own doom. And though a careful observer would have detected indications,
in her moistened eye and her pallid cheek, of the secret woe which was
consuming her heart, her habitual affability and grace never, in public,
for one moment forsook her. Hortense, languid and sorrow-stricken, was
with her mother.
Eugene was summoned from Italy. He hastened to Paris, and his first
interview was with his mother. From her saloon he went directly to the
cabinet of Napoleon, and inquired of the emperor if he had decided to
obtain a divorce from the empress. Napoleon, who was very strongly
attached to Eugene, made no reply, but pressed his hand as an expression
that it was so. Eugene immediately dropped the hand of the emperor, and
said,
"Sire, in that case, permit me to withdraw from your service."
"How!" exclaimed Napoleon, looking upon him sadly; "will you, Eugene, my
adopted son, leave me?"
"Yes, sire," Eugene replied, firmly; "the son of her who is no longer
empress can not remain viceroy. I will follow my mother into her
retreat. She must now find her consolation in her children."
Napoleon was not without feelings. Tears filled his eyes. In a mournful
voice, tremulous with emotion, he replied, "Eugene, you know the stern
necessity which compels this measure, and will you forsake me? Who,
then, should I have a son, the object of my desires and preserver of my
interests, who would watch over the child when I am absent? If I die,
who will prove to him a father? Who will bring him up? Who is to make a
man of him?"
Eugene was deeply affected, and, taking Napoleon's arm, they retired and
conversed a long time together. The noble Josephine, ever sacrificing
her own feelings to promote the happiness of others, urged her son to
remain the friend of Napoleon. "The emperor," she said, "is your
benefactor--your more than father, to whom you are indebted for every
thing, and to whom, therefore, you owe a boundless obedience."
The fatal day for the consummation of the divorce at length arrived. It
was the 15th of December, 1809. Napoleon had assembled all the kings,
princes, and princesses who were members of the imperial family, and
also the most illustrious officers of the empire, in the grand saloon
of the Tuilleries. Every individual present was oppressed with the
melancholy grandeur of the occasion. Napoleon thus addressed them:
"The political interests of my monarchy, the wishes of my people, which
have constantly guided my actions, require that I should transmit to an
heir, inheriting my love for the people, the throne on which Providence
has placed me. For many years I have lost all hopes of having children
by my beloved spouse, the Empress Josephine. It is this consideration
which induces me to sacrifice the sweetest affections of my heart, to
consult only the good of my subjects, and to desire the dissolution
of our marriage. Arrived at the age of forty years, I may indulge a
reasonable hope of living long enough to rear, in the spirit of my
own thoughts and disposition, the children with which it may please
Providence to bless me. God knows what such a determination has cost my
heart; but there is no sacrifice which is above my courage, when it is
proved to be for the interests of France. Far from having any cause of
complaint, I have nothing to say but in praise of the attachment and
tenderness of my beloved wife. She has embellished fifteen years of my
life, and the remembrance of them will be forever engraven on my heart.
She was crowned by my hand; she shall retain always the rank and title
of empress. Above all, let her never doubt my feelings, or regard me but
as her best and dearest friend."
Josephine, her eyes filled with tears, with a faltering voice, replied,
"I respond to all the sentiments of the emperor in consenting to the
dissolution of a marriage which henceforth is an obstacle to the
happiness of France, by depriving it of the blessing of being one day
governed by the descendants of that great man who was evidently raised
up by Providence to efface the evils of a terrible revolution, and to
restore the altar, and the throne, and social order. But his marriage
will in no respect change the sentiments of my heart. The emperor will
ever find in me his best friend. I know what this act, commanded by
policy and exalted interests, has cost his heart, but we both glory in
the sacrifices we make for the good of the country. I feel elevated in
giving the greatest proof of attachment and devotion that was ever given
upon earth."
Such were the sentiments which were expressed in public; but in private
Josephine surrendered herself to the unrestrained dominion of her
anguish. No language can depict the intensity of her woe. For six months
she wept so incessantly that her eyes were nearly blinded with grief.
Upon the ensuing day the council were again assembled in the grand
saloon, to witness the legal consummation of the divorce. The emperor
entered the room dressed in the imposing robes of state, but pallid,
careworn, and wretched. Low tones of voice, harmonizing with the
mournful scene, filled the room. Napoleon, apart by himself, leaned
against a pillar, folded his arms upon his breast, and, in perfect
silence, apparently lost in gloomy thought, remained motionless as a
statue. A circular table was placed in the center of the apartment, and
upon this there was a writing apparatus of gold. A vacant arm-chair
stood before the table. Never did a multitude gaze upon the scaffold,
the block, or the guillotine with more awe than the assembled lords and
ladies in this gorgeous saloon contemplated these instruments of a more
dreadful execution.
At length the mournful silence was interrupted by the opening of a
side door and the entrance of Josephine. The pallor of death was upon
her brow, and the submission of despair nerved her into a temporary
calmness. She was leaning upon the arm of Hortense, who, not possessing
the fortitude of her mother, was entirely unable to control her
feelings. The sympathetic daughter, immediately upon entering into the
room, burst into tears, and continued sobbing most convulsively during
the whole remaining scene. The assembly respectfully arose upon the
entrance of Josephine, and all were moved to tears. With that grace
which ever distinguished her movements, she advanced silently to the
seat provided for her. Sitting down, and leaning her forehead upon her
hand, she listened to the reading of the act of separation. Nothing
disturbed the sepulchral silence of the scene but the convulsive
sobbings of Hortense, blending with the mournful tones of the reader's
voice. Eugene, in the mean time, pale and trembling as an aspen leaf,
had taken a position by the side of his mother. Silent tears were
trickling down the cheeks of the empress.
As soon as the reading of the act of separation was finished, Josephine
for a moment pressed her handkerchief to her weeping eyes, and then,
rising, in clear and musical, but tremulous tones, pronounced the oath
of acceptance. She then sat down, took the pen, and affixed her
signature to the deed which sundered the dearest hopes and the fondest
ties which human hearts can feel. Poor Eugene could endure this anguish
no longer. His brain reeled, his heart ceased to beat, and he fell
lifeless upon the floor. Josephine and Hortense retired with the
attendants who bore out the insensible form of the affectionate son and
brother. It was a fitting termination of this mournful but sublime
tragedy.
But the anguish of the day was not yet closed. Josephine, half delirious
with grief, had another scene still more painful to pass through in
taking a final adieu of him who had been her husband. She remained in
her chamber, in heart-rending, speechless grief, until the hour arrived
in which Napoleon usually retired for the night. The emperor, restless
and wretched, had just placed himself in the bed from which he had
ejected his most faithful and devoted wife, and the attendant was on the
point of leaving the room, when the private door of his chamber was
slowly opened, and Josephine tremblingly entered. Her eyes were swollen
with grief, her hair disheveled, and she appeared in all the dishabille
of unutterable anguish. She tottered into the middle of the room, and
approached the bed; then, irresolutely stopping, she buried her face in
her hands, and burst into a flood of tears. A feeling of delicacy seemed
for a moment to have arrested her steps--a consciousness that she had
_now_ no right to enter the chamber of Napoleon; but in another moment
all the pent-up love of her heart burst forth, and, forgetting every
thing in the fullness of her anguish, she threw herself upon the bed,
clasped Napoleon's neck in her arms, and exclaiming, "My husband! my
husband!" sobbed as though her heart were breaking. The imperial spirit
of Napoleon was for the moment entirely vanquished, and he also wept
almost convulsively. He assured Josephine of his love--of his ardent and
undying love. In every way he tried to soothe and comfort her, and for
some time they remained locked in each other's embrace. The attendant
was dismissed, and for an hour they continued together in this last
private interview. Josephine then, in the experience of an intensity of
anguish which few hearts have ever known, parted forever from the
husband whom she had so long, so fondly, and so faithfully loved.
After the empress had retired, with a desolated heart, to her chamber
of unnatural widowhood, the attendant entered the apartment of Napoleon
to remove the lights. He found the emperor so buried beneath the
bed-clothes as to be invisible. Not a word was uttered. The lights were
removed, and the unhappy monarch was left in darkness and silence to
the dreadful companionship of his own thoughts. The next morning the
death-like pallor of his cheek, his sunken eye, and the haggard
expression of his countenance, attested that the emperor had passed
the night in sleeplessness and suffering.
Great as was the wrong which Napoleon thus inflicted upon the noble
Josephine, every one must be sensible of a certain kind of grandeur
which pervades the tragedy. When we contemplate the brutal butcheries of
Henry VIII., as wife after wife was compelled to place her head upon the
block, merely to afford room for the indulgence of his vagrant passions;
when we contemplate George IV., by neglect and inhumanity driving
Caroline to desperation and to crime, and polluting the ear of the world
with the revolting story of sin and shame; when we contemplate the
Bourbons, generation after generation, rioting in voluptuousness, in
utter disregard of all the laws of God and man, while we can not abate
one iota of our condemnation of the great wrong which Napoleon
perpetrated, we feel that it becomes the monarchies of Europe to be
sparing in their condemnation.
The beautiful palace of Malmaison, which Napoleon had embellished with
every possible attraction, and where the emperor and empress had passed
many of their happiest hours, was assigned to Josephine for her future
residence. Napoleon settled upon her a jointure of about six hundred
thousand dollars a year. She was still to retain the title and the rank
of Empress-Queen.
The ensuing day, at eleven o'clock, all the household of the Tuilleries
were assembled upon the grand staircase and in the vestibule, to witness
the departure of their beloved mistress from scenes where she had so
long been the brightest ornament. Josephine descended, veiled from head
to foot. Her emotions were too deep for utterance, and she waved an
adieu to the affectionate and weeping friends who surrounded her. A
close carriage, with six horses, was before the door. She entered it,
sank back upon the cushions, buried her face in her handkerchief, and,
sobbing bitterly, left the Tuilleries forever.
Josephine was still surrounded with all the external splendors of
royalty. She was beloved throughout France, and admired throughout
Europe. Napoleon frequently called upon her, though, from motives of
delicacy, he never saw her alone. He consulted her respecting all his
plans, and most assiduously cherished her friendship. It was soon
manifest that the surest way of securing the favor of Napoleon was
to pay marked attention to Josephine. The palace of Malmaison,
consequently, became the favorite resort of all the members of the court
of Napoleon. Soon after the divorce, Madame de Rochefoucault, formerly
mistress of the robes to Josephine, deserting the forsaken empress,
applied for the same post of honor in the household of Maria Louisa.
Napoleon, when he heard of the application, promptly and indignantly
replied, "She shall neither retain her old situation nor have the new
one. I am accused of ungrateful conduct toward Josephine, but I do not
choose to have any imitators, more especially among those whom she has
honored with her confidence, and overwhelmed with benefits."
Josephine remained for some time at Malmaison. In deeds of kindness to
the poor who surrounded her, in reading, and in receiving, with the
utmost elegance of hospitality, the members of the court of Napoleon,
who were ever crowding her saloons, she gradually regained her
equanimity of spirit, and surrendered herself entirely to a quiet and
pensive submission. Napoleon frequently called to see her, and, taking
her arm, he would walk for hours, most confidentially unfolding to her
all his plans. He seemed to desire to do every thing in his power to
alleviate the intensity of anguish with which he had wrung her heart.
His own affections clung still to Josephine, and her lovely and noble
character commanded, increasingly, his homage. The empress was very
methodical in all her arrangements, allotting to each hour its appointed
duty. The description of the routine of any one day would answer about
equally well for all.
Ten o'clock in the morning was the reception hour. These morning
parties, attended by the most distinguished members of Parisian society,
none appearing except in uniform or in court costume, were always very
brilliant. Some ten or twelve of the visitors were always previously
invited to remain to breakfast. At eleven o'clock they passed from the
saloon to the breakfast-room, the empress leading, followed by her court
according to their rank, she naming those who were to sit on her right
and left. The repast, both at breakfast and dinner, ordinarily consisted
of one course only, every thing excepting the dessert being placed upon
the table at once. The empress had five attendants, who stood behind
her chair; all the guests who sat down with her had one each. Seven
officials of different ranks served at the table. The breakfast usually
occupied three quarters of an hour, when the empress, with her ladies
and guests, adjourned to the gallery, which contained the choicest
specimens of painting and sculpture which the genius of Napoleon could
select. The prospect from the gallery was very commanding, and, in
entire freedom from constraint, all could find pleasant employment. Some
examined with delight the varied works of art; some, in the embrasures
of the windows, looked out upon the lovely scenery, and in subdued tones
of voice engaged in conversation; while the chamberlain in attendance
read aloud from some useful and entertaining volume to Josephine, and
those who wished to listen with her. At two o'clock the arrival of the
carriages at the door was the signal for the visitors to depart. Three
open carriages, when the weather permitted, were always provided, each
drawn by four horses. Madame d'Arberg, the lady of honor, one of the
ladies in waiting, and some distinguished guest, accompanied the
empress. Two hours were spent in riding, visiting improvements, and
conversing freely with the various employees on the estate. The party
then returned to the palace, and all disposed of their time as they
pleased until six o'clock, the hour of dinner. From twelve to fifteen
strangers were always invited to dine. After dinner the evening was
devoted to relaxation, conversation, backgammon, and other games. The
young ladies, of whom there were always many whom Josephine retained
around her, usually, in the course of the evening, withdrew from
the drawing-room to a smaller saloon opening from it, where, with
unrestrained glee, they engaged in mirthful sports, or, animated by the
music of the piano, mingled in the dance. Sometimes, in the buoyancy
of youthful joy, they forgot the demands of etiquette, and somewhat
incommoded, by their merry laughter, the more grave company in the grand
apartment. The lady of honor would, on such occasions, hint at the
necessity of repressing the mirth. Josephine would invariably interpose
in their behalf. "My dear Madame d'Arberg," she would say, "suffer both
them and us to enjoy, while we may, all that innocent happiness which
comes from the heart, and which penetrates the heart." At eleven
o'clock, tea, ices, and sweetmeats were served, and then the visitors
took their leave. Josephine sat up an hour later conversing most freely
and confidentially with those friends who were especially dear to her,
and about midnight retired.
In the month of March, 1810, Maria Louisa arrived in Paris, and her
marriage with Napoleon was celebrated with the utmost splendor at St.
Cloud. All France resounded with rejoicing as Napoleon led his youthful
bride into the Tuilleries, from whence, but three months before,
Josephine had been so cruelly ejected. The booming of the cannon, the
merry pealing of the bells, the acclamations of the populace, fell
heavily upon the heart of Josephine. She tried to conceal her anguish,
but her pallid cheek and swimming eye revealed the severity of her
sufferings.
Napoleon continued, however, the frequency of his correspondence, and,
notwithstanding the jealousy of Maria Louisa, did not at all intermit
his visits. In a little more than a year after his marriage the King of
Rome was born. The evening in which Josephine received the tidings of
his birth, she wrote an affectionate and touching letter to Napoleon,
congratulating him upon the event. This letter reveals so conspicuously
the magnanimity of her principles, and yet the feminine tenderness of
her bleeding heart, that we can not refrain from inserting it. It was
dated at Navarre, at midnight, the 20th of March, 1811.
"SIRE,--Amid the numerous felicitations which you receive
from every corner of Europe, from all the cities of France,
and from each regiment of your army, can the feeble voice of
a woman reach your ear, and will you deign to listen to her
who so often consoled your sorrows, and sweetened your
pains, now that she speaks to you only of that happiness in
which all your wishes are fulfilled? Having ceased to be
your wife, dare I felicitate you on becoming a father? Yes,
sire, without hesitation, for my soul renders justice to
yours, in like manner as you know mine. I can conceive every
emotion you must experience, as you divine all that I feel
at this moment, and, though separated, we are united by that
sympathy which survives all events.
"I should have desired to have learned the birth of the King
of Rome from yourself, and not from the sound of the cannon
of Evreux, or from the courier of the prefect. I know,
however, that, in preference to all, your first attentions
are due to the public authorities of the state, to the
foreign ministers, to your family, and especially to the
fortunate princess who has realized your dearest hopes. She
can not be more tenderly devoted to you than I am. But she
has been enabled to contribute more toward your happiness
by securing that of France. She has, then, a right to your
first feelings, to all your cares, and I who was but your
companion in times of difficulty--I can not ask more than
for a place in your affections far removed from that
occupied by the empress, Maria Louisa. Not till you have
ceased to watch by her bed--not till you are weary of
embracing your son, will you take the pen to converse with
your best friend. I will wait.
"Meanwhile, it is not possible for me to delay telling you
that, more than any one in the world, do I rejoice in your
joy. And you will not doubt my sincerity when I here say
that, far from feeling an affliction at a sacrifice
necessary for the repose of all, I congratulate myself on
having made it, since I now suffer alone. But I am wrong; I
do not suffer while you are happy, and I have but one
regret, in not having yet done enough to prove how dear you
were to me. I have no account of the health of the empress.
I dare to depend upon you, sire, so far as to hope that I
shall have circumstantial details of the great event which
secures the perpetuity of the name you have so nobly
illustrated. Eugene and Hortense will write me, imparting
their own satisfaction; but it is _from you_ that I desire
to know if your child be well, if he resembles you, if I
shall one day be permitted to see him. In short, I expect
from you unlimited confidence, and upon such I have some
claims, in consideration, sire, of the boundless attachment
I shall cherish for you while life remains."
She had but just dispatched this letter to Napoleon, when the
folding-doors were thrown open with much state, and the announcement,
"From the emperor," ushered in a page, the bearer of a letter. The
fragile and beautiful youth, whom Josephine immediately recognized, had
so carefully secured the emperor's billet, from fear of losing it, that
it took some time for him, in his slight embarrassment, to extricate it.
Josephine was almost nervously excited till she received the note, and
immediately retired with it to her own private apartment. Half an hour
elapsed before she again made her appearance. Her whole countenance
attested the intensity of the conflicting emotions with which her soul
had been agitated. Her eyes were swollen with weeping, and the billet,
which she still held in her hand, was blurred with her tears. She gave
the page a letter to the emperor in reply, and then presented him, as an
acknowledgment of her appreciation of the tidings he had brought, with a
small morocco case, containing a diamond breastpin, and a thousand
dollars in gold.
She then, with a tremulous voice, and smiling through her tears, read
the emperor's note to her friends. The concluding words of the note
were, "This infant, in concert with _our Eugene_, will constitute my
happiness and that of France." As Josephine read these words with
emphasis, she exclaimed, "Is it possible to be more amiable! Could any
thing be better calculated to soothe whatever might be painful in my
thoughts at this moment, did I not so sincerely love the emperor? This
uniting of my son with his own is indeed worthy of him who, when he
wills, is the most delightful of men. This is it which has so much moved
me."
The emperor often afterward called upon her. He soon, notwithstanding
the jealousy of Maria Louisa, arranged a plan by which he presented to
Josephine, in his own arms, the idolized child. These interviews, so
gratifying to Josephine, took place at the Royal Pavilion, near Paris,
Napoleon and Madame Montesquieu, governess to the young prince, being
the only confidants. In one of Josephine's letters to Napoleon, she
says, "The moment I saw you enter, leading the young Napoleon in your
hand, was unquestionably one of the happiest of my life. It effaced, for
a time, the recollection of all that had preceded it, for never have I
received from you a more touching mark of affection."
The apartment at Malmaison which Napoleon had formerly occupied remained
exactly as it was when he last left it. Josephine herself kept the key,
and dusted the room with her own hands. She would not permit a single
article of furniture to be moved. The book he was last reading lay open
upon the table, the map he was consulting, the pen with which he wrote,
the articles of clothing which he had left in his accustomed disorder,
all remained untouched. Josephine's bed-chamber was very simply
furnished with white muslin drapery, the only ornament being the golden
toilet service which she had received from the municipality of Paris,
and which, with characteristic generosity, she refused to consider as
her own private property until Napoleon sent it to her. The following
letter from Josephine, written at this time, pleasingly illustrates her
literary polish and the refinement of her taste. It was addressed to the
superintendent, ordering some alterations at Malmaison.
"Profit by my absence, dear F., and make haste to dismantel
the pavilion of the acacias, and to transfer my boudoir into
that of the orangery. I should wish the first apartment of
the suite, and which serves for an ante-room, to be painted
with light green, with a border of lilachs. In the center of
the panels you will place my fine engravings from Esther,
and under each of these a portrait of the distinguished
generals of the Revolution. In the center of the apartment
there must be a large flower-stand, constantly filled with
fresh flowers in their season, and in each angle a bust of a
French philosopher. I particularly mention that of Rousseau,
which place between the two windows, so that the vines and
foliage may play around his head. This will be a natural
crown worthy of the author of Emile. As to my private
cabinet, let it be colored light blue, with a border of
ranunculus and polyanthus. Ten large engravings from the
Gallery of the Musee, and twenty medallions, will fill up
the panels. Let the casements be painted white and green,
with double fillets, gilded. My piano, a green sofa, and two
couches with corresponding covers, a secretaire, a small
bureau, and a large toilet-glass, are articles you will not
forget. In the center, place a large table, always covered
with freshly-gathered flowers, and upon the mantel-shelf a
simple pendule, two alabaster vases, and double-branched
girandoles. Unite elegance to variety, but no profusion.
Nothing is more opposed to good taste. In short, I confide
to you the care of rendering this cherished spot an
agreeable retreat, where I may meditate, sleep it may be,
but oftenest read, which last is sufficient to remind you of
three hundred volumes of my small edition."
When Josephine first retired to Malmaison, where every thing reminded
her of the emperor, her grief for many months continued unabated.
To divert her attention, Napoleon conferred upon her the palace of
Navarre. This was formerly a royal residence, and was renowned for its
magnificent park. During the Revolution it had become much dilapidated.
The elegant chateau was situated in the midst of the romantic forest of
Evreux. The spacious grounds were embellished by parks, whose venerable
trees had withstood the storms of centuries, and by beautiful streams
and crystal lakes. The emperor gave Josephine nearly three hundred
thousand dollars to repair the buildings and the grounds. The taste of
Josephine soon converted the scene into almost a terrestrial Eden, and
Navarre, being far more retired than Malmaison, became her favorite
residence.
Soon after Josephine had taken up her residence at Navarre, she wrote
the following letter to Napoleon, which pleasingly illustrates the
cordiality of friendship which still existed between them.
"SIRE,--I received this morning the welcome note which was
written on the eve of your departure for St. Cloud, and
hasten to reply to its tender and affectionate contents.
These, indeed, do not in themselves surprise me, but only
as being received so early as fifteen days after my
establishment here, so perfectly assured was I that your
attachment would search out the means of consoling me under
a separation necessary to the tranquillity of both. The
thought that your care follows me into my retreat renders it
almost agreeable.
"After having known all the rapture of a love that is
shared, and all the suffering of a love that is shared no
longer--after having exhausted all the pleasures that
supreme power can confer, and all the happiness of beholding
the man whom I loved enthusiastically admired, is there
aught else, save repose, to be desired? What illusions can
now remain for me? All such vanished when it became
necessary to renounce you. Thus the only ties which yet bind
me to life are my sentiments for you, attachment for my
children, the possibility of still being able to do some
good, and, above all, the assurance that you are happy. Do
not, then, condole with me on my being here, distant from a
court, which you appear to think I regret. Surrounded by
those who are attached to me, free to follow my taste for
the arts, I find myself better at Navarre than any where
else, for I enjoy more completely the society of the former,
and form a thousand projects which may prove useful to the
latter, and which will embellish the scenes I owe to your
bounty. There is much to be done here, for all around are
discovered the traces of destruction. These I would efface,
that there may exist no memorial of those horrible
inflictions which your genius has taught the nation almost
to forget. In repairing whatever these ruffians of
revolution labored to annihilate, I shall diffuse comfort
around me, and the benedictions of the poor will afford me
infinitely more pleasure than the feigned adulation of
courtiers.
"I have already told you what I think of the functionaries
in this department, but have not spoken sufficiently of the
respectable bishop, M. Bourlier. Every day I learn some new
trait which causes me still more highly to esteem the man
who unites the most enlightened benevolence with the most
amiable disposition. He shall be intrusted with distributing
my alms-deeds in Evreux, and, as he visits the indigent
himself, I shall be assured that my charities are properly
bestowed.
"I can not sufficiently thank you, sire, for the liberty you
have permitted me of choosing the members of my household,
all of whom contribute to the pleasure of a delightful
society. One circumstance alone gives me pain, namely, the
etiquette of costume, which becomes a little tiresome in the
country. You fear that there may be something wanting to the
rank I have preserved should a slight infraction be allowed
to the toilet of these gentlemen; but I believe that you are
wrong in thinking they would for one moment forget the
respect due to the woman who was once your companion. Their
respect for yourself, joined to the sincere attachment they
bear to me, which I can not doubt, secures me from the
danger of ever being obliged to recall what it is your wish
that they should remember. My most honorable title is
derived, not from having been crowned, but assuredly from
having been chosen by you. None other is of value. That
alone suffices for my immortality.
"My circle is at this time somewhat more numerous than
usual, there being several visitors, besides many of the
inhabitants of Evreux and the environs, whom I see of
course. I am pleased with their manners, with their
admiration of you, a particular in which you know that I am
not easily satisfied. In short, I find myself perfectly at
home in the midst of my forest, and entreat you, sire, no
longer to fancy to yourself that there is no living at a
distance from court. Besides you, there is nothing there
which I regret, since I shall have my children with me soon,
and already enjoy the society of the small number of friends
who remained faithful to me. Do not forget _your friend_.
Tell her sometimes that you preserve for her an attachment
which constitutes the felicity of her life. Often repeat to
her that you are happy, and be assured that for her the
future will thus be peaceful, as the past has been stormy,
and often sad."
Just before Napoleon set out on his fatal campaign to Russia, he called
to see Josephine. Seated upon a circular bench in the garden, before the
windows of the saloon, where they could both be seen but not overheard,
they continued for two hours engaged most earnestly in conversation.
Josephine was apparently endeavoring to dissuade him from the perilous
enterprise. His perfect confidence, however seemed to assure her that
her apprehensions were groundless. At last he arose and kissed her hand.
She accompanied him to his carriage, and bade him adieu. This was their
last interview but one. Soon Napoleon returned, a fugitive from Moscow.
Days of disaster were darkening around his path. All Europe had risen in
arms against him, and were on the march toward his capital. In the midst
of the terror of those dreadful days, he sought a hurried interview with
his most faithful friend. It was their last meeting. As he was taking
his leave of Josephine, at the close of this short and melancholy visit,
he gazed upon her a moment in silence, tenderly and sadly, and then
said, "Josephine! I have been as fortunate as was ever man on the face
of this earth. But, in this hour, when a storm is gathering over my
head, I have not, in this wide world, any one but you upon whom I can
repose."
In the fearful conflict which ensued--the most terrible which history
has recorded--Napoleon's thoughts ever reverted to the wife of his
youth. He kept up an almost daily correspondence with her, informing her
of the passing of events. His letters, written in the midst of all the
confusion of the camp, were more affectionate and confiding than ever.
Adversity had softened his heart. In these dark days, when, with most
Herculean power, he was struggling against fearful odds, and his throne
was crumbling beneath his feet, it was observed that a letter from
Josephine was rather torn than broken open, so great was the eagerness
of Napoleon to receive a line from her. Wherever he was, however great
the emergency in which he was placed, the moment a courier brought to
him a letter from Josephine, all other business was laid aside until it
had been read.
The allied armies were every day approaching nearer and nearer to Paris,
and Josephine was overwhelmed with grief in contemplating the disasters
which were falling upon Napoleon. At Malmaison, Josephine and the ladies
of her court were employed in forming bandages and scraping lint for the
innumerable wounded who filled the hospitals. The conflicting armies
approached so near to Malmaison that it became dangerous for Josephine
to remain there, and, in great apprehension, she one morning, at eight
o'clock, took her carriage for Navarre. Two or three times on the road
she was alarmed by the cry, "Cossacks! Cossacks!" When she had proceeded
about thirty miles, the pole of her carriage broke, and at the same time
a troop of horsemen appeared in the distance, riding down upon her.
They were French hussars; but Josephine thought that they were either
Cossacks or Prussians, and, though the rain was falling in torrents, in
her terror she leaped from the carriage, and began to fly across the
fields. She had proceeded some distance before her attendants discovered
the mistake. The carriage being repaired, she proceeded the rest of her
way unmolested. The empress hardly uttered a word during this melancholy
journey, but upon entering the palace she threw herself upon a couch,
exclaiming, "Surely, surely Bonaparte is ignorant of what is passing
within sight of the gates of Paris, or, if he knows, how cruel the
thoughts which must now agitate his breast! Oh! if he had listened to
me."
Josephine remained for some days at Navarre, in a state of most painful
anguish respecting the fate of the emperor. She allowed herself no
relaxation, excepting a solitary ride each morning in the park, and
another short ride after dinner with one of her ladies. The Emperor
Alexander had immediately sent a guard of honor to protect Josephine
from all intrusion. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers were swarming
in all directions, and every dwelling was filled with terror and
distraction. One melancholy incident we will record, illustrative of
hundreds which might be narrated. Lord Londonderry, in the midst of a
bloody skirmish, saw a young and beautiful French lady, the wife of a
colonel, in a caleche, seized by three brutal Russian soldiers, who were
carrying off, into the fields, their frantic and shrieking victim. The
gallant Englishman, sword in hand, rushed forward for her deliverance
from his barbarian allies. He succeeded in rescuing her, and, in the
confusion of the battle still raging, ordered a dragoon to take her to
his own quarters till she could be provided with suitable protection.
The dragoon took the lady, half dead with terror, upon his horse behind
him, and was galloping with her to a place of safety, when another
ruffian band of Cossacks surrounded him, pierced his body with their
sabers, and seized again the unhappy victim. She was never heard of
more. The Emperor Alexander was greatly distressed at her fate, and made
the utmost, though unavailing efforts to discover what had become of
her. The revelations of the last day alone can divulge the horrors of
this awful tragedy.
The grief of Josephine in these days of anxiety was intense in the
extreme. She passed her whole time in talking about Napoleon, or
in reading the letters she had lately received from him. He wrote
frequently, as he escaped from place to place, but many of his letters
were intercepted by the bands of soldiers traversing every road. The
last she had received from him was dated at Brienne. It gave an account
of a desperate engagement, in which the little band of Napoleon had been
overwhelmed by numbers, and was concluded with the following affecting
words: "On beholding those scenes where I had passed my boyhood, and
comparing my peaceful condition then with the agitation and terrors
which I now experience, I several times said, in my own mind, I have
sought to meet death in many conflicts; I can no longer fear it. To me
death would now be a blessing. But I would once more see Josephine."
Notwithstanding the desperate state of affairs, Josephine still
cherished the hope that his commanding genius would yet enable him to
retrieve his fortunes. All these hopes were, how ever, dispelled on the
receipt of the following letter:
"Fontainebleau, April 16, 1814.
"DEAR JOSEPHINE,--I wrote to you on the eighth of this
month, but perhaps you have not received my letter.
Hostilities still continued, and possibly it may have
been intercepted. At present the communications must be
re-established. I have formed my resolution. I have no
doubt that this billet will reach you. I will not repeat
what I said to you. Then I lamented my situation, now I
congratulate myself upon it. My head and spirit are freed
from an enormous weight. My fall is great, but it may, as
men say, prove useful. In my retreat I shall substitute the
pen for the sword. The history of my reign will be curious.
The world has yet seen me only in profile. I shall show
myself in full. How many things have I to disclose! how many
are the men of whom a false estimate is entertained! I have
heaped benefits upon millions of wretches! What have they
done in the end for me? They have all betrayed me--yes, all.
I except from this number the good Eugene, so worthy of you
and of me. Adieu! my dear Josephine. Be resigned as I am,
and never forget him who never forgot, and never will forget
you. Farewell, Josephine.
"NAPOLEON.
"P.S.--I expect to hear from you at Elba. I am not very well."
Upon reading these tidings of so terrible an overthrow, Josephine was
overwhelmed with grief, and for a time wept bitterly. Soon, however,
recovering her self-possession, she exclaimed, "I must not remain here.
My presence is necessary to the emperor. That duty is, indeed, more
Maria Louisa's than mine, but the emperor is alone--forsaken. Well, I at
least will not abandon him. I might be dispensed with while he was
happy; now, I am sure that he expects me." After a pause of a few
moments, in which she seemed absorbed in her own thoughts, she addressed
her chamberlain, saying, "I may, however, interfere with his
arrangements. You will remain here with me till intelligence be received
from the allied sovereigns; they will respect her who was the wife of
Napoleon."
She was, indeed, remembered by them. The magnanimity of her conduct
under the deep wrongs of the divorce had filled Europe with admiration.
The allied sovereigns sent her assurances of their most friendly
regards. They entreated her to return to Malmaison, and provided her
with an ample guard for her protection. Her court was ever crowded with
the most illustrious monarchs and nobles, who sought a presentation to
do homage to her virtues. The Emperor Alexander was one of the first to
visit her. He said to her on that occasion, "Madam, I burned with the
desire of beholding you. Since I entered France, I have never heard your
name pronounced but with benedictions. In the cottage and in the palace
I have collected accounts of your angelic goodness, and I do myself a
pleasure in thus presenting to your majesty the universal homage of
which I am the bearer."
Maria Louisa, thinking only of self, declined accompanying Napoleon to
his humble retreat. Josephine, not knowing her decision, wrote to the
emperor:
"Now only can I calculate the whole extent of the misfortune
of having beheld my union with you dissolved by law. Now do
I indeed lament being no more than your _friend_, who can
but mourn over a misfortune great as it is unexpected. Ah!
sire, why can I not fly to you? Why can I not give you the
assurance that exile has no terrors save for vulgar minds,
and that, far from diminishing a sincere attachment,
misfortune imparts to it a new force? I have been upon the
point of quitting France to follow your footsteps, and to
consecrate to you the remainder of an existence which you
so long embellished. A single motive restrained me, and that
you may divine. If I learn that I am _the only one_ who will
fulfill her duty, nothing shall detain me, and I will go to
the only place where, henceforth, there can be happiness for
me, since I shall be able to console you when you are there
isolated and unfortunate! Say but the word, and I depart.
Adieu, sire; whatever I would add would still be too little.
It is no longer by _words_ that my sentiments for you are to
be proved, and for _actions_ your consent is necessary."
A few days after this letter was written, the Emperor Alexander, with a
number of illustrious guests, dined with Josephine at Malmaison. In the
evening twilight, the party went out upon the beautiful lawn in front of
the house for recreation. Josephine, whose health had become exceedingly
precarious through care and sorrow, being regardless of herself in
devotion to her friends, took a violent cold. The next day she was
worse. Without any very definite form of disease, she day after day grew
more faint and feeble, until it was evident that her final change was
near at hand. Eugene and Hortense, her most affectionate children, were
with her by day and by night. They communicated to her the judgment of
her physician that death was near. She heard the tidings with perfect
composure, and called for a clergyman to administer to her the last
rites of religion.
Just after this solemnity the Emperor Alexander entered the room. Eugene
and Hortense, bathed in tears, were kneeling at their mother's side.
Josephine beckoned to the emperor to approach her, and said to him and
her children, "I have always desired the happiness of France. I did all
in my power to contribute to it; and I can say with truth, to all of you
now present, at my last moments, that the first wife of Napoleon never
caused a single tear to flow."
She called for the portrait of the emperor; she gazed upon it long and
tenderly; and then, fervently pressing it in her clasped hands to her
bosom, faintly articulated the following prayer:
"O God! watch over Napoleon while he remains in the desert of this
world. Alas! though he hath committed great faults, hath he not expiated
them by great sufferings? Just God, thou hast looked into his heart, and
hast seen by how ardent a desire for useful and durable improvements he
was animated. Deign to approve my last petition. And may this image of
my husband bear me witness that my latest wish and my latest prayer were
for him and my children."
It was the 29th of May, 1814. A tranquil summer's day was fading away
into a cloudless, serene, and beautiful evening. The rays of the setting
sun, struggling through the foliage of the open window, shone cheerfully
upon the bed where the empress was dying. The vesper songs of the birds
which filled the groves of Malmaison floated sweetly upon the ear, and
the gentle spirit of Josephine, lulled to repose by these sweet anthems,
sank into its last sleep. Gazing upon the portrait of the emperor, she
exclaimed, "L'isle d'Elbe--Napoleon!" and died.
Alexander, as he gazed upon her lifeless remains, burst into tears, and
uttered the following affecting yet just tribute of respect to her
memory: "She is no more; that woman whom France named the beneficent,
that angel of goodness, is no more. Those who have known Josephine can
never forget her. She dies regretted by her offspring, her friends, and
her cotemporaries."
For four days her body remained shrouded in state for its burial.
During this time more than twenty thousand of the people of France
visited her beloved remains. On the 2d of June, at mid-day, the funeral
procession moved from Malmaison to Ruel, where the body was deposited in
a tomb of the village church. The funeral services were conducted with
the greatest magnificence, as the sovereigns of the allied armies united
with the French in doing honor to her memory. When all had left the
church but Eugene and Hortense, they knelt beside their mother's grave,
and for a long time mingled their prayers and their tears. A beautiful
monument of white marble, representing the empress kneeling in her
coronation robes, is erected over her burial-place, with this simple but
affecting inscription:
EUGENE AND HORTENSE
TO
JOSEPHINE.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,
every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and
intent.