CHAPTER XXIII

THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON—REMOVAL OF NAPOLEON’S REMAINS FROM ST.

HELENA TO THE BANKS OF THE SEINE IN 1840

_It is my wish that my ashes may repose on the banks of the Seine, in

the midst of the French people, whom I have loved so well._—TESTAMENT OF

NAPOLEON, 2d Clause.

He wants not this; but France shall feel the want

Of this last consolation, thought so scant;

Her honor, fame, and faith demand his bones,

To rear above a pyramid of thrones;

Or carried onward, in the battle’s van,

To form, like Guesclin’s dust, her talisman.

But be it as it is, the time may come,

His name shall beat the alarm like Ziska’s drum.

—BYRON, in _The Age of Bronze_.

On May 12, 1840, Louis Philippe being king of the French people, the

Chamber of Deputies was busy with a discussion on sugar tariffs. It had

been dragging somewhat, and the members were showing signs of

restlessness. Suddenly the Count de Rémusat, then Minister of the

Interior, appeared, and asked a hearing for a communication from the

government.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “the king has ordered his Royal Highness

Monseigneur the Prince de Joinville[2] to go with his frigate to the

island of St. Helena, there to collect the remains of the Emperor

Napoleon.”

A tremor ran over the House. The announcement was utterly unexpected.

Napoleon to come back! The body seemed electrified, and the voice of the

minister was drowned for a moment in applause. When he went on it was to

say:

[Illustration:

DEATH MASK OF NAPOLEON, MADE BY DR. ANTOMMARCHI AT ST. HELENA, 1821.

Calamatta, 1834. Calamatta produced the mask from the cast taken by

Dr. Antommarchi, the physician of Napoleon at St. Helena, in 1834,

grouping around it portraits (chiefly from Ingres’s drawings) of

Madame Dudevant and others.]

“We have come to ask for an appropriation which shall enable us to

receive the remains in a fitting manner, and to raise an enduring tomb

to Napoleon.”

“_Très bien! Très bien!_” cried the House.

“The government, anxious to discharge a great national duty, asked

England for the precious treasure which fortune had put into her hands.

“The thought of France was welcomed as soon as expressed. Listen to the

reply of our magnanimous ally:

“‘The government of her Majesty hopes that the promptness of her

response will be considered in France as a proof of her desire to

efface the last traces of those national animosities which armed

France and England against each other in the life of the emperor.

The government of her Majesty dares to hope that if such sentiments

still exist in certain quarters, they will be buried in the tomb

where the remains of Napoleon are to be deposited.’”

The reading of this generous and dignified communication caused a

profound sensation, and cries of “_Bravo! bravo!_” re-echoed through the

hall. The minister, so well received, grew eloquent.

“England is right, gentlemen; the noble way in which restitution has

been made will knit the bonds which unite us. It will wipe out all

traces of a sorrowful past. The time has come when the two nations

should remember only their glory. The frigate freighted with the mortal

remains of Napoleon will return to the mouth of the Seine. They will be

placed in the Invalides. A solemn celebration and grand religious and

military ceremonies will consecrate the tomb which must guard them

forever.

“It is important, gentlemen, that this august sepulchre should not

remain exposed in a public place, in the midst of a noisy and

inappreciative populace. It should be in a silent and sacred spot, where

all those who honor glory and genius, grandeur and misfortune, can visit

it and meditate.

“He was emperor and king. He was the legitimate sovereign of our

country. He is entitled to burial at Saint-Denis. But the ordinary royal

sepulchre is not enough for Napoleon. He should reign and command

forever in the spot where the country’s soldiers repose, and where those

who are called to defend it will seek their inspiration. His sword will

be placed on his tomb.

“Art will raise beneath the dome of the temple consecrated to the god of

battles a tomb worthy, if that be possible, of the name which shall be

engraved upon it. This monument must have a simple beauty, grand

outlines, and that appearance of eternal strength which defies the

action of time. Napoleon must have a monument lasting as his memory....

“Hereafter France and France alone, will possess all that remains of

Napoleon. His tomb, like his fame, will belong to no one but his

country. The monarchy of 1830 is the only and the legitimate heir of the

past of which France is so proud. It is the duty of this monarchy, which

was the first to rally all the forces and to conciliate all the

aspirations of the French Revolution, fearlessly to raise and honor the

statue and the tomb of the popular hero. There is one thing, one only,

which does not fear comparison with glory—that is liberty.”

Throughout this speech, every word of which was an astonishment to the

Chamber, sincere and deep emotion prevailed. At intervals enthusiastic

applause burst forth. For a moment all party distinctions were

forgotten. The whole House was under the sway of that strange and

powerful emotion which Napoleon, as no other leader who ever lived, was

able to inspire.

When the minister followed his speech by the draft of a law for a

special credit of one million francs, a member, beside himself with

excitement, moved that rules be laid aside and the law voted without the

legal preliminaries. The president refused to put so irregular a motion,

but the House would not be quiet. The deputies left their places, formed

in groups in the hemicycle, surrounded the minister, congratulating him

with fervor. They walked up and down, gesticulating and shouting. It was

fully half an hour before the president was able to bring them to order,

and then they were in anything but a working mood.

“The president must close this session,” cried an agitated member; “the

law which has just been proposed has caused too great emotion for us to

return now to discussing sugar.” But the president replied very

properly, and a little sententiously, that the Chamber owed its time to

the country’s business, and that it must give it. And, in spite of their

excitement, the members had to go back to their sugar.

But how had it come about that the French government had dared burst

upon the country with so astounding a communication. There were many

explanations offered. A curious story which went abroad took the credit

from the king and gave it to O’Connell, the Irish agitator. As the story

went, O’Connell had warned Lord Palmerston that he proposed to present a

bill in the Commons for returning Napoleon’s remains to France.

“Take care,” said Lord Palmerston. “Instead of pleasing the French

government, you may embarrass it seriously.”

“That is not the question,” answered O’Connell. “The question for me is

what I ought to do. Now, my duty is to propose to the Commons to return

the emperor’s bones. England’s duty is to welcome the motion. I shall

make my propositions, then, without disturbing myself about whom they

will flatter or wound.”

“So be it,” said Lord Palmerston. “Only give me fifteen days.”

“Very well,” answered O’Connell.

Immediately Lord Palmerston wrote to Monsieur Thiers, then at the head

of the French Ministry, that he was about to be forced to tell the

country that England had never refused to return the remains of Napoleon

to France, because France had never asked that they be returned. As the

story goes, Monsieur Thiers advised Louis Philippe to forestall

O’Connell, and thus it came about that Napoleon’s remains were returned

to France.

The _grande pensée_, as the idea was immediately called, seems, however,

to have originated with Monsieur Thiers, who saw in it a means of

reawakening interest in Louis Philippe. He believed that the very

audacity of the act would create admiration and applause. Then, too, it

was in harmony with the claim of the _régime_; that is, that the

government of 1830 united all that was best in all the past governments

of France, and so was stronger than any one of them. The mania of both

king and minister for collecting and restoring made them think favorably

of the idea. Already Louis Philippe had inaugurated galleries at

Versailles, and hung them with miles of canvas, celebrating the

victories of all his predecessors. In the gallery of portraits he had

placed Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI. beside Madame Roland, Charlotte

Corday, Robespierre, and Napoleon and his marshals.

He had already replaced the statue of Napoleon on the top of the Column

Vendôme. He had restored cathedrals, churches, and _châteaux_, put up

statues and monuments, and all this he had done with studied

indifference to the politics of the individuals honored.

Yet while so many little important personages were being exalted, the

remains of the greatest leader France had ever known, were lying in a

far away island. Louis Philippe felt that no monument he could build to

the heroes of the past would equal restoring Napoleon’s remains.

The matter was simpler, because it was almost certain that England would

not block the path. The _entente cordiale_, whose base had been laid by

Talleyrand nearly ten years earlier, had become a comparatively solid

peace, and either nation was willing to go out of the way, if necessary,

to do the other a neighborly kindness. France was so full of good will

that she was even willing to ask a favor. Her confidence was well

placed. Two days after Guizot, then the French minister to England, had

explained the project to Lord Palmerston, and made his request, he had

his reply.

The remains of the “emperor” were at the disposition of the French. Of

the “emperor,” notice! After twenty-five years England recalled the act

of her ministers in 1815, and recognized that France made Napoleon

emperor as well as general.

The announcement that Napoleon’s remains were to be brought back,

produced the same effect upon the country at large that it had upon the

Chamber—a moment of acute emotion, of all-forgetting enthusiasm. But in

the Chamber and the country the feeling was short-lived. The political

aspects of the bold movement were too conspicuous. A chorus of

criticisms and forebodings arose. It was more of Monsieur Thiers’

clap-trap, said those opposed to the English policy of the government.

What particularly angered this party, was the words “magnanimous ally”

in the minister’s address.

The Bonapartes feigned to despise the proposed ceremony. It was

insufficient for the greatness of their hero. One million francs could

not possibly produce the display the object demanded. Another point of

theirs was more serious. The emperor was the legitimate sovereign of the

country, they said, quoting from the minister’s speech to the Chamber,

and they added: “His title was founded on the _senatus consultum_ of the

year 12, which, by an equal number of suffrages, secured the succession

to his brother Joseph. It was then unquestionably Joseph Bonaparte who

was proclaimed emperor of the French by the Minister of the Interior,

and amid the applause of the deputies.”

Scoffers said that Louis Philippe must have discovered that his soft

mantle of popularity was about worn out, if he was going to make one of

the old gray redingote of a man whom he had called a monster. The

Legitimists denied that Napoleon was a legitimate sovereign with a right

to sleep at Saint-Denis like a Bourbon or a Valois. The Orleanists were

wounded by the hopes they saw inspired in the Bonapartists by this

declaration. The Republicans resented the honor done to the man whom

they held up as the greatest of all despots.

There was a conviction among many that the restoration was premature,

and probably would bring on the country an agitation which would

endanger the stability of the throne. It was tempting the Bonaparte

pretensions certainly, and perhaps arousing a tremendous popular

sentiment to support them.

While the press and government, the clubs and _cafés_, discussed the

political side of the question, the populace quietly revived the

Napoleon legend. Within two days after the government had announced its

intentions, commerce had begun to take advantage of the financial

possibilities in the approaching ceremony. New editions of the “Lives”

of Napoleon which Vernet and Raffet had illustrated, were advertised.

Dumas’ “Life” and Thiers’ “Consulate and Empire” were announced. Memoirs

of the period, like those of the Duchesse d’Abrantès and of Marmont,

were revived.

As on the announcement of Napoleon’s death in 1821, there was an

inundation of pamphlets in verse and prose; of portraits and war

compositions, lithographs, engravings, and wood-cuts; of thousands of

little objects such as the French know so well how to make. The shops

and street carts were heaped with every conceivable article _à la

Napoléon_. The legend grew as the people gazed.

On July 7th the “Belle Poule,” the vessel which was to conduct the

Prince de Joinville, the commander of the expedition, to St. Helena,

sailed from Toulon accompanied by the “Favorite.” In the suite of the

Prince were several old friends of Napoleon: the Baron las Cases,

General Gourgaud, Count Bertrand, and four of his former servants. All

these persons had been with him at St. Helena.

The Prince de Joinville had not received his orders to go on the

expedition with great pleasure. Two of his brothers had just been sent

to Africa to fight, and he envied them their opportunities for

adventures and glory; and, besides, he was sick of a most plebeian

complaint, the measles. “One day as I lay in high fever,” he says in his

“Memoirs,” “I saw my father appear, followed by Monsieur de Rémusat,

then Minister of the Interior. This unusual visit filled me with

astonishment, and my surprise increased when my father said, ‘Joinville,

you are to go out to St. Helena and bring back Napoleon’s coffin.’ If I

had not been in bed already I should have fallen down flat, and at first

blush I felt no wise flattered when I compared the warlike campaign my

brothers were on with the undertaker’s job I was being sent to perform

in the other hemisphere. But I served my country, and I had no right to

discuss my orders.”

If the young prince was privately a little ashamed of his task, publicly

he adapted himself admirably to the occasion.

[Illustration:

NAPOLEON’S TOMB AT ST. HELENA.

From a recent photograph.]

A voyage of sixty-six days brought the “Belle Poule,” on October 8th, to

St. Helena, where she was welcomed by the English with every honor.

Indeed, throughout the affair the attitude of the English was dignified

and generous. They showed plainly their desire to satisfy and flatter

the pride and sentiment of the French.

It had been decided that the exhumation of the body and its transfer to

the French should take place on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the

arrival of Napoleon at the island. The disinterment was begun at

midnight on October 15th, the English conducting the work, and a number

of the French, including those of the party who had been with Napoleon

at his death, being present. The work was one of extraordinary

difficulty, for the same remarkable precautions against escape were

taken in Napoleon’s death as had been in his life.

The grave in the Valley of Napoleon, as the place had come to be called,

was surrounded by an iron railing set in a heavy stone curb. Over the

grave was a covering of six-inch stone which admitted to a vault eleven

feet deep, eight feet long, and four feet eight inches broad. The vault

was apparently filled with earth, but digging down some seven feet a

layer of Roman cement was found; this broken, laid bare a layer of

rough-hewn stone ten inches thick, and fastened together by iron clamps.

It took four and one-half hours to remove this layer. The stone up, the

slab forming the lid of the interior sarcophagus was exposed, enclosed

in a border of Roman cement strongly attached to the walls of the vault.

So stoutly had all these various coverings been sealed with cement and

bound by iron bands, that it took the large party of laborers ten hours

to reach the coffin.

As soon as exposed the coffin was purified, sprinkled with holy water,

consecrated by a _De Profundis_, and then raised with the greatest care,

and carried into a tent which had been prepared for it. After the

religious ceremonies, the inner coffins were opened. “The outermost

coffin was slightly injured,” says an eye witness; “then came one of

lead, which was in good condition, and enclosed two others—one of tin

and one of wood. The last coffin was lined inside with white satin,

which, having become detached by the effect of time, had fallen upon the

body and enveloped it like a winding-sheet, and had become slightly

attached to it.

“It is difficult to describe with what anxiety and emotion those who

were present waited for the moment which was to expose to them all that

was left of the Emperor Napoleon. Notwithstanding the singular state of

preservation of the tomb and coffins, we could scarcely hope to find

anything but some misshapen remains of the least perishable part of the

costume to evidence the identity of the body. But when Dr. Guillard

raised the sheet of satin, an indescribable feeling of surprise and

affection was experienced by the spectators, many of whom burst into

tears. The emperor himself was before their eyes! The features of the

face, though changed, were perfectly recognizable; the hands extremely

beautiful; his well known costume had suffered but little, and the

colors were easily distinguished. The attitude itself was full of ease,

and but for the fragments of satin lining which covered, as with fine

gauze, several parts of the uniform, we might have believed we still saw

Napoleon lying on his bed of state.”

A solemn procession was now formed, and the coffin borne over the rugged

hills of St. Helena to the quay. “We were all deeply impressed,” says

the Prince de Joinville, “when the coffin was seen coming slowly down

the mountain side to the firing of cannon, escorted by British infantry

with arms reversed, the band playing, to the dull rolling accompaniment

of the drums, that splendid funeral march which English people call the

_Dead March in Saul_.”

At the head of the quay, the Prince de Joinville, attended by the

officers of the French vessels, was waiting to receive the remains of

the emperor. In the midst of the most solemn military funeral rites the

French embarked with their precious charge. “The scene at that moment

was very fine,” continues the prince. “A magnificent sunset had been

succeeded by a twilight of the deepest calm. The British authorities and

the troops stood motionless on the beach, while our ship’s guns fired a

royal salute. I stood in the stern of my long-boat, over which floated a

magnificent tricolor flag, worked by the ladies of St. Helena. Beside me

were the generals and superior officers. The pick of my topmen, all in

white, with crape on their arms, and bareheaded like ourselves, rowed

the boat in silence, and with the most admirable precision. We advanced

with majestic slowness, escorted by the boats bearing the staff. It was

very touching, and a deep national sentiment seemed to hover over the

whole scene.”

But no sooner did the coffin reach the French cutter than mourning was

changed to triumph. Flags were unfurled, masts squared, drums set

a-beating, and _salvos_ poured from ports and vessels. The emperor had

come back to his own!

Three days later the “Belle Poule” was _en route_ for France. One

incident alone marked her return. A passing vessel brought the news that

war had been declared between France and England. The Prince de

Joinville was only twenty-two, a hot-headed youth, and the news of war

immediately convinced him that England had her fleet out watching for

him, ready to carry off Napoleon again. He rose to the height of his

fears. The elegant furnishings of the saloons of his vessel were torn

out and thrown overboard to make room for the batteries; the men were

made ready for fighting, and everybody on board was compelled to take an

oath to sink the vessel before allowing the remains to be taken. This

done, the “Belle Poule” went her way peacefully to Cherbourg, where she

arrived on November 30th, forty-three days after leaving St. Helena.

The town of Cherbourg owes much to Napoleon—her splendid harbors, and

great tracts of land rescued from the sea—and she honored the return of

his remains with every pomp. Even the poor of the town were made to

rejoice by lavish gifts in the emperor’s honor; and one of the chief

squares—one he had redeemed from the sea—became the Place Napoleon.

The vessels lay eight days at Cherbourg, for the arrival had been a

fortnight earlier than was anticipated, and nothing was ready for the

celebration at Paris; but the time was none too long for the thousands

who flocked in interminable processions to the vessels. When the vessels

left for Havre, Cherbourg was so excited that she did what must have

seemed to the nervous inhabitants an extravagance, even in Napoleon’s

honor, she fired a _thousand_ guns!

The passage of the flotilla from Cherbourg to Paris took seven days. At

almost every town and hamlet elaborate demonstrations were made. At

Havre and Rouen they were especially magnificent.

A striking feature of the river _cortége_ was the ceremonies at the

various bridges under which the vessels passed. The most elaborate of

these was at Rouen, where the central arch of the suspension bridge had

been formed into an immense arch of triumph. The decorations were the

exclusive work of wounded legionary officers and soldiers of the Empire.

When the vessel bearing the coffin passed under, the veterans showered

down upon it wreaths of flowers and branches of laurel.

These elaborate and grandiose ceremonies were not, however, the really

touching feature of the passage. The hill-sides and river-banks were

crowded with people from all the surrounding country, who sometimes even

pressed into the river in order better to see the vessels. Those on the

flotilla saw aged peasants firing salutes with ancient muskets, old men

kneeling with uncovered heads on the sod, and others, their heads in

their hands weeping—these men were veterans of the Empire paying homage

to the passage of their hero.

It was on the afternoon of December 14th, just as the sun was setting

radiantly behind Mt. Valerian, that the flotilla reached Courbevoie, a

few miles from Paris, where Napoleon’s body was first to touch French

soil. The bridge at Courbevoie, the islands of Neuilly, the hills which

rise from the Seine, were crowded, far as the eye could reach, with a

throng drawn from the entire country around.

The flotilla as it approached was a brilliant sight. At the head was the

“Dorade,” a cross at her prow, and, behind, the coffin. It was draped in

purple velvet, surrounded by flags and garlands of oak and cypress, and

surmounted by a canopy of black velvet ornamented with silver and masses

of floating black plumes. Between cross and coffin stood the Prince de

Joinville in full uniform, and behind him Generals Bertrand and Gourgaud

and the Abbé Coquereau, almoner of the expedition. The vessels following

the “Dorade” bore the crews of the “Belle Poule” and the “Favorite” and

the military bands. A magnificent funeral boat, on whose deck there was

a temple of bronzed wood, hung with splendid draperies of purple and

gold, brought up the official procession. Behind followed numberless

craft of all descriptions. Majestic funeral marches and _salvos_ of

artillery accompanied the advance.

[Illustration:

THE FUNERAL PROCESSION IN PARIS. FUNERAL CAR PASSING DOWN THE CHAMPS

ELYSÉES.]

At Courbevoie the flotilla anchored. Notwithstanding the intense cold,

thousands of people camped all night on the hill-sides and shores, their

bivouac fires illuminating the landscape.

Only those who have seen Paris on the day of a great _fête_ or ceremony

can picture to themselves the 15th of December, 1840. The day was

intensely cold, eight degrees below the freezing point, but at five

o’clock in the morning, when the drums began beating, and the guns

booming, the populace poured forth, taking up their positions along the

line of the expected procession. This line was fully three miles in

length, and ran from Courbevoie to the Arc de Triomphe by way of

Neuilly, thence down the Champs Elysées, across the Place and Bridge de

la Concorde, and along the _quai_ to the Esplanade des Invalides. From

one end to the other it was packed on either side a hundred deep, before

nine o’clock. The journals of the day compute the number of visitors

expected in Paris as about half a million. Inside and outside of the

Hôtel des Invalides alone, thirty-six thousand places were given to the

Minister of the Interior, and that did not cover one-tenth of the

requests he received. It is certain that nearly a million persons saw

the entry of Napoleon’s remains. The people hung from the trees, crowded

the roofs, stood on ladders of every description, filled the windows,

and literally swarmed over the walks and grass plots. A brisk business

went on in elevated positions. A ladder rung cost five francs ($1.00);

the man who had a cart across which he had laid boards, rented

standing-room at from five to ten francs. As for windows and

balconies—they sold for fabulous prices, in spite of the fact that the

placard _fenêtrés et balcons à louer_ appeared in almost every house

from Neuilly to the Invalides, even in many a magnificent hotel of the

Champs Elysées. Fifty francs ($10.00) was the price of the meanest

window; a good one cost one hundred francs ($20.00); three thousand

francs ($600.00) were paid for good balconies. One speculator rented a

vacant house for the day for five thousand francs ($1,000.00), and made

money on his investment.

The crowd made every preparation to keep warm; some of them carried

foot-stoves filled with live coals, others little hand-warmers. At

intervals along the procession great masses of the spectators danced to

keep up their circulation. Vendors of all sorts of articles did a

thriving business. Every article was, of course, Napoleonized; one even

bought _gauffrettes_ and _Madeleines_ cut out in the shape of Napoleons.

There were badges of every form—imperial eagles, bees, crowns, even the

_petit chapeau_. Many pamphlets in prose and verse had a great sale,

especially those of Casimir Delavigne, Victor Hugo, and Barthélemy;

though all these stately odes were far outstripped by one song,

thousands upon thousands of copies of which were sold. It ran:

“Premier capitaine du monde

Depuis le siége de Toulon,

Tant sur la terre que sur l’onde

Tout redoutait Napoleon.

“Du Nil au nord de la Tamise!

Devant lui l’ennemi fuyait,

Avant de combattre, il tremblait

Voyant sa redingote grise.”

The _cortége_ which had brought this crowd together was magnificent in

the extreme. A brilliant military display formed the first portion:

_gendarmerie_, municipal guards, officers, infantry, cavalry, artillery,

cadets from the important schools, national guards. But this had little

effect on the crowd. The genuine interest began when Marengo, Napoleon’s

famous battle-horse appeared—it was not Marengo, but it looked like him,

which for spectacular purposes was just as well; and the saddle and

bridle were genuine. The defile now became exciting. The commission of

St. Helena appeared in carriages, then the Marshals of France, the

Prince de Joinville, the crews of the vessels which had been to St.

Helena, finally the funeral car, a magnificent creation over thirty feet

high, its design and ornaments symbolic. Sixteen black horses in

splendid trappings drew the car, whose funeral pall was held by a

marshal and an admiral of France, by the Duc de Reggio and General

Bertrand.

The passing of the car was everywhere greeted with sincere emotion,

profound reverence. Even the opposition recognized the genuineness of

the feeling; many of them owned to sharing it for one moment of

self-forgetfulness, and they began to ask themselves, as Lamartine had

asked the Chamber six months before, what they had been thinking of to

allow the French heart and imagination to be so fired? Even cynical

Englishmen who looked on with stern or contemptuous countenances, said

to themselves meditatively that night, as they sat by their fire

resting, “Something good must have been in this man, something loving

and kindly, that has kept his name so cherished in the popular memory

and gained him such lasting reverence and affection.”

Following the car came those who had been intimately associated with the

emperor in his life—his aides-de-camp and civil and military officers.

Many of them had been with him in famous battles; some were at

Fontainebleau in 1814, others at Malmaison in 1815. The veterans of the

Imperial Guard followed; behind them a deputation from Ajaccio.

From Courbevoie to the Hôtel des Invalides, one walked through a hedge

of elaborate decorations—of bees, eagles, crowns, N’s; of bucklers,

banners, and wreaths bearing the names of famous victories; of urns

blazing with incense; of rostral columns; masts bearing trophies of arms

and clusters of flags; flaming tripods; allegorical statues; triumphal

arches; great banks of seats draped in imperial purple and packed with

spectators, and phalanges of soldiers.

On the top of the Arc de Triomphe was an imposing apotheosis of

Napoleon. Each side of the Pont de la Concorde was adorned with huge

statues. On the Esplanade des Invalides the car passed between an avenue

of thirty-two statues of great French kings, heroes, and

heroines—Charles Martel, Charlemagne, Clovis, Bayard, Jeanne d’Arc,

Latour d’Auvergne, Ney. The chivalry and valor of France welcomed

Napoleon home. Oddly enough, this hedge of statues ended in one of

Napoleon himself; the incongruity of the arrangements struck even the

_gamins_. “Tiens,” cried one urchin, “voilà comme l’empereur fait la

queue à lui-mème.” (“Hello, see there how the emperor brings up his own

procession.”)

The procession passed quietly from one end to the other of the route, to

the great relief of the authorities. Difficulty was anticipated from

several sources: from the Anglophobes, the Revolutionists, the

Legitimists, the Bonapartists, and the great mass of dissatisfied, who,

no matter what form of rule they are under, are always against the

government. The greatest fear seems to have been on the part of the

English. Thackeray, who was in town at the time, gives an amusing

picture of his own nervousness on the morning of the 15th.

“Did the French nation, or did they not, intend to offer up some of

us English over the imperial grave? And were the games to be

concluded by a massacre? It was said in the newspapers that Lord

Granville had despatched circulars to all the English residents in

Paris, begging them to keep their homes. The French journals

announced this news, and warned us charitably of the fate intended

for us. Had Lord Granville written? Certainly not to me. Or had he

written to all _except me_? And was _I the victim_—the doomed

one?—to be seized directly I showed my face in the Champs Elysées,

and torn in pieces by French patriotism to the frantic chorus of the

Marseillaise? Depend on it, Madame, that high and low in this city

on Tuesday were not altogether at their ease, and that the bravest

felt no small tremor. And be sure of this, that as his Majesty Louis

Philippe took his nightcap off his royal head that morning, he

prayed heartily that he might at night put it on in safety.”

Fortunately Thackeray’s courage conquered, and so we have the

entertaining “Second Funeral of Napoleon,” by “Michael Angelo Titmarsh.”

In spite of all forebodings, the hostile displays were nothing more than

occasional cries of “_A bas les Anglais_,” a few attempts to promenade

the tricolor flag and drown _Le Premier Capitaine du Monde_ by the

Marseillaise, and a strong indignation when it was learned that the

representatives of the allies had refused to be present at the final

ceremony.

Most of the observers of the funeral attributed the good order of the

crowd to the cold. A correspondent of the “National Intelligence” of

that date says:

“If this business had fallen in the month of June or July, with all

its excitements, spontaneous and elaborate, I should have deemed a

sanguinary struggle between the government and the mob certain or

highly probable. The present military array might answer for an

approaching army of Cossacks. Forty or fifty thousand troops remain

in the barracks within and camps without, besides the regular

soldiery and National Guards in the field, ready to act against the

domestic enemy.

“_Providentially_ the cold increased to the utmost keenness; the

genial currents of the insurrectionary and revolutionary soul were

frozen.”

The climax of the pageant was in the temple of the Invalides. The

spacious church was draped in the most magnificent and lavish fashion,

and adorned with a perfect bewilderment of imperial emblems. The light

was shut out by hangings of violet velvet; tripods blazing with colored

flames, and thousands upon thousands of waxen candles in brilliant

candelabra lighted the temple. Under the dome, in the place of the

altar, stood the catafalque which was to receive the coffin.

[Illustration:

THE FUNERAL MASS IN THE CHURCH OF THE HOTEL DES INVALIDES. THE

CATAFALQUE ON WHICH THE COFFIN RESTS IS SEEN IN THE DISTANCE.]

From early in the morning the galleries, choir, and tribunes of the

Invalides were packed by a distinguished company. There were the

Deputies and Senators—neither of which had been represented in the

_cortége_—the judicial and educational bodies, the officers of army and

navy, the ambassadors and representatives of foreign governments, the

king, and the court.

But none of these dignitaries were of more than passing interest that

day. The centre of attention, until the coffin entered, was the few old

soldiers of the Empire to be seen in the company; most prominent of

these was Marshal Moncey, the decrepit governor of the Invalides.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon when the Archbishop of Paris,

preceded by a splendid cross-bearer, and followed by sixteen incense

boys and long rows of white-clad priests, left the church to meet the

procession. They returned soon. Following them were the Prince de

Joinville and a select few from the grand _cortége_ without, attending

Napoleon’s coffin.

As it passed, the great assemblage was swayed by an extraordinary

emotion. There is no one of those who have described the day who does

not speak of the sudden, intense agitation which thrilled the company,

whether he refers to it half-humorously as Thackeray, who told how

“everybody’s heart was thumping as hard as possible,” or cries with

Victor Hugo:

“Sire: En ce moment-là, vouz aurez pour royaume.

Tous les fronts, tous les cœurs qui battront sous le ciel,

Les nations feront asseoir votre fantôme,

Au trone universel.”

The king descended from his throne and advanced to meet the _cortége_.

“Sire,” said the Prince de Joinville, “I present to you the body of

Napoleon, which, in accordance with your commands, I have brought back

to France.”

“I receive it in the name of France,” replied Louis Philippe.

Such at least is what the “Moniteur” affirms was said, but the

“Moniteur” is an official journal whose business is, not to tell what

really happens, but what the government would prefer to have happen. The

Prince de Joinville gives a different version: “The king received the

body at the entrance to the nave, and there rather a comical scene took

place. It appears that a little speech which I was to have delivered

when I met my father, and also the answer he was to give me, had been

drawn up in council, only the authorities had omitted to inform me

concerning it. So when I arrived I simply saluted with my sword, and

then stood aside. I saw, indeed, that this silent salute, followed by

retreat, had thrown something out; but my father after a moment’s

hesitation, improvised some appropriate sentence, and the matter was

arranged in the ‘Moniteur.’”

Beside the king stood an officer, bearing a cushion; on it lay the sword

of Austerlitz. Marshal Soult handed it to the king, who, turning to

Bertrand, said:

“General, I commission you to place the emperor’s glorious sword on the

bier.”

And Bertrand, trembling with emotion, laid the sword reverently on his

idol’s coffin. The great company watched the scene in deepest silence.

The only sound which broke the stillness was the half-stifled sobs of

the gray-haired soldiers of the Invalides, who stood in places of honor

near the catafalque.

The king and the procession returned to their places, and then followed

a majestic funeral mass. The _Requiem_ of Mozart, as rendered that day

by all the great singers of Paris, is one of the historic musical

performances of France. The archbishop then sprinkled the coffin with

holy water, the king taking the brush from him for the same sacred duty.

The funeral was over. Napoleon lay at last “on the banks of the Seine,

among the people whom he had so loved.” For eight days after the

ceremony the church remained open to the public, and in spite of the

terrible cold thousands stood from morning until night waiting patiently

their turn to enter. After hours of waiting, they frequently were sent

away, only to come back earlier the next day. In this company were

numbers of veterans of the imperial army who had made the journey to

Paris from distant parts of the kingdom. In the delegation from Belgium

were many who had walked part of the way, not being able to pay full

coach fare.

Banquets and dinners followed the funeral. At one of these, a “sacred

toast to the immortal memory” was drunk _kneeling_. In a dozen theatres

of Paris the translation of the remains was dramatized. At the Porte

Saint-Martin, the actor who took the part of Sir Hudson Lowe had a

season of terror, he being in constant danger of violence from the

wrought-up audience.

The advertising columns of the newspapers of the day blazed for weeks

with announcements of Napoleonized articles; the holiday gifts prepared

for the booths of the boulevards and squares, and for the magnificent

shops of the Palais Royal and the fashionable streets, whatever their

nature—to eat, to wear, to look at—were made up as memorials. Paris

seemed to be Napoleon-mad.

In the February following the funeral, the coffin of Napoleon was

transferred from the catafalque in the centre of the church to a

_chapelle ardente_ in the basement at one side. The chapel was richly

draped in silk and gold, and hung with trophies. On the coffin lay the

imperial crown, the emperor’s sword, and the hat which he had worn at

Eylau, and which he had given to Gros when he ordered the battle of

Eylau painted. Over the coffin waved the flags taken at Austerlitz.

Here Napoleon’s body lay until the mausoleum was finished. This

magnificent structure was designed by Visconti, the eminent architect,

who had planned the entire decorations of the 15th of December. Visconti

utterly ignored the appropriations in executing the monument, ordering

what he wanted, regardless of its cost. For the marble from which

Pradier made the twelve colossal figures around the tomb, he sent to

Carrara; the porphyry which was used to inclose the coffin, he obtained

in Finland.

In this magnificent sepulchre Napoleon still sleeps. Duroc and Bertrand

lie on either side of the entrance to the chamber, guarding him in death

as in life; and to the right and left of the entrance to the church are

the tombs of his brothers Jerome and Joseph. On the stones about him are

inscribed the names he made glorious! over him are draped scores of

trophies; attending him are the veterans of the Invalides.

“Qu’il dorme en paix sous cette voute!

C’est un casque bien fait, sans doute,

Pour cette tête de géant.”

-----

Footnote 2:

The Prince of Joinville was the third son of Louis Philippe.

[Illustration:

JOSEPHINE, EMPRESS OF THE FRENCH.

Reproduction of the model of the marble statue exhibited in the

_Salon_ of 1857, and executed for the town of St. Pierre

(Martinique), the native country of Josephine. This statue as by the

sculptor Vital-Dubray. The plaster cast is in the Versailles museum.]

LIFE OF JOSEPHINE

CHAPTER I

FAMILY—EARLY SURROUNDINGS—EUGENE DE BEAUHARNAIS—MARRIAGE—SEPARATION FROM

HER HUSBAND

The proudest monument in the Island of Martinique, in the French West

Indies, so any inhabitant will tell you, is the statue of a woman in the

town of St. Pierre. The woman thus honored is Josephine, once Empress of

the French People, who, so the legend on the pedestal of the statue

relates was born at the hamlet of Trois Ilets, Martinique, on June 23,

1763.

If one searches in the legends of the island for an explanation of the

position to which the child of this humble spot arose, he will find

nothing more serious than the prophecy of an old negress, made to the

little girl herself, that one day she would be Queen of France. If he

looks in the chronicles of the island for an explanation, he will find

nothing to indicate that she could ever rise higher than the life of an

indolent creole, a life narrowed by poverty and made tolerable chiefly

by the beauty of the nature about her and by her own happy indifference

of temperament.

Joseph Tascher de la Pagerie, the child’s father, was the eldest son of

a noble of Blois, France, who went to Martinique in the first quarter of

the eighteenth century chiefly because he could not succeed in anything

in his own country. He did no better in Martinique than he had done in

France and was only able to start his children in life by dint of

soliciting favors for them from his well-to-do relatives at home. For

Joseph he obtained a small military position, but the lad was no better

at improving his opportunities than his father had been and returned to

Martinique after a few years a lieutenant of marines—without a place.

When soliciting failed, nothing was left in those days for a nobleman

who did not relish work but marriage, and Joseph succeeded, by help of

his friends, in making a very good one with Mlle. Rose-Claire des

Vergers de Sannois, whose father was of noble descent and, what was more

to the point, was prosperous and of good standing in Martinique. Joseph

went to live on a charming plantation belonging to his father-in-law,

just back from the sea and near the village of Trois Ilets. Soon after

this, war with the English called him into service as a defender of the

French West Indies. The war was not long, and for his services he

secured a pension of 450 livres (about ninety dollars). It came none too

soon, for a passing hurricane devastated the plantation at Trois Ilets

in 1766, and drove the family into one of the sugar houses to live. M.

de la Pagerie was never able to repair the damages to his plantation

done by the storm or build another home for his family. He never,

indeed, followed any steady employment, but idled his life away in

gaming, intrigue, and soliciting—always in debt, always in bad odor

among honest men—his only asset his birth.

But to the happiness of little Josephine it mattered very little in

those days whether her home was a sugar-house or a palace, her father an

honest man or a sycophant. Her days were spent under the brilliant

skies, in the forests or the open fields, chasing birds and butterflies,

and gathering the gorgeous tropical flowers which to the end of her life

she passionately loved. Almost her only companions were the negroes of

the plantations, who gave her willing admiration and obedience.

Untaught, unrestrained, idolized by slaves, knowing nothing but the

tropical luxury and beauty of the nature about her, she developed like

the birds and the negroes, becoming, it is true, a graceful, beautiful

little animal, but with hardly more moral sense than they and with even

less sense of responsibility.

Josephine was ten years old before it occurred to anybody to send her to

school. So far her only instruction had been what little she had

gathered from a mother occupied with younger children; from the priest

of Trois Ilets, who, it is fair to suppose, must have at least tried to

teach her the catechism, and from the curious lore and gossip of the

negroes. At ten, however, she was sent to a convent at Fort Royale,

where she remained some four years. Here she was taught such rudimentary

knowledge as enabled her to read,—if not understand, to write a polite

note, to dance,—not very well, to sing, and play the guitar a little. It

was a small equipment, but no doubt as good as most young girls of

Martinique possessed in that day. Indeed many a noble-born maid in

France started out with less in the eighteenth century, and it was quite

as much as one would suppose from her position that she would need—more

than she used indeed, for little Yeyette, as Josephine was called, if

amiable and obedient when she left the convent, was indolent and vain,

loving far better her childish play of decorating herself with brilliant

flowers and watching her own image in the clear water of the pools on

the plantation, than she did books and music; and the loving flattery of

her old nurse was dearer to her than any amusement she found in the

meager society of the island, where she now was to take her place and,

her parents hoped, help retrieve the bad fortunes of the family by a

good marriage.

The opportunity came quickly. Josephine had been but a few months out of

the convent when one day her father laid before her what must have been

a bewildering and, one would suppose, a terrifying proposition—would she

like to leave Martinique and go to France, there to marry Alexander de

Beauharnais. The boy was not unknown to her. Like herself, he was born

in Martinique, and though he had left there when she was only seven

years old and he ten, it is not unlikely that she had seen him

occasionally at the home of her grandmother who cared for him in the

absence of his father and mother in France.

The influence which had led the father of Alexander de Beauharnais to

ask for the hand of a daughter of M. de la Pagerie for his son was not

altogether creditable. The two families had never known each other until

1757, when M. de Beauharnais came to Martinique as its governor. The

elder M. de la Pagerie was not slow in seeking the new governor’s

acquaintance and support for his family, for the latter was rich and in

favor with the king at Versailles. The relation prospered sufficiently

for M. de la Pagerie to secure a place in the household of the governor

for one of his daughters. He could have done nothing better for his

family. This daughter was not long in gaining an important influence

over both M. and Mme. de Beauharnais, and in winning as a husband M.

Renaudin, an excellent man and prosperous. This for herself. For her

family, she secured so many favors from the governor that it became a

matter of serious criticism and finally, added to other indiscretions,

led to a divorce between her and M. Renaudin. All this scandal did not

influence the governor, however, and when, in 1761, he left Martinique,

on account of the dissatisfaction with his administration there, and

hurried to France with his wife to make his peace at Versailles, Mme.

Renaudin went, too. There she prospered, buying a home and laying aside

money. It was M. de Beauharnais’s money, people said. However this may

be, it is certain that she exercised great influence over him, that for

her he neglected his wife, and that after the latter’s death the

friendship or _liaison_ continued until his death.

From all this it will be seen that Mme. Renaudin was a clever woman,

intent on making the most out of the one really strong relation she had

been able to form in her life. She was clever enough to see, when

Alexander was brought to France after his mother’s death, that his love

and gratitude would be one of her strongest cards with the father in the

future. She set to work to win the boy’s heart, and she succeeded

admirably. In his eyes, she took his mother’s place, and her influence

over him was almost unlimited.

By the time he was seventeen, Alexander de Beauharnais was a most

attractive youth. He had been well educated in the manner of his time,

having been, with his elder brother, under the care of an excellent

tutor for a number of years, two of which, at least, were passed in

Germany. After his brother entered the army, Alexander and his tutor

joined the household of the Duke de la Rochefoucauld and there studied

with the latter’s nephews. In this aristocratic atmosphere he imbibed

all the new liberal ideas of the day; he learned, at the same time, the

graces of the most exquisite French society and the philosophy of

Rousseau. Alexander was seventeen years old when his education was

pronounced finished, and a search was made for a place for him suitable

to his birth, his relations, and his ambition. Thanks, largely, to the

Duke de la Rochefoucauld, he was made a lieutenant in the army.

No sooner was his position in the world fixed, than Mme. Renaudin made

up her mind that he must marry one of her nieces in Martinique. It

mattered not at all that Alexander had not yet thought of marriage. Mme.

Renaudin persuaded him it would be a good thing—not a difficult task for

her since at marriage the youth was to come into a much larger income

than he then enjoyed. Alexander satisfied, she soon persuaded his father

to write to M. de la Pagerie. The letter shows the whole situation:—“My

children,” wrote M. de Beauharnais, “each enjoy an annual income of

40,000 livres (about $8,000). You are free to give me your daughter to

share the fortune of my chevalier. The respect and affection he has for

Mme. Renaudin make him eager to marry one of her nieces. You see that I

consent freely to his wishes by asking the hand of your second daughter,

whose age is more suited to his. If your eldest daughter (Josephine) had

been a few years younger, I certainly should have preferred her, as she

is pictured quite as favorably to me as the other; but my son, who is

only seventeen and a half, thinks that a young lady of fifteen is too

near his own age.”

Now, just before this letter reached Martinique, the second daughter of

M. de la Pagerie had died of fever. The chance was not to be missed,

however, and the father hastened to write to M. de Beauharnais that he

might have either of the two daughters remaining; Josephine or Marie,

the latter then a child of between eleven and twelve years. From the

long correspondence which followed, one gathers that it is the elders in

the transaction who really count. Alexander is resigned, little Marie

absolutely refuses to leave her mother, and Josephine, of whom little is

said, seems to be willing, even eager for the adventure. The upshot of

it was that, in October, 1779, M. de la Pagerie sailed for France with

Josephine. He arrived at Brest in November, worn out by the passage, and

there his sister, Mme. Renaudin, came with Alexander to meet them. If

the first impression of his fiancée did not arouse any enthusiasm in

Alexander, it at least offered no reason for breaking the engagement.

“She is not so pretty as I expected,” he wrote to his father; “but I can

assure you that the frankness and sweetness of her character are beyond

anything we have been told.”

From Brest the little party travelled together to Paris, where the

marriage took place on December 12. The young pair at once went to live

with the Marquis de Beauharnais, and that winter Josephine was

introduced into the brilliant society of the capital. She seems to have

made but a poor impression, for in spite of the 20,000 livres that Mme.

Renaudin had spent on her trousseau, she had after all a provincial air

which irritated her husband, accustomed as he was to the ease and

elegance of aristocratic Paris. What was worse in his eyes, she seemed

to have no desire to improve herself on the models he laid down. Poor

little Josephine had no head for the exaggerated sentiment, the fine

speculations, and the chatter about liberty, nature and the social

contract which flowed so glibly from every French tongue in those days.

She loved pretty gowns and jewels and childish amusements; above all,

she demanded to be loved exclusively and passionately by her handsome

young husband. When he scolded her, she cried, and when he devoted

himself to brighter women, she was jealous; and so before the first six

months of their married life was over, Josephine was seeing many unhappy

hours, and the Viscount gladly left her behind when he was called to his

regiment. Nevertheless, in his absence, he wrote her long letters,

largely of advice on what she should study, and took pains to laugh at

her jealousy and her complaints. The birth of their first child, in

September, 1781, a boy, who received the name of Eugène, did little to

restore peace between the two. The Viscount continued to spend much time

away from Paris, either with his regiment or in travel, and when at

home, he did not always share his pleasures with his wife. The tactics

with which Josephine met his restlessness and his indifference were the

worst possible to be used on a man whose passion was for ideas, for

elevated sentiments, for bold and brilliant actions—she was amiable and

indolent as a kitten until a new neglect came, and then she gave up to a

continuous weeping.

One reason, no doubt, of the restlessness of Beauharnais was his failure

to advance in his profession as fast as he desired. He had been made a

captain, but he wished for a regiment; and when late in 1782 a descent

of the English on Martinique threatened, he enlisted for service there.

Peace was made between France and England before he had an opportunity

to distinguish himself, but he remained in Martinique some time. He had

fallen in love there; and unhappily his new mistress had persuaded him

that Josephine had had love affairs of her own before she left

Martinique to marry him. There was never any proof of the truth of any

of the stories she retailed to him; but Beauharnais was glad to have a

reason for deserting his wife, and he wrote her a brutal letter, in

which he justified his demand for a divorce by the righteous indignation

which had seized him when he heard of her follies. The letter reached

Josephine in the summer of 1783. In the April before, she had given

birth to a daughter, christened Hortense-Eugénie. It was the first word

she had received from her husband since her confinement.

Beauharnais reached Paris in October (his mistress had preceded him);

and in spite of the efforts of his family and friends, all of whom took

Josephine’s part, he secured a separation. She, however, received from

the courts the fullest reparation possible, considering the Viscount’s

means—a pension for herself and the children; the custody of Eugène,

until he was five years old, and permanent possession of Hortense.

Josephine now went to live at the Abbey de Panthemont, a refuge for

women of the French nobility who had suffered in one way or another.

Here her youth, beauty, sweetness of disposition, and her misfortune

made her a favorite with many a noble dame; and she soon learned in this

atmosphere more of the ways of aristocratic society than she had learned

in all her previous married life.

After nearly a year in the Abbey, Josephine returned to her

father-in-law, who was living at Fontainebleau. The life she here took

up pleased her very well. She had an income for herself and children of

something over $2,000 a year, she was free, she knew many amusing

people, she had admirers, many say, lovers,—we should be surprised more

if she had not had them than if she had, it was the way of her world.

She was devoted to her children, she cared for the Marquis de

Beauharnais and Mme. Renaudin in their illnesses, and she corresponded

regularly with her husband—whom she never saw—concerning their children.

In 1788, she broke the monotony of her life by a trip to Martinique,

taking Hortense with her. She remained some two years in the island—a

sad two years, for both her father and her sister were very ill at the

time, and both died soon after her return to Paris, in the fall of 1790.

CHAPTER II

JOSEPHINE IN THE REVOLUTION—IMPRISONED AT LES CARMES—STRUGGLE FOR

EXISTENCE—MARRIAGE WITH BONAPARTE

When Josephine returned to Paris in 1790, she found the city in full

revolution. In the two years she had been gone the States Generals had

met, the Bastile had fallen, the National Assembly had begun to make

France over. In the front of all this activity moved her husband,

Viscount de Beauharnais. Like his patron, the Duke de la Rouchefoucauld,

Beauharnais was an ardent advocate of liberty and equality. Sent to the

States General by his friends at Blois, he had joined the few noblemen

there who in 1789 espoused the cause of the Revolution, and soon was one

of the leaders of the faction. Later he was sent to the National

Assembly, where he took an active part in framing the constitution. He

was a power even in the Jacobin Society.

At this date the revolution was still the fashion among the elegant in

Paris, and the Viscount really was one of the most popular and

influential young noblemen in the town. His success, the ardor with

which he preached the fine theories of the day, perhaps a growing

realization that his treatment of his wife was too baldly inconsistent

with his profession, softened the Viscount’s heart towards Josephine,

and when she returned he went to see her. A kind of reconciliation

followed. They continued to live apart, but they saw each other

constantly in society. The Viscount no doubt was the more willing to

sustain the relation of a good friend and advisor to his wife, when he

saw that in the years since their separation she had developed into a

most charming woman of the world, and that her beauty, grace, tact, and

readiness to oblige had won her a large circle of friends, including

many in that aristocratic circle of which he vaunted himself on being a

member. This good understanding with Beauharnais did much for

Josephine’s peace of mind. It was in a way a victory, and her friends

congratulated her. At the same time any honors which came to the

Viscount reflected on her, and she steadily became more noticed.

In June, 1791, Beauharnais was elected president of the Constituent

Assembly. A few days later, the King and Queen fled to Varennes. As the

head of the Assembly, the Viscount was the leader of France for the

time. It was he who sat for one hundred and twenty-six and one-half

consecutive hours on the bench during the violent session which followed

the King’s flight; it was he who questioned the captured King, when he

was returned, and directed the distracted proceedings which followed.

Indeed, until the dissolution of the body in September, he was one of

the most prominent men in France.

Josephine had her share of his glory, and in these months added largely

to her circle of acquaintances from the motley crowd which the levelling

of things had brought together in French society. She met many of the

aristocrats unknown to her until then; but what was vastly more

important, she made acquaintances among the “true patriots”, those who

had been born in the third estate, and who were already beginning to

consider themselves the only part of the population fit to conduct the

general regeneration of France. In 1792, war breaking out, Beauharnais

went to the front, where he made a respectable record, which he himself

reported frequently to the Assembly in glowing letters, filled with good

advice to that body. He was steadily advanced until, in May, 1793, he

was made general-in-chief of the Army of the North. During all this

period Josephine was in Paris or the vicinity, and there were few more

active women there than she. Whether advised by her husband or not she

had the wit to make the acquaintance of the men of each new party as

fast as it came into power. Thus, when the Girondins were at the helm in

1792, she hastened to interview them one by one, to demonstrate to them

her devotion to the new civism, to extol the patriotism of her husband,

General de Beauharnais. The acquaintance made, she immediately had a

favor to ask—this friend was in prison, that one wanted a passport. All

through the agitated winter of 1792 and 1793 Josephine was busy getting

her friends out of prison and out of France. She seems to have had no

fear for herself. As a matter of fact, the men who helped her were so

convinced of her simple goodness of heart that they granted her much

which would have been denied a more intelligent woman, and they did not

question her loyalty. Was she not, too, the wife of General de

Beauharnais? That fact did not, however, hold value for many months.

Beauharnais’s conduct came into question before the Assembly; he

resigned, offering to go into the line. The privilege was denied him,

and he was retired from the army. He went at once to his family home

near Blois, and threw himself actively into the work of the municipality

and of the Jacobins. Josephine, warned of possible danger from her

husband’s downfall and fearing the new law against the suspected,

decided to leave Paris. She rented, in the winter, a little house at

Croissy, not far out of the city, and near many of her friends, and

there lived as quietly as she could. One method that she took of showing

her devotion to democratic principles was to bind Eugène, who had been

in school for several years, as an apprentice to a carpenter; and it is

said that Hortense was placed with a dressmaker to learn the trade.

The Viscount escaped arrest until the spring of 1794; then the committee

of Public Safety remembered him. There seems to have been no reason for

his arrest other than that he was a noble—certainly no man in France had

surpassed him in vehement republicanism or had been more fertile in

schemes for saving the country. He was taken immediately to Paris, and

confined in the prison of les Carmes. A month later, Josephine followed

him. Her activity for her friends had continued after the retirement of

her husband and the efforts she began at once to make to save him when

he was arrested, caused a virtuous patriot to suggest anonymously to the

authorities that she too ought to be looked after. She was promptly

arrested.

For three months husband and wife lived side by side in that awful

prison, the walls of which still bore the red imprints made in the

September massacre, and in garden of which blood still oozed, it was

believed, from the roots of the tree where murdered men had been stacked

up by the score. With them were confined men from every rank of life,

princes, merchants, sailors, chimney-sweeps, along with women and

children. Almost daily a group was called to die, but their places were

quickly filled. The awful tragedy of their lot drew Josephine and her

husband no closer together. It is a terrible comment on the times that

no one thought it strange that Beauharnais should have paid court here

at the gate of death to a beautiful woman, a prisoner like himself, or

that Josephine should have been so intimate with General Hoche, also a

prisoner, that history has made a record of the fact.

Many efforts were made to save the Viscount and his wife, chiefly under

their direction, for they were allowed to see their friends, and also

their children. It is quite possible that certain petitions in their

favor which have been found in the French archives, bearing the names of

Eugène and Hortense, were dictated by the Viscount himself. But every

effort was useless, and on July 21 Beauharnais was taken to the

Conciergerie: the next day he was tried; the next guillotined. To the

end he was brave and self-controlled. In his final words to Josephine,

he even charged his death to the plots of the aristocrats, upholding the

republic even as it struck him.

None of the Viscount de Beauharnais’s courage was shared by Josephine in

her imprisonment. It is true that the majority of the women who suffered

death in the French Revolution faced it bravely. Josephine was not of

their blood. From the beginning of her imprisonment, she wept

continually before everybody, and her favorite occupation was reading

her fortune with cards; and yet cowardly as she was, no one was better

loved. There was reason enough for this. No one was kinder, no one more

willing to do a service, no one had been more active for others than

she, when at liberty. All the good will of the prison came out in full

when, on August 6, less than a fortnight after her husband’s death, she

was set free. There was as general rejoicing as there would have been

over the release of a child.

It is not certain through whose influence Josephine obtained her

freedom. Mme. Tallien has generally been credited with securing it, but

Masson in his delving has found dates which make it improbable that the

legend current can be true. According to this, Mme. Tallien (then Mme.

de Fontenay) and Josephine were fellow-prisoners, and it was at les

Carmes that their friendship began. However, the prison records show

that Mme. Tallien was never confined at les Carmes, but at la Petite

Force; so that a part at least of the legend is impossible. That she may

have interested herself in Josephine’s behalf is quite possible, even

probable. She may have known Mme. de Beauharnais before her

imprisonment. It is well known that, as soon as she received her own

freedom she became an ardent advocate of that clemency which was made

possible by the fall of Robespierre on the ninth Thermidor and that she

rescued many persons. She may very well have included Josephine among

the first of those she sought to save. Her task in this case would not

have been difficult, for Josephine was known to most of the members of

the Terrorist Government and was probably on terms of intimacy with some

of them. At all events, Josephine was set free on August 6, and she

immediately went to Croissy to pass the autumn.

The problems which now confronted Josephine were serious enough for the

most practical and resourceful of women. The chaos in French business

affairs made it very difficult for her to get her hand on money coming

to her. Her husband’s property was tied up by his death so that she

could realize nothing from it, and the value of what she did secure of

her income must have been sadly reduced by the general depreciation

which had resulted from the Reign of Terror and from the war, and by the

exorbitant prices of even the commonest necessaries of life—bread at

this time was over twenty francs a pound. Her situation was still more

difficult because the personal property of herself, her children, and

husband was all in the hands of the authorities. She had no linen,

furniture, silver, clothing, nothing needful in her daily life. To keep

house in the simplest way, she had to beg and borrow, and it was many

months before she was able to secure her own articles of clothing and

her household furniture.

With two children to care for and with a town apartment and a country

cottage on her hands, she was in a very difficult position.

That Josephine was able to keep her homes, care for her children, and

retain her position in the society of the Directory was due to the

friendship and protection of two men, Hoche and Barras. Hoche had been

liberated from les Carmes before Josephine, and put in charge of an

army, and he at once took Eugène on his staff, thus freeing Josephine’s

mind of that care. For a few months she managed by diligent borrowing

and mortgaging to keep things going. In all of her efforts to repair her

fortune and secure to her children the estate of Beauharnais, she

enlisted her friends, especially Mme. Tallien, who just then was at the

height of her power. The two became very intimate, and the Viscountess

de Beauharnais was soon one of the women oftenest seen at the functions

given by the members of the Directory as well as at all the more

intimate gatherings of that society. She became as great a favorite

among the dissipated and prodigal company as she had been among the

aristocratic ladies of the Abbey de Panthemont or in the motley company

at les Carmes. It was to be expected that she could not long be an

intimate of Mme. Tallien’s salon without finding a protector. She found

him in Barras, a member of the Directory, its most influential member in

fact, a prince of corruption, but a man of elegance, and ability.

It is probable that the _liaison_ with Barras began in 1795, for in

August of that year Josephine took a little house in Paris, furnishing

it largely from the apartment in town which she had kept so long. She

put Hortense in Mme. Campan’s school, and taking Eugène from Hoche sent

him to college. She entertained constantly in her new home, and once a

week at least received Barras and his friends at her country place at

Croissy. It was an open secret that the money for all this was supplied

by Barras.

Although Barras was himself notoriously corrupt, he was a man of elegant

and highly cultivated tastes, and he always made strenuous efforts to

keep his inner circle exclusive. He wished only persons of wit,

elegance, and ease about him, when he was at leisure, and as a rule he

allowed no others. Now and then, however, the necessities of politics

brought into his house a man unused either to its polite refinements or

its elegant dissipations. Such a man was admitted in the fall of 1795—a

young Corsican, a member of the army who had distinguished himself at

the siege of Toulon, and who had recently put Barras and the whole

government, in fact, under obligations. The man’s name was

Bonaparte—Napoleon Bonaparte. He had come to Paris in the spring of

1795, under orders to join the Western Army, but had fallen into

disgrace because he refused to obey. He succeeded, however, through

Barras, who had known him at Toulon, in making an impression at the War

Office. He was more than an ordinary man, the authorities who listened

to his talk and examined his plans of campaign said. A chance came in

October to try his metal as a commanding officer. The sections of Paris,

dissatisfied with the Convention, had planned an attack for a certain

night. The Committee of Defence asked Bonaparte to take command of the

guard which was to defend the Tuileries, where the Convention sat. The

result was a quick and effectual repulse of the attack of the sections,

and Bonaparte was rewarded the next day by being made a

general-of-division.

One of the first acts to follow the attack on the Convention was a law

ordering that all citizens should be disarmed. Now, Josephine had in her

apartment the sword of General de Beauharnais, and in obedience to the

new law she at once carried it to the proper authority. Eugène, knowing

her intention, hastened there too, and passionately protested against

his father’s sword being given up. He would die first, he declared, with

boyish vehemence. His youth (he was but fourteen), his genuine emotion

touched the commissioner, who hesitated and finally said that Eugène

might go to the general in charge of the section, the newly made General

Bonaparte, and present his petition. The boy hastened to the General,

and with shining eyes and trembling lips, begged that his father’s sword

might be returned. Bonaparte, moved by the lad’s earnestness and

agitation, ordered that his request be granted. Mme. de Beauharnais, on

hearing the story from Eugène, went to the General’s office to thank

him. The interview ended by her inviting him to call upon her. It is

probable that Barras had felt it wise to admit Bonaparte to his inner

circle at about this time, and before long the young general was on good

terms with the entire society.

At the time when Bonaparte began to frequent the houses of Barras and

Josephine he was, beside most of the men and women he met

there—certainly beside Barras and Josephine—a paragon of virtue. They

were disciples of pleasure; he of the strenuous life. Up to this time

the pleasures of the world had never invited him. He had looked on them

as a young philosopher might, bent on seeing and understanding all, but

he had never sought them, never been allured by them. To make a place

and name for himself was all that Napoleon Bonaparte, up to this time,

had desired.

Not only did he here, for the first time, come into a circle which

cultivated pleasure as an end; but here, for the first time, he saw the

refinements, the luxury, the delights of highly developed society.

Beautiful, graceful, and witty women he had never known before; he had

never set foot before in rooms such as these in which he found

Josephine, Mme. Tallien, and Barras. Dinners like these they offered him

were an amazement. Not only was he astonished by his surroundings, he

was intoxicated by the attention he received. That Josephine, who seemed

to him the perfect type of the _grande dame_, should invite him to her

home, write him flattering little notes when his visits were delayed,

admire his courage, listen to his impetuous talk, prophesy a great

future for him, excited his imagination and hope as nothing ever had

before. A month had not passed before he was paying her an impassioned

court. That she was six years his senior and a widow with two children;

that she had no certain income and was of another rank; that he had

nothing but his “cloak and sword” and was hardly started in his career,

though with a mother and several brothers and sisters looking to him to

see them through life—these and all other practical considerations seem

to have been thrust aside. He loved Josephine and meant to marry her.

All through the fall and winter of 1795 and 1796 he was at her side

pressing his suit.

But Josephine, though pleased by Napoleon’s devotion, and certainly

encouraging him, hesitated. Certainly marriage with the young Corsican

was a venture at which a more courageous woman than she might have

hesitated, and she, poor woman, had had enough of ventures. Every one so

far had ended in disaster—her marriage had ended in separation, her

reconciliation with her husband in his death, her property had been lost

in a revolution. All she asked of life was an opportunity to settle

Eugène and Hortense, and freedom and money enough to be gay. Could she

expect this from a marriage with Bonaparte? She herself analyzed her

feelings admirably in a letter to a friend:

I am urged, my dear, to marry again by the advice of all my friends

(I may almost say), by the commands of my aunt, and the prayers of

my children. Why are you not here to help me by your advice on this

important occasion, and to tell me whether I ought or ought not to

consent to a union, which certainly seems calculated to relieve me

from the discomfort of my present situation? Your friendship would

render you clear-sighted to my interests, and a word from you would

suffice to bring me to a decision.

Among my visitors you have seen General Bonaparte; he is the man who

wishes to become a father to the orphans of Alexander de Beauharnais

and a husband to his widow.

“Do you love him?” is naturally your first question.

My answer is, “perhaps—No.”

“Do you dislike him?”

“No,” again; but the sentiments I entertain towards him are of that

lukewarm kind which true devotees think worst of all in matters of

religion. Now, love being a sort of religion, my feelings ought to

be very different from what they really are. This is the point on

which I want your advice, which would fix the wavering of my

irresolute disposition. To come to a decision has always been too

much for my Creole inertness, and I find it easier to obey the

wishes of others.

I admire the General’s courage; the extent of his information on

every subject on which he converses; his shrewd intelligence, which

enables him to understand the thoughts of others before they are

expressed; but I confess I am somewhat fearful of that control which

he seems anxious to exercise over all about him. There is something

in his scrutinizing glance that cannot be described; it awes even

our directors, therefore it may well be supposed to intimidate a

woman. He talks of his passion for me with a degree of earnestness

which renders it impossible to doubt his sincerity; yet this very

circumstance, which you would suppose likely to please me, is

precisely that which has withheld me from giving the consent which I

have often been on the very point of uttering.

My spring of life is past. Can I, then, hope to preserve for any

length of time that ardor of affection which in the General amounts

almost to madness? If his love should cool, as it certainly will,

after our marriage, will he not reproach me for having prevented him

from forming a more advantageous connection? What, then, shall I

say? What shall I do? I may shut myself up and weep. Fine

consolation, truly! methinks I hear you say. But unavailing as I

know it is, weeping is, I assure you, my only consolation whenever

my poor heart receives a wound. Write me quick, and pray scold me if

you think me wrong. You know everything is welcome that comes from

you.

Barras assures me if I marry the General, he will get him appointed

commander-in-chief of the Army of Italy. This favor, though not yet

granted, occasions some murmuring among Bonaparte’s brother

officers. When speaking to me yesterday on the subject, the General

said.—

“Do they think I cannot get forward without their patronage. One day

or other they will all be too happy if I grant them mine. I have a

good sword by my side, which will carry me on.”

What do you think of this self-confidence? Does it not savor of

excessive vanity? A general of brigade to talk of patronizing the

chiefs of the Government? It is very ridiculous! Yet I know not how

it happens, his ambitious spirit sometimes wins upon me so far that

I am almost tempted to believe in the practicability of any project

he takes into his head—and who can foresee what he may attempt?

It is probable that, if it had not been for Barras, Josephine would not

have consented, for many of her friends advised against the marriage.

Barras urged it, however. He says in explanation, with the brutal

frankness for which his memoirs are distinguished, that he was “tired

and bored” with her. She, no doubt, felt that Barras’s protection was

uncertain and that it would be better for her not to offend him.

At last Barras and Bonaparte between them overcame Josephine’s

indecision, and on March 8, 1796, the marriage contract was signed.

Barras and Tallien were the two chief witnesses at the civil ceremony

which took place the next day. The religious marriage was dispensed

with.

CHAPTER III

BONAPARTE GOES TO ITALY—JOSEPHINE AT MILAN—TRIUMPHAL TOUR IN

ITALY—BONAPARTE LEAVES FOR EGYPT

Just a week before the marriage of Napoleon with Josephine he had been

appointed general-in-chief of the Army of Italy, and two days after the

marriage he left for his command. Josephine remained in Paris, at her

home in the Rue Chantereine, a little relieved, probably, at the

departure of her tempestuous lover. Certainly she was not sufficiently

in love to be able to keep pace with the ardent letters which he sent

her from every post on his route. She read them, to be sure; even showed

them to her friends, pronouncing them _drôle_; but her answers equalled

them neither in number nor in warmth. Napoleon’s suffering and

reproaches and prayers disturbed her peace. She could not love like

this. Soon he began to beg her to come to Italy. The campaign was well

started; he was winning victories. There was no reason why she should

not join him; or come at least to Nice—to Milan. “You will come,” he

begs, “and quick. If you hesitate, if you delay, you will find me ill.

Fatigue and your absence are too much for me.... Take wings, come—come!”

But Josephine did not want to leave Paris. Particularly now when she was

reaping the first fruits of her young husband’s glory in an homage such

as she had never known, but of which there is no doubt she had dreamed

from childhood. Napoleon’s victories had driven the Parisians wild with

joy, and they asked nothing better than to adore the wife of the hero of

the campaign. Scarcely two months, in fact, had passed, after leaving

Paris before Napoleon sent back, by his brother Joseph and his aide

Junot, twenty-one flags taken from the enemy. They were received at a

public session of the Directory. Josephine was present with Mme.

Tallien, and when the two beautiful women, accompanied by Junot, left

the Luxembourg, where the presentation had taken place, there was such a

demonstration as Paris had not seen over a woman in many a day. “Look,”

they cried, “it is his wife! Isn’t she beautiful! Long live General

Bonaparte! Long live the Citizeness Bonaparte! Long live Notre Dame des

Victoires!”

New triumphs followed, and to celebrate them there was held a grand fête

on May 29. There were balls at the Luxembourg, gala nights at the

theaters. And everywhere Josephine, the wife of the conquering general,

was queen. And yet almost every night, when she returned from opera or

ball, she found awaiting her a passionate appeal from Bonaparte to come

to Italy. Several weeks she put him off, she pleaded the hardship of the

trip, the dangers and discomforts she might have to undergo there, a

hundred excuses; and Bonaparte, in reply, only begged the more fiercely

that she come.

At last she could resist no longer, but she took no pains to conceal her

sorrow at going. “Her chagrin was extreme, when she saw there was no

longer any way of escaping,” Arnault says, “she thought more of what she

was going to leave than what she was going to find. She would have given

the palace at Milan which had been prepared for her, she would have

given all the palaces of the world, for her house in the Rue

Chantereine.... She started for Italy from the Luxembourg, where she had

supped with some friends. Poor woman, she burst into tears and sobbed as

if she was going to punishment—she who was going to reign.”

It was the end of June before Josephine arrived in Milan. The palace

which awaited her was the princely home of the Duke de Serbelloni;—the

society the choicest of Italy. She at once found herself literally

living like a princess. Unhappily for her, however, there was no

opportunity to remain long quietly at Milan and enjoy the pleasures open

to her. Bonaparte was in active campaign—unable to stay but a couple of

days after her arrival, and he soon began to beg that she join him in

the field. At the end of July, she did go to Brescia, where she

experienced a series of exciting adventures. The Austrians were pressing

close on the French—closer than Napoleon realized; twice he and she

narrowly escaped capture together; once she was under fire. Finally

Bonaparte was obliged to send her, by way of Bologna and Ferrara to

Lucques, a journey that she made in safety, but in tears.

Henceforth Josephine had an excellent reason for not joining her husband

in the field. And Napoleon did not ask her to do so. All he asked now

was letters, letters, letters. “Your health and your face are never out

of my mind. I cannot be at peace until your letters are received. I wait

them impatiently. You cannot conceive my unrest.” And again, “I do not

love you at all; on the contrary, I detest you. You are a wretched,

awkward, stupid little thing. You do not write me any more at all; you

do not love your husband. You know the pleasure that your letters give

me, and yet write me not more than six lines and that by chance. What

are you doing all day long, Madame? But seriously, I am very much

disturbed, my dear, at not hearing from you. Write me four pages quickly

of those kind of things which fill my heart with pleasure.” A few days

later he writes, “No letters from you. Truly that disturbs me. I am told

you are well and that you have even been to Lake Como. I look

impatiently every day for the courier who will bring me news of you.”

And again, “I write you very often, my dear, and you write me so

rarely.” And so it went on through the entire summer and fall of 1796.

While she received at Milan the honors due the wife of a conqueror who

held the fate of states in his hands, he in the field exhausted himself

in a frenzied struggle for victory—not victory for himself, so he told

Josephine, and so for a time, perhaps, he persuaded himself; but victory

because it pleased her that he win it; honor because she set store by

it; otherwise, said he, “I should leave all to throw myself at your

feet.”

All this impetuous passion wearied Josephine more and more. No response

was awakened in her heart. That she was proud of his love, there is no

doubt. She told everybody of his devotion, as well she might: it was her

passport to power. But she could not answer it in kind, and she found

excuses for her neglect in her health, which was not good at this time,

and in the social requirements of her brilliant and conspicuous

position, and frequently, too, in the fact that the life at Milan, gay

as it was, did not please her. She was homesick for Paris. “Monsieur de

Serbelloni will tell you, my dear aunt,” she wrote early in September,

“how I have been received in Italy, fêted wherever I have gone, all the

princes of Italy entertaining me, even the Grand Duke of Tuscany. Ah,

well! I would rather be a simple private individual in France; I do not

like the honors of this country, I am bored to death. It is true that my

health does much to make me sad; I am not well at all. If happiness

could bring health, I ought to be well. I have the kindest husband that

one could possibly find; I have not time to want anything; my will is

his; he is on his knees before me all day long, as if I were a divinity.

One could not have a better husband. M. de Serbelloni will tell you how

much I am loved; he writes often to my children and is very fond of

them.”

[Illustration:

JOSEPHINE.

By J. B. Isabey. (Collection of M. Edmond Taigny.) This portrait in

crayon, lightly touched with color, was executed at Malmaison,

probably in the course of the year 1798. It is very little known.

Isabey, whose pencil was quick and sure, must have requested

Josephine to pose for a few minutes after a walk in the park. This

sketch was given to M. Taigny by Isabey himself.—A. D.]

Not only did Josephine neglect to write to this “best husband in the

world”, as she herself called Bonaparte, but she spent many hours at

Milan in conspicuous flirtations with young officers who were glad

enough to pay her court. Vague rumors of these flirtations came to

Napoleon’s ears, no doubt, though it is certain he thought little of

them. There are references in his letters which might be attributed to

jealousy, but it is clear that his confidence in Josephine at this time

was such that a denial from her, an aggrieved look, a tear of reproach,

made him sue for pardon and forget his fears.

Aside from her carelessness about writing to him, the gravest complaint

that he had against her was her willingness to receive valuable gifts.

The treasures of Italy were open to the French, and Bonaparte was

sending quantities of rare art objects to Paris; but he declared it

highly improper that any of these things or any private gifts should go

to him or his suite. Josephine, however, had no scruples about gifts,

and accepted gladly the jewels, pictures, and _bibelots_ which were sent

her. More than one scene resulted from this indiscretion, but it always

ended in her keeping the treasure. She learned before she had been long

in Italy not to tell the General what had been given her, or if he

accused her of receiving gifts, to deny it.

But unhappy as Josephine made Bonaparte in his absence by her neglect

and her flirtations, she more than compensated for it by her amiability

when he returned. He had reason soon, too, to see that by her tact she

did much to help his cause in Italy. She was the embodiment of grace and

cheerfulness, she was familiar with the ways of good society, she had

tact with the republican element of the country, which prided itself on

its ideals and patriotism, and she appeased the nobles, who felt that

she was one of them. Napoleon had reason to say of Josephine’s influence

in Italy what he said later of her influence in Paris—that without it,

he could never have accomplished what he did. Her value in his plans was

particularly evident in the spring and summer of 1797, which they passed

together, partly at the palace of Serbelloni and partly at the chateau

of Montebello. Their life at this time was rather that of two crowned

heads than that of a general of an army and his wife. They lived in the

greatest state, protected by strict etiquette and surrounded by the

officers of the army of Italy and representatives from Austria and the

Italian states. Audiences with the General were daily sought by the

greatest men of Italy. In all this pageant of power Josephine moved as

naturally and easily as if she had been born to it. On every side she

won friends; no one came to the chateau who did not go away to praise

her good taste, her simplicity, her anxiety to please. She never

interfered in politics either, they said, though she was ever willing to

help a friend in securing the General’s favor; and all this praise was

deserved. Josephine’s good will was born of a kind heart. It was not

merely the complacency of indolence; she had no malice, she felt kindly

toward the whole world, she had all her life been willing to exhaust

every resource in her power for her friends. She was willing to do so

now, and she remained of this disposition to the end of her life. Such a

character makes a man or woman loved in any age, in any society,

whatever his faults. It made Josephine loved particularly in her age and

her society, where genuine kindness was rare and where her peculiar

faults—vices, perhaps one should say—were readily overlooked,

particularly if they were handled discreetly.

The fall of 1797, Napoleon passed in negotiations with Austria. For a

time Josephine was with him. Then restless and eager to see Italy, she

left him in October and went to Venice, where a splendid reception was

given her. From there she travelled as her fancy dictated in Northern

Italy. Everywhere she went she was received royally, and loaded with

gifts. She did not reach Paris until the first of January, 1798, nearly

a month after Napoleon.

She came back to find her husband the most talked of man in Europe. She

found, too, that her return was eagerly looked for because the General

absolutely refused to be lionized—even to appear at public functions,

without her. Her coming was thus the signal for a round of gaieties,

where, it must be confessed, Bonaparte played rather the part of a bear.

He would not leave Josephine’s side; he wanted to talk with her alone,

and he openly declared that he would rather stay at home with her than

go to the most brilliant reception Paris could offer. “I love my wife,”

he said seriously to those who chaffed him or remonstrated. With all his

dreams of ambition, it is certain that she filled his life as completely

now as she had nearly two years before, when he married her. As for

Josephine herself, she seems to have been completely satisfied now that

she was in Paris. She was the centre of an admiring circle; she was

loaded daily with presents, not only from cities and statesmen, but from

shop-keepers and manufacturers, eager to have her approval, to use her

name. Not since her marriage had she been so contented.

This satisfactory state of affairs was interrupted in May, when

Bonaparte sailed for Egypt. Josephine went to Toulon to see him off,

promising that she would soon follow him, and then retired to the

springs at Plombières for a season. It was fall before she returned to

Paris. When she did return, it was to plunge into a round of frivolity

and extravagance. The most conspicuous of her indiscretions was the

attentions she accepted from a young man—Hippolyte Charles—a former

adjutant to one of Napoleon’s generals. She had known him before she

went to Italy; indeed he had been in her party when she left for Milan

in 1796. At Milan he had paid her so assiduous court and had been so

encouraged that the news came to Napoleon’s ears, and Charles was

suddenly dismissed from the service. He had found a place in

Paris—through Josephine’s influence, the gossips said. At all events,

this young man reappeared now that Bonaparte was in Egypt, and became a

constant visitor at her house; and when, the summer following, she

bought Malmaison and took possession, Charles was her first guest. “You

had better get a divorce from Bonaparte and marry Charles,” some of her

plain-speaking friends told her.

When people as little scrupulous as Josephine herself reproved her, it

can be imagined what the effect would be on the Bonaparte family, most

of whom were now established in or near Paris. They had never cared for

Josephine, and never had had much to do with her. Lucien and Joseph were

the only members of the family who had seen her before her marriage to

Napoleon, and to all of them the marriage came as a shock, Bonaparte not

having announced it even to his mother. They looked upon her as an

interloper—one who might deprive them of some of the rewards of

Bonaparte’s genius: these rewards the entire family seem to have felt

from the first belonged to them and to them alone. No one of them had

had, until this winter, much opportunity to study Josephine. They were

irritated to find her so evidently a woman of higher rank than

themselves; they were disgusted at her extravagance and indiscretion.

Josephine, on her side, took little trouble to win them. After all, they

were only Corsicans, and not amusing like Napoleon. No doubt, she felt a

little towards them as Alexander de Beauharnais had felt towards her

when she first arrived in Paris—an untrained little islander, the

province speaking in every gesture. To Josephine’s credit, let it be

said, she never was guilty of trying to undermine the place of his

family in her husband’s affections; she never opposed their advancement;

she always, to the best of her ability, aided Napoleon in any plans he

had for them. It is much more than can be said of the Bonapartes’

attitude towards the Beauharnais.

Shocking to the Bonapartes as were Josephine’s flirtations, they looked

on her extravagance with even more horror. To Madame Bonaparte,

especially, it was an unforgivable sin; and, in fact, extravagance could

scarcely have gone farther. Bonaparte was not rich. Indeed he prided

himself on having returned from Italy poor. But he had left a fair

income in his brother Joseph’s hands—a part of which was to go to

Josephine. She, in utter disregard of the amount of this income, lived

in luxury, entertaining royally, and buying prodigally everything that

pleased her fancy. To meet her pressing demands, she borrowed right and

left. Finally, in the summer of 1799, she purchased Malmaison, a country

seat at which she and Napoleon had looked before he left for Egypt. The

purchasing price was about $50,000, and she had to borrow $3,000 for the

advance payment. She went immediately to the place, running in debt for

repairs and furnishings.

Joseph Bonaparte was deeply disgusted by Josephine’s reckless

expenditures, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she was

able to get any money from him. He was the more disobliging because he

and other members of the family believed that they now had proofs which

surely would convince Napoleon that Josephine was faithless and would

cause him to secure a divorce as soon as he returned from Italy. And,

indeed their cause had already advanced in Egypt far beyond their

knowledge. Joseph had, before Napoleon’s sailing, put such suspicions of

Josephine’s infidelity into his mind and referred him to such members of

his own staff for proof, that the General once at sea had investigated

the matter and become convinced of the truth of the charges. The

revelation caused him weeks of gloom. There was nothing left to live

for, he wrote Joseph. At twenty-nine he was disillusioned. Honors

wearied him, glory was colorless, sentiment dead, men without interest.

He should return to France and retire to the country. But he could not

abandon his post at once, and as the weeks went on recklessness

succeeded to gloom. If his wife was faithless, why should he be

faithful? From that time Josephine’s exclusive sway was broken. The man

who had for her sake spurned all women rode openly through the streets

of Cairo with a pretty little madame whose husband had been sent

suddenly to France. The glory of love was gone forever for Bonaparte,

and poor Josephine had lost the rarest jewel of her life. Perhaps the

saddest of it all was that she had never realized what she possessed,

never knew her loss.

How much Josephine knew of her husband’s change of feeling towards her

is uncertain. There is a letter in existence purporting to be hers,

written at this time in answer to accusations which Napoleon had made

from Egypt, in which she repels the charges with virtuous indignation

and attributes them to her enemies, presumably the Bonapartes:—

It is impossible, General (she writes), that the letter I have just

received comes from you? I can scarcely credit it when I compare

that letter with others now before me, to which your love imparts so

many charms! My eyes, indeed, would persuade me that your hand

traced these lines; but my heart refuses to believe that a letter

from you could ever have caused the mortal anguish I experience on

perusing these expressions of your displeasure, which afflict me the

more when I consider how much pain they must have cost you.

I know not what I have done to provoke some malignant enemy to

destroy my peace by disturbing yours; but certainly a powerful

motive must influence some one in continually renewing calumnies

against me, and giving them a sufficient appearance of probability

to impose on the man who has hitherto judged me worthy of his

affection and confidence. These two sentiments are necessary to my

happiness, and if they are to be so soon withdrawn from me, I can

only regret that I was ever blest in possessing them or knowing

you....

Instead of listening to traducers, who, for reasons which I cannot

explain, seek to disturb our happiness, why do you not silence them

by enumerating the benefits you have bestowed on a woman whose heart

could never be reproached with ingratitude? The knowledge of what

you have done for my children would check the malignity of these

calumniators, for they would then see that the strongest link of my

attachment for you depends on my character as a mother. Your

subsequent conduct, which has claimed the admiration of all Europe,

could have no other effect than to make me adore the husband who

gave me his hand when I was poor and unfortunate. Every step you

take adds to the glory of the name I bear; yet this is the moment

that has been selected for persuading you that I no longer love you!

Surely nothing can be more wicked and absurd than the conduct of

those who are about you, and are jealous of your marked superiority!

Yes, I still love you, and no less tenderly than ever. Those who

allege the contrary know that they speak falsely. To those very

persons I have frequently written to enquire about you and to

recommend them to console you by their friendship for the absence of

her who is your best and truest friend.

Yet what has been the conduct of the men in whom you repose

confidence, and on whose testimony you form so unjust an opinion of

me? They conceal from you every circumstance calculated to alleviate

the anguish of our separation, and they seek to fill your mind with

suspicion in order to drive you from a country with which they are

dissatisfied. Their object is to make you unhappy. I see this

plainly, though you are blind to their perfidious intentions. Being

no longer their equal, you have become their enemy, and every one of

your victories is a fresh ground of envy and hatred.

I know their intrigues, and I disdain to avenge myself by naming the

men whom I despise, but whose valor and talents may be useful to you

in the great enterprise which you have so propitiously commenced.

When you return, I will unmask these enemies of your glory—but no;

the happiness of seeing you again will banish from my recollection

the misery they are endeavoring to inflict upon me, and I shall

think only of what they have done to promote the success of your

projects.

I acknowledge that I see a great deal of company; for every one is

eager to compliment me on your success, and I confess I have not

resolution to close my door against those who speak of you. I also

confess that a great portion of my visitors are gentlemen. Men

understand your bold projects better than women, and they speak with

enthusiasm of your glorious achievements, while my female friends

only complain of you for having carried away their husbands,

brothers or fathers. I take no pleasure in their society if they do

not praise you; yet there are some among them whose hearts and

understandings claim my highest regard because they entertain

sincere friendship for you. In this number I may distinguish

Mesdames d’Aiguillon, Tallien, and my aunt. They are almost

constantly with me, and they can tell you, ungrateful as you are,

whether _I have been coquetting with everybody_. These are your

words, and they would be hateful to me were I not certain that you

have disavowed them and are sorry for having written them....

I sometimes receive honors here which cause me no small degree of

embarrassment. I am not accustomed to this sort of homage, and I see

it is displeasing to our authorities, who are always suspicious and

fearful of losing their newly-gotten power. Never mind them, you

will say; and I should not, but that I know they will try to injure

you, and I cannot endure the thought of contributing in any way to

those feelings of enmity which your triumphs sufficiently account

for. If they are envious now, what will they be when you return

crowned with fresh laurels? Heavens knows to what lengths their

malignity will then carry them! But you will be here, and then

nothing can vex me....

For my part, my time is occupied in writing to you, hearing your

praises, reading the journals, in which your name appears in every

page, thinking of you, looking forward to the time when I may see

you hourly, complaining of your absence, and longing for your

return; and when my task is ended, I begin it over again. Are all

these proofs of indifference? You will never have any others from

me, and if I receive no worse from you, I shall have no great reason

to complain, in spite of the ill-natured stories I hear about _a

certain lady_ in whom you are said to take a lively interest. But

why should I doubt you? You assure me that you love me, and, judging

of your heart by my own, I believe you.

Josephine seems not to have doubted her power to propitiate Napoleon on

his return. She did not count, however, on his brothers seeing him

before she did; but so it turned out. Bonaparte, with an eye to effect,

landed unexpectedly in France on October 6, 1799. The Bonaparte

brothers, as soon as they heard of his arrival, hurried southward

without notifying Josephine, whose first knowledge of his coming was

while she was dining out on October 10. She immediately started to meet

him, but took the wrong route. Returning to Paris alone, she found that

her husband had reached home twelve hours ahead of her.

Hastening to the little house in the rue de la Victoire,—a street that

had latterly changed its name in honor of him; and the house in which

she had first received him, which he had bought subsequently because of

its associations, and which he had declared, after his disillusion in

Egypt, that he should always keep,—Josephine found Napoleon locked in

his room. Joseph and Lucien had improved their opportunity, and wrung

from him a promise to see his wife no more—to secure a divorce. Throwing

herself on her knees before the door, Josephine wept and begged for

hours, until the door opened; and then, aided by Hortense and Eugène,

she sued for pardon. The power she still had over the man was too great

for him to resist long. The next morning, when the Bonaparte brothers

called, they found a reconciled household.

How complete the reconciliation was they realized when they saw Napoleon

paying the $200,000 and more due at Malmaison and settling the debts to

servants, merchants, jewelers, caterers, florists, liverymen, everybody,

in fact, which Josephine had contracted right and left in his absence.

Not only did he pay her obligations with little more than a grimace, but

he entered heartily into her plans for repairing and beautifying their

new home. The two appeared constantly together in public, where their

evident happiness coming so close upon the rumors of a divorce, caused

endless gossip.

CHAPTER IV

BONAPARTE IS MADE FIRST CONSUL—JOSEPHINE’S TACT IN PUBLIC LIFE—HER

PERSONAL CHARM—MALMAISON

Josephine realized fully that if her victory over her brothers-in-law

was complete, it could endure only during her own good behavior—that, if

she ever again gave them reason for complaining of her conduct, she

probably would have to suffer the full penalty of her wrongdoing. She

must have realized, too, that the supreme power she had once exercised

over Napoleon was at an end, that he could get along very well without

her. The absorbing passion of the Italian campaign had become the

comfortable, unexacting affection which would have been so welcome to

her in 1796. The change, if more peaceable, brought its dangers, she

well knew. It meant that if she kept him now, she not only must be

irreproachable in her life, but she must foster his affection by her

devotion, amuse him, stand by him in his ambition; she must be the

suitor now. There was no question in her mind that he was worth it. If

there ever had been, the wonderful enthusiasm of the people on his

return from Egypt would have dissipated the doubt. Her course was

evident, and she adopted it immediately, and applied herself to it with

more seriousness than she ever had given to anything before in her life.

Indeed, the only serious purpose consistently followed which is to be

found in Josephine’s life is the resolve taken after the Egyptian

campaign, unconsciously, no doubt, to keep what remained to her of

Napoleon’s affection, to make herself necessary to him.

An opportunity to show him how useful she might be in his career came

very soon. The _coup d’état_ of the 18th and 19th Brumaire (9th and 10th

November, 1799) resulted in Napoleon’s being made First Consul in the

new government which took the place of the Directory. The Bonapartes

went at once to the Luxembourg Palace to live, and remained there until

February, when the Tuileries was made the Government House. As the First

Lady of the Land, Josephine was in a position where she could be an

infinite harm or help to her husband. Any flippancy, self-will, or

malice in managing the crowds of people she saw from day to day would

have been fatal both to her and to Napoleon. The tact she showed from

the first in playing the hostess of France was exquisite. That a woman

who for thirty-seven years had been the plaything of fate, who had shown

no moral principle or high purpose in meeting the crises of her life,

whose chief aim had always been pleasure, and whose only weapons had

been her sweet temper and her tears, should preside over the official

society of a newly-formed government and not only make no mistakes, but

every day knit the discordant elements of that society more close, is

one of the marvels of feminine intuition and adaptability.

No doubt but that with Josephine her perfect goodness of heart was at

the bottom of her tact. She had no malice, she much preferred to see

even her enemies happy rather than miserable, and though she might weep

and complain of their unkindness, if she had an opportunity she would do

them a favor. Her goodness impressed everybody. The most disgruntled,

after passing a few moments with the wife of the First Consul, went away

mollified, if not satisfied; and a second visit usually satisfied them.

She flattered the rough soldiers, when Napoleon, always eager to show

attention to the army, presented them to her, by her knowledge of their

deeds. She softened the suspicions of the radical Republicans by her

affectation of _sans-culottism_ and her familiarity with the members of

the Girondin and Terrorist governments. She aroused hope among the

aristocrats that she would secure them favors from the government—was

she not one of themselves? Was not her first husband a viscount and a

victim of the guillotine. She really wanted everybody to be pleased, and

by her mere amiability she came as near as a human being can to pleasing

everybody.

She was wise, too, in her dealings with people. She never pretended to

know anything about politics—that was Napoleon’s business; but if she

could do them a favor, she would; and straightway she wrote a note or

took her carriage to intercede, personally, for them. If she was

refused, she explained with much pains just why it was; if she

succeeded, she was as pleased as a child. Hundreds of her little notes

soliciting favors, are to be seen in the collections in Europe. Napoleon

allowed her a free hand in this matter, for he appreciated how purely it

was good will, not any desire to mix in politics, which animated her. He

realized, too, how valuable to the First Consul it was to have some one

who always made a friend, whether she secured a favor or not.

No doubt much of Josephine’s influence was due to her personal charm.

She was never strictly a beautiful woman, but her grace was so

exquisite, her toilet so perfect, her expression so winning, that

defects were forgotten in the delight of her personality. Madame de

Remusat, in describing Josephine, says that without being beautiful, she

possessed a peculiar charm. Her features were fine and harmonious; her

expression was pleasant; her mouth, which was small, concealed skilfully

her poor teeth; her complexion, which was rather dark, was helped out by

rouge and powder; her form was perfect, her limbs being supple and

delicate, and every movement of her body was easy. “I never knew

anyone,” Mme. de Remusat writes, “to whom one could apply more

appropriately La Fontaine’s verse, ‘_Et la grâce, plus belle encore que

la beauté._’”

One of Josephine’s greatest charms was her voice: it was soft, well

modulated, and very musical; it always put Napoleon under a peculiar

spell. She was an excellent reader, and seemed never to tire of reading

aloud. In the intimacy of their apartments she spent much time reading

aloud to Napoleon, and often, when he was sleepless after a hard day,

she would sit by his bed with a book until he fell asleep. Many of those

who heard her read have said that the charm of her voice was such that

one forgot entirely what she was saying and listened simply to the music

of the sound.

Constant says, in describing Josephine: “She was of medium height and of

a rarely perfect form; her movements were supple and light, making her

walk something fairylike, without preventing a certain majesty becoming

to a sovereign; her face changed with every thought of her soul, and

never lost its charming sweetness; in pleasure as in sorrow she was

always beautiful to look upon. There never was a woman who demonstrated

better than she that ‘the eyes are the mirror of the soul;’ hers were of

a deep blue, and almost always half closed by her long lids, which were

slightly arched and bordered with the most beautiful lashes in the

world. Her hair was very beautiful, long and soft; she liked to dress it

in the morning with a red Madras handkerchief, which gave her a Creole

air, most piquant to see.”

[Illustration:

JOSEPHINE AT MALMAISON.

By Prud’hon. This charming portrait, which is one of Prud’hon’s most

successful works, and also one of the most graceful and faithful

likenesses of Josephine, was doubtless executed at the same time as

Isabey’s picture of Napoleon wandering, a solitary dreamer, in the

long alleys at Malmaison (1798). (See page 88.) Prud’hon shows us

Josephine in the garden of the château she loved so well, and in

which she spent the happiest moments of her life, before seeking it

as a final refuge in her grief and despair. The empress presents a

full-length portrait, turned to the left; she is seated on a stone

bench amid the groves of the park, in an attitude of reverie, and

wears a white _décolletté_ robe embroidered in gold. A crimson shawl

is draped round her.—A. D.]

Josephine showed her wisdom, from the beginning of the Consulate, in

yielding to Napoleon’s wishes about whom she should receive. The First

Consul’s notions of official society were severe and well-matured.

Nobody should be admitted that did not support his government. At least,

if they criticised, they must do so quietly. The army must be honored

there before all. The Republicans must be made to feel, of course, that

this was their society. The aristocrats must be encouraged just as far

as it could be done without giving the people alarm. A fusion of all

elements was really what he aimed at, but nobody dared mention that

fact. Josephine’s intuition seems to have guided her almost unerringly

through the difficult task of giving just the right amount of

encouragement and attention to each.

Above all, in this new society there must be no irregularities, no

scandals. The government must be respectable. There should be no

speculators, no contractors, no fakirs, no persons of immorality of any

sort; only honest people, and they must behave. Order, decency, and

dignity were to prevail in the Consulate. No more impromptu suppers for

Josephine, no more dinners with Barras and Mme. Tallien and their like,

no more moonlight walks in the garden at Malmaison. _La vie Bohème_ was

ended, and she was wise enough to accept the situation and make the most

of it.

For nearly two years the entertainments over which Josephine presided as

wife of the First Consul were very simple. There were balls and parades

and fêtes, but they were conducted like such functions in a great

private house, where there is only the necessary etiquette to insure

order and comfort. It was a republican court which was held at the

Tuileries and at Malmaison—for the country home of the Bonapartes had

come to be almost an official residence, so much of their time was spent

there and so many were the visitors who came there. The place was a

great delight to Josephine. She was having the chateau rebuilt and the

gardens laid out over again, and she was indulging her caprices fully in

doing it. She must have a new dining-room, large enough to seat a great

diplomatic dinner party, if necessary. There must be a new billiard

room, a new library, new private apartments, more room for guests and

servants, more stable room. But to build over an old house in this

elaborate way was no easy task, particularly when the proprietor

enlarged and changed his plans each month. The architects warned

Bonaparte that it would be cheaper to pull down the old chateau than to

rebuild, but the work was under way, and it must go on. A year and a

half after the repairs began, and before anything was completed, the

bills were sent in—$120,000 had already been spent. “For what?” demanded

the enraged First Consul. Protest as he would the work had to continue.

For years Malmaison was a constant expense—for Josephine, never

satisfied, was always enlarging and changing. In the end, the chateau

was nearly double its original size, but its exterior never had any real

distinction. The interior, however, was most interesting from the great

number of rare and beautiful art objects which it contained and which,

for the most part, Josephine had either received as gifts or had brought

from Italy. There was a wonderful mantel of white marble, ornamented

with mosaic, given to her by the Pope, and there were vases of Berlin

from the King of Prussia. There were rare specimens of the ancient and

modern works of all the Italian painters, sculptors, potters, metal

workers, and there were pictures by all the great French artists of the

day, among them many portraits of Napoleon—in Egypt, in Italy, crossing

the Alps.

Josephine took even more interest in the park and gardens at Malmaison

than in the chateau. She was passionately fond of flowers, and

immediately undertook to cultivate at Malmaison a garden of rare plants,

similar to that which Marie Antoinette had started at the Petit Trianon.

This soon became, at the suggestion of the professional botanists she

called in to assist her in collecting her plants, a veritable Botanical

Garden. She gathered from the world over, and her fancy becoming known,

ambassadors, merchants, and travellers, foreign and French, exerted

themselves to please her. In the end, thanks to the skilful gardeners

she secured, her plants became of large public value and interest.

Masson says that between 1804 and 1814, 184 new species of plants found

their way into the country through Josephine’s garden. The eucalyptus,

hybiscus, catalpa, and camelia were first cultivated by her, not to

speak of many varieties of heather, myrtle, geranium, cactus, and

rhododendron.

When she first owned Malmaison, the land was in park or in vines, and

there were some long avenues of fine trees. There was none of the

complicated English gardening which was then in fashion. Josephine would

have nothing else. So the fine allées and lawns were destroyed, and

groups of shrubs, long rows of hedges, a brook, lakes, winding paths, a

Swiss village, a temple of love, grottoes, a cascade, an endless variety

of artificial and sentimental devices, took their place. To decorate

this park of Malmaison to Josephine’s liking, the government turned over

to her dozens of bronze and marble busts, vases, columns, and statues,

some of them of great value.

One curious and amusing feature of the park was the animals it

contained. Josephine was as fond of pets as of flowers. She always had

one or more dogs from which she was never separated—not even Napoleon

could make her give them up, much as he detested them. At Malmaison, she

gave free rein to her liking. Birds were her chief delight, and she

bought scores. In three years her bill for birds from one dealer was

over $4,500. The lakes were filled with swans, black and white, and

ducks from America and China; in the parks were kangaroos, deer,

gazelles, a chamois; there were monkeys everywhere; and there were no

end of trained pets of all kinds—usually gifts. None of these animals

were of any practical use; to be sure there was a flock of valuable

sheep, but these were kept merely as a decoration to a certain field,

the shepherds who guarded them having been brought in their native

costumes from Switzerland.

[Illustration: