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Makers of History
Hortense
BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT
WITH ENGRAVINGS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1902
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
Copyright, 1898, by LAURA A. BUCK.
[Illustration: HORTENSE.]
PREFACE.
The French Revolution was perhaps as important an event as has occurred
in the history of nations. It was a drama in three acts. The first was
the Revolution itself, properly so called, with its awful scenes of
terror and of blood--the exasperated millions struggling against the
accumulated oppression of ages.
The second act in the drama was the overthrow of the Directory by
Napoleon, and the introduction of the Consulate and the Empire; the
tremendous struggle against the combined dynasties of Europe; the
demolition of the Empire, and the renewed crushing of the people by the
triumph of the nobles and the kings.
Then came the third act in the drama--perhaps the last, perhaps not--in
which the French people again drove out the Bourbons, re-established the
Republican Empire, with its principle of equal rights for all, and
placed upon the throne the heir of the great Emperor.
No man can understand the career of Napoleon I. without being acquainted
with those scenes of anarchy and terror which preceded his reign. No man
can understand the career of Napoleon III. unless familiar with the
struggle of the people against the despots in the Revolution, their
triumph in the Empire, their defeat in its overthrow, and their renewed
triumph in its restoration.
Hortense was intimately associated with all these scenes. Her father
fell beneath the slide of the guillotine; her mother was imprisoned and
doomed to die; and she and her brother were turned penniless into the
streets. By the marriage of her mother with Napoleon, she became the
daughter of the Emperor, and one of the most brilliant and illustrious
ladies of the imperial court. The triumph of the Allies sent her into
exile, where her influence and her instruction prepared her son to
contribute powerfully to the restoration of the Empire, and to reign
with ability which is admired by his friends and acknowledged by his
foes. The mother of Napoleon III. never allowed her royally-endowed son
to forget, even in the gloomiest days of exile and of sorrow, that it
might yet be his privilege to re-establish the Republican Empire, and to
restore the dynasty of the people from its overthrow by the despotic
Allies.
In this brief record of the life of one who experienced far more than
the usual vicissitudes of humanity, whose career was one of the saddest
upon record, and who ever exhibited virtues which won the enthusiastic
love of all who knew her, the writer has admitted nothing which can not
be sustained by incontrovertible evidence, and has suppressed nothing
sustained by any testimony worthy of a moment's respect. This history
will show that Hortense had her faults. Who is without them? There are
not many, however, who will read these pages without profound admiration
for the character of one of the noblest of women, and without finding
the eye often dimmed, in view of her heart-rending griefs.
This volume will soon be followed by the History of Louis Philippe.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. PARENTAGE AND BIRTH 15
II. MARRIAGE OF JOSEPHINE AND GENERAL BONAPARTE 49
III. HORTENSE AND DUROC 80
IV. THE MARRIAGE OF HORTENSE 110
V. THE BIRTH OF LOUIS NAPOLEON AND THE DIVORCE OF JOSEPHINE 148
VI. THE DEATH OF JOSEPHINE 179
VII. THE SORROWS OF EXILE 211
VIII. PEACEFUL DAYS, YET SAD 239
IX. LIFE AT ARENEMBERG 293
X. LETTER FROM LOUIS NAPOLEON TO HIS MOTHER 322
XI. DEATH OF HORTENSE, AND THE ENTHRONEMENT OF HER SON 358
ENGRAVINGS.
PAGE
HORTENSE _Frontispiece._
JOSEPHINE TAKING LEAVE OF HER CHILDREN 38
THE RECONCILIATION 76
THE LOVE-LETTER 104
THE LITTLE PRINCE NAPOLEON 129
THE DIVORCE ANNOUNCED 165
THE DEATH OF MADAME BROC 194
HORTENSE AND HER CHILDREN 218
HORTENSE AT ARENEMBERG 248
INTERVIEW IN THE COLISEUM 271
THE STUDY OF LOUIS NAPOLEON 307
THE ARREST 336
HORTENSE.
CHAPTER I.
PARENTAGE AND BIRTH.
1776-1794
Josephine's voyage to France.--Viscount de Beauharnais.--Josephine's
reluctance.--Marriage.--Birth of Eugene.--Birth of Hortense.--Separation
from Beauharnais.--Return to Martinique.--Revisits France.--The jewel
caskets.--The old pair of shoes.--Commencement of the Reign of
Terror.--Arrest of Beauharnais.--Domiciliary visit.--Beauharnais in
prison.--Affecting interview.--Scene in prison.--Trial of
Beauharnais.--Anguish of Josephine.--Arrest of Josephine.--Impulsiveness
of Hortense.--Letter from Josephine.--Letter from Beauharnais.--Execution
of Beauharnais.--Josephine to her children.
In the year 1776 a very beautiful young lady, by the name of Josephine
Rose Tascher, was crossing the Atlantic Ocean from the island of
Martinique to France. She was but fifteen years of age; and, having been
left an orphan in infancy, had been tenderly reared by an uncle and
aunt, who were wealthy, being proprietors of one of the finest
plantations upon the island. Josephine was accompanied upon the voyage
by her uncle. She was the betrothed of a young French nobleman by the
name of Viscount Alexander de Beauharnais, who had recently visited
Martinique, and who owned several large estates adjoining the property
which Josephine would probably inherit.
It was with great reluctance that Josephine yielded to the importunities
of her friends and accepted the proffered hand of the viscount. Her
affections had long been fixed upon a play-mate of her childhood by the
name of William, and her love was passionately returned. William was
then absent in France, pursuing his education. De Beauharnais was what
would usually be called a very splendid man. He was of high rank, young,
rich, intelligent, and fascinating in his manners. The marriage of
Josephine with the viscount would unite the properties. Her friends, in
their desire to accomplish the union, cruelly deceived Josephine. They
intercepted the letters of William, and withheld her letters to him, and
represented to her that William, amidst the gayeties of Paris, had
proved a false lover, and had entirely forgotten her. De Beauharnais,
attracted by the grace and beauty of Josephine, had ardently offered her
his hand. Under these circumstances the inexperienced maiden had
consented to the union, and was now crossing the Atlantic with her uncle
for the consummation of the nuptials in France.
Upon her arrival she was conducted to Fontainebleau, where De
Beauharnais hastened to meet her. Proud of her attractions, he took
great pleasure in introducing her to his high-born friends, and
lavished upon her every attention. Josephine was grateful, but sad, for
her heart still yearned for William. Soon William, hearing of her
arrival, and not knowing of her engagement, anxiously repaired to
Fontainebleau. The interview was agonizing. William still loved her with
the utmost devotion. They both found that they had been the victims of a
conspiracy, though one of which De Beauharnais had no knowledge.
Josephine, young, inexperienced, far from home, and surrounded by the
wealthy and powerful friends of her betrothed, had gone too far in the
arrangements for the marriage to recede. Her anguish, however, was so
great that she was thrown into a violent fever. She had no friend to
whom she could confide her emotions. But in most affecting tones she
entreated that her marriage might be delayed for a few months until she
should regain her health. Her friends consented, and she took refuge for
a time in the Convent of Panthemont, under the tender care of the
sisters.
It is not probable that De Beauharnais was at all aware of the real
state of Josephine's feelings. He was proud of her, and loved her as
truly as a fashionable man of the world could love. It is also to be
remembered that at that time in France it was not customary for young
ladies to have much influence in the choice of their husbands. It was
supposed that their parents could much more judiciously arrange these
matters than the young ladies themselves.
Josephine was sixteen years of age at the time of her marriage. Her
attractions were so remarkable that she immediately became a great
favorite at the French court, to which the rank of her husband
introduced her. Marie Antoinette was then the youthful bride of Louis
XVI. She was charmed with Josephine, and lavished upon her the most
flattering attentions. Two children were born of this marriage, both of
whom attained world-wide renown. The first was a son, Eugene. He was
born in September, 1781. His career was very elevated, and he occupied
with distinguished honor all the lofty positions to which he was raised.
He became duke of Leuchtenberg, prince of Eichstedt, viceroy of Italy.
He married the Princess Augusta, daughter of the King of Bavaria.
"Prince Eugene, under a simple exterior, concealed a noble character and
great talents. Honor, integrity, humanity, and love of order and
justice were the principal traits of his character. Wise in the council,
undaunted in the field, and moderate in the exercise of power, he never
appeared greater than in the midst of reverses, as the events of 1813
and 1814 prove. He was inaccessible to the spirit of party, benevolent
and beneficent, and more devoted to the good of others than his own."[A]
[Footnote A: Encyclopædia Americana.]
The second child was a daughter, Hortense, the subject of this brief
memoir. She was born on the 10th of January, 1783. In the opening scenes
of that most sublime of earthly tragedies, the French Revolution, M. de
Beauharnais espoused the popular cause, though of noble blood, and
though his elder brother, the Marquis de Beauharnais, earnestly
advocated the cause of the king and the court.
The entire renunciation of the Christian religion was then popular in
France. Alexander de Beauharnais, like most of his young pleasure-loving
companions, was an infidel. His conduct soon became such that the heart
of poor Josephine was quite broken. Her two children, Eugene and
Hortense, both inherited the affectionate and gentle traits of their
mother, and were her only solace. In her anguish she unguardedly wrote
to her friends in Martinique, who had almost forced her into her
connection with Beauharnais:
"Were it not for my children, I should, without a pang, renounce France
forever. My duty requires me to forget William. And yet, if _we_ had
been united together, I should not to-day have been troubling you with
my griefs."
Viscount Beauharnais chanced to see this letter. It roused his jealousy
fearfully. A sense of "honor" would allow him to lavish his attentions
upon guilty favorites, while that same sense of "honor" would urge him
to wreak vengeance upon his unhappy, injured wife, because, in her
neglect and anguish, with no false, but only a true affection, her
memory turned to the loved companion of her childhood. According to the
standard of the fashionable world, Beauharnais was a very honorable man.
According to the standard of Christianity, he was a sinner in the sight
of God, and was to answer for this conduct at the final judgment.
He reproached his wife in the severest language of denunciation. He took
from her her son Eugene. He applied to the courts for a divorce,
demanding his daughter Hortense also. Josephine pleaded with him in
vain, for the sake of their children, not to proclaim their disagreement
to the world. Grief-stricken, poor Josephine retired to a convent to
await the trial. The verdict was triumphantly in her favor. But her
heart was broken. She was separated from her husband, though the legal
tie was not severed.
Her friends in Martinique, informed of these events, wrote, urging her
to return to them. She decided to accept the invitation. Hortense was
with her mother. M. de Beauharnais had sent Eugene, whom he had taken
from her, to a boarding-school. Before sailing for Martinique she
obtained an interview with M. de Beauharnais, and with tears entreated
that she might take Eugene with her also. He was unrelenting; Josephine,
with a crushed and world-weary heart, folded Hortense to her bosom, then
an infant but three years of age, and returned to her tropical home,
which she had sadly left but a few years before. Here, on the retired
plantation, soothed by the sympathy of her friends, she strove to
conceal her anguish.
There was never a more loving heart than that with which Josephine was
endowed. She clung to Hortense with tenderness which has rarely been
equalled. They were always together. During the day Hortense was ever by
her side, and at night she nestled in her mother's bosom. Living amidst
the scenes of tropical luxuriance and beauty, endeared to her by the
memories of childhood, Josephine could almost have been happy but for
the thoughts of her absent Eugene. Grief for her lost child preyed ever
upon her heart.
Her alienated husband, relieved from all restraint, plunged anew into
those scenes of fashionable dissipation for which Paris was then
renowned. But sickness, sorrows, and misfortunes came. In those dark
hours he found that no earthly friend can supply the place of a virtuous
and loving wife. He wrote to her, expressing bitter regret for his
conduct, and imploring her to return. The wounds which Josephine had
received were too deep to be easily healed. Forgiving as she was by
nature, she said to her friends that the memory of the past was so
painful that, were it not for Eugene, she should very much prefer not to
return to France again, but to spend the remainder of her days in the
seclusion of her native island. Her friends did every thing in their
power to dissuade her from returning. But a mother's love for her son
triumphed, and with Hortense she took ship for France.
An event occurred upon this voyage which is as instructive as it is
interesting. Many years afterwards, when Josephine was Empress of
France, and the wealth of the world was almost literally at her feet, on
one occasion some young ladies who were visiting the court requested
Josephine to show them her diamonds. These jewels were almost of
priceless value, and were kept in a vault, the keys of which were
confided to the most trusty persons. Josephine, who seldom wore jewels,
very amiably complied with their request. A large table was brought into
the saloon. Her maids in waiting brought in a great number of caskets,
of every size and form, containing the precious gems.
As these caskets were opened, they were dazzled with the brilliancy, the
size, and the number of these ornaments. The different sets composed
probably by far the most brilliant collection in Europe. In Napoleon's
conquering career, the cities which he had entered lavished their gifts
upon Josephine. The most remarkable of these jewels consisted of large
white diamonds. There were others in the shape of pears formed of
pearls of the richest colors. There were opals, rubies, sapphires, and
emeralds of such marvellous value that the large diamonds that encircled
them were considered as mere mountings not regarded in the estimation
made of the value of the jewels.
As the ladies gazed upon the splendor of this collection, they were lost
in wonder and admiration. Josephine, after enjoying for a while their
expressions of delight, and having allowed them to examine the beautiful
gems thoroughly, said to them kindly:
"I had no other motive, in ordering my jewels to be opened before you,
than to spoil your fancy for such ornaments. After having seen such
splendid sets, you can never feel a wish for inferior ones; the less so
when you reflect how unhappy I have been, although with so rare a
collection at my command. During the first dawn of my extraordinary
elevation, I delighted in these trifles, many of which were presented to
me in Italy. I grew by degrees so tired of them that I no longer wear
any, except when I am in some respects compelled to do so by my new rank
in the world. A thousand accidents may, besides, contribute to deprive
me of these brilliant, though useless objects. Do I not possess the
pendants of Queen Marie Antoinette? And yet am I quite sure of retaining
them? Trust to me, ladies, and do not envy a splendor which does not
constitute happiness. I shall not fail to surprise you when I relate
that I once felt more pleasure at receiving an old pair of shoes than at
being presented with all the diamonds which are now spread before you."
The young ladies could not help smiling at this observation, persuaded
as they were that Josephine was not in earnest. But she repeated her
assertions in so serious a manner that they felt the utmost curiosity to
hear the story of this _wonderful pair of shoes_.
"I repeat it, ladies," said her majesty, "it is strictly true, that the
present which, of all others, has afforded me most pleasure was a pair
of old shoes of the coarsest leather; and you will readily believe it
when you have heard my story.
"I had set sail from Martinique, with Hortense, on board a ship in which
we received such marked attentions that they are indelibly impressed on
my memory. Being separated from my first husband, my pecuniary resources
were not very flourishing. The expense of my return to France, which
the state of my affairs rendered necessary, had nearly drained me of
every thing, and I found great difficulty in making the purchases which
were indispensably requisite for the voyage. Hortense, who was a smart,
lively child, sang negro songs, and performed negro dances with
admirable accuracy. She was the delight of the sailors, and, in return
for their fondness, she made them her favorite company. I no sooner fell
asleep than she slipped upon deck and rehearsed her various little
exercises, to the renewed delight and admiration of all on board.
"An old mate was particularly fond of her, and whenever he found a
moment's leisure from his daily occupations, he devoted it to his little
friend, who was also exceedingly attached to him. My daughter's shoes
were soon worn out with her constant dancing and skipping. Knowing as
she did that I had no other pair for her, and fearing lest I should
prevent her going upon deck if I should discover the plight of those she
was fast wearing away, she concealed the trifling accident from my
knowledge. I saw her once returning with bleeding feet, and asked her,
in the utmost alarm, if she had hurt herself; 'No, mamma.' 'But your
feet are bleeding.' 'It really is nothing.' I insisted upon ascertaining
what ailed her, and found that her shoes were all in tatters, and her
flesh dreadfully torn by a nail.
"We had as yet only performed half the voyage; a long time would
necessarily elapse before I could procure a fresh pair of shoes; I was
mortified at the bare anticipation of the distress my poor Hortense
would feel at being compelled to remain confined in my wretched little
cabin, and of the injury her health might experience from the want of
exercise. At the moment when I was wrapped up in sorrow, and giving free
vent to my tears, our friend the mate made his appearance, and inquired,
with his honest bluntness, the cause of our _whimperings_. Hortense
replied, in a sobbing voice, that she could no longer go upon deck
because she had torn her shoes, and I had no others to give her.
"'Is that all?' said the sailor. 'I have an old pair in my trunk; let me
go for them. You, madame, will cut them up, and I shall sew them over
again to the best of my power; every thing on board ship shall be turned
to account; this is not the place for being too nice or particular; we
have our most important wants gratified when we have the needful.'
"He did not wait for our reply, but went in quest of his old shoes,
which he brought to us with an air of exultation, and offered them to
Hortense, who received the gift with every demonstration of delight.
"We set to work with the greatest alacrity, and my daughter was enabled,
towards the close of the day, to enjoy the pleasure of again amusing the
ship's company. I repeat it, that no present was ever received by me
with more sincere gratitude. I greatly reproach myself for having
neglected to make inquiries after the worthy seaman, who was only known
on board by the name of James. I should have felt a sincere satisfaction
in rendering him some service, since it was afterwards in my power to do
so."
Josephine had spent three years in Martinique. Consequently, upon her
return to France, Hortense was six years of age. Soon after her arrival
the Reign of Terror commenced. The guillotine was erected, and its knife
was busy beheading those who were suspected of not being in full
sympathy with the reformers whom revolution had brought into power.
Though Viscount Beauharnais had earnestly espoused the popular cause;
though he had been president of the National Assembly, and afterwards
general of the Army of the Rhine, still he was of noble birth, and his
older brother was an aristocrat, and an emigrant. He was consequently
suspected, and arrested. Having conducted him to prison, a committee of
the Convention called at the residence of Josephine to examine the
children, hoping to extort from them some evidence against their father.
Josephine, in a letter to her aunt, thus describes this singular scene:
"You would hardly believe, dear aunt, that my children have just
undergone a long and minute examination. That wicked old man, the
member of the committee whom I have already mentioned to you, called
upon me, and, affecting to feel uneasy in regard to my husband, and to
converse with me respecting him, opened a conversation with my children.
I acknowledge that I at first fell into the snare. What surprised me,
however, was the sudden affability of the man. But he soon betrayed
himself by the malignity and even bitterness which he displayed when the
children replied in such a manner as to give him no advantage over
their unhappy parents. I soon penetrated his artful intentions.
"When he found me on my guard, he threw off the mask, and admitted that
he was desired to procure information from my children, which, he said,
might be more relied on, as it would bear the stamp of candor. He then
entered into a formal examination. At that moment I felt an
indescribable emotion; and the conflicting effects of fear, anger, and
indignation alternately agitated me. I was even upon the point of openly
giving vent to my feelings against the hoary revolutionist, when I
reflected that I might, by so doing, materially injure M. de
Beauharnais, against whom that atrocious villain appeared to have vowed
perpetual enmity. I accordingly checked my angry passions. He desired me
to leave him alone with my children; I attempted to resist, but his
ferocious glance compelled me to give way.
"He confined Hortense in the closet, and began to put questions to her
brother. My daughter's turn came next. As for this child, in whom he
discovered a premature quickness and penetration far above her age, he
kept questioning her for a great length of time. After having sounded
them respecting our common topics of conversation, our opinions, the
visits and letters we were in the habit of receiving, but more
particularly the occurrences they might have witnessed, he came to the
main point--I mean, to the expressions used by Alexander. My children
gave very proper replies; such, in fact, as were suited to their
respective dispositions. And notwithstanding the artfulness of a
mischievous man whose object is to discover guilt, the frankness of my
son and the quick penetration of my daughter disconcerted his low
cunning, and even defeated the object he had in view."
Viscount Beauharnais, when arrested, was conveyed to the palace of the
Luxembourg, where he was imprisoned with many other captives. To spare
the feelings of the children, the fact of his imprisonment was concealed
from them by Josephine, and they were given to understand that their
father, not being very well, had placed himself under the care of a
celebrated physician, who had recommended him to take up his residence
at the Luxembourg, where there was much vacant space, and consequently
purer air. The imprisoned father was very anxious to see his wife and
children. The authorities consented, allowing the children to go in
first under the care of an attendant, and afterwards their mother.
Hortense, child as she was, was bewildered by the scene, and her
suspicions were evidently excited. As she came out, she said to her
mother, "I think papa's apartments are very small, and the patients are
very numerous."
After the children had left, Josephine was introduced. She knew that her
husband's life was in imminent peril. His penitence and grateful love
had produced entire reconciliation, and had won back Josephine's heart.
She was not willing that the children should witness the tender and
affecting interview which, under such circumstances, must take place.
Beauharnais had but little hope that he should escape the guillotine. As
Josephine, bathed in tears, rushed into his arms, all his fortitude
forsook him. His emotion was so great that his wife, struggling against
her own anguish, used her utmost endeavors to calm and console him.
In the midst of this heart-rending scene, to their consternation, the
children, by some misunderstanding, were again led into the apartment.
The father and mother struggled to disguise from them the cause of that
emotion which they could not conceal. For a time the children were
silent and bewildered; then Hortense, though with evident misgivings,
attempted to console her parents. The events of her saddened life had
rendered her unusually precocious. Turning to her mother, she begged her
not to give way to so much sorrow, assuring her that she could not think
that her father was dangerously ill. Then addressing Eugene, she said,
in a peculiar tone which her parents felt as a reproach,
"I do not think, brother, that papa is very sick. At any rate, it is not
such a sickness as doctors can cure." Josephine felt the reproach, and
conscious that it was in some degree deserved, said:
"What do you mean, my child? Do you think your father and I have
combined to deceive you?"
"Pardon me, mamma, but I do think so."
"Oh, sister," exclaimed Eugene, "how can you speak so strangely?"
"On the contrary," Hortense replied, "it is very plain and natural.
Surely affectionate parents may be allowed to deceive their children
when they wish to spare their feelings."
Josephine was seated in the lap of her husband. Hortense sprang into
her mother's arms, and encircled the neck of both father and mother in a
loving embrace. Eugene caught the contagion, and by his tears and
affecting caresses added to this domestic scene of love and woe.
It is the universal testimony that Eugene and Hortense were so lovely in
person and in character that they instantly won the affection of all who
saw them. The father was conscious that he was soon to die. He knew that
all his property would be confiscated. It was probable that Josephine
would also be led to her execution. The guillotine spared neither sex
who had incurred the suspicions of enthroned democracy. Both parents
forgot themselves, in their anxiety for their children. The execution of
Beauharnais would undoubtedly lead to the arrest and execution of
Josephine. The property of the condemned was invariably confiscated.
There was thus danger that the children would be turned in beggary into
the streets. It is difficult to conceive the anguish which must have
rent the hearts of affectionate parents in hours of woe so awful.
The prisons were crowded with victims. Brief as were the trials, and
rapid as was the execution of the guillotine, there was some
considerable delay before Beauharnais was led before the revolutionary
tribunal. In the mean time Josephine made several calls, with her
children, upon her imprisoned husband. Little Hortense, whose suspicions
were strongly excited, watched every word, and soon became so convinced
that her father was a prisoner that it became impossible for her parents
any longer to conceal the fact.
"What has papa done," inquired Hortense, "that they will not let him
come home?"
"He has done nothing wrong," said Josephine, timidly, for she knew not
what spies might be listening. "He is only accused of being unfriendly
to the Government."
Holding the hand of Eugene, Hortense exclaimed impetuously, "Oh, we will
punish your accusers as soon as we are strong enough."
"Be silent, my child," said her father anxiously. "If you are overheard
I am lost. Both your mother and I may be made to suffer for any
imprudent remark which you may make."
"But, papa, have you not often told us," said Eugene, "that it was
proper to resist an act of oppression?"
"Yes," said the father proudly, though conscious that his words might be
reported and misrepresented to his merciless judges. "And I repeat it.
Our conduct, however, must be guided by rules of prudence; and whoever
attempts to defeat the views of tyranny must beware of awaking it from
its slumbers."
No philosophy has yet been able to explain the delicate mechanism of the
human soul; its fleeting and varying emotions of joy and sadness, its
gleams of hope and shades of despair come and go, controlled by
influences which entirely elude human scrutiny. In these days of gloom,
rays of hope occasionally penetrated the cell of Beauharnais.
At last the hour of dread came. Beauharnais was led before the terrible
tribunal. He was falsely accused of having promoted the surrender of
Mentz to the Allies. He was doomed to death, and was sent to the
Conciergerie, whence he was to be conducted to his execution. This was
in July, 1794. Beauharnais was then thirty-four years of age.
[Illustration: JOSEPHINE TAKING LEAVE OF HER CHILDREN.]
It seems that the conversation which we have reported as having taken
place in the cell of Beauharnais had been overheard by listening ears,
and reported to the committee as a conspiracy for the overthrow of
the Republic. The arrest of Josephine was ordered. A warning letter from
some friend reached her a few moments before the officers arrived,
urging her to fly. It was an early hour in the morning. There was little
sleep for Josephine amidst those scenes of terror, and she was watching
by the side of her slumbering children. What could she do? Should she
abandon her children, and seek to save her own life by flight? A
mother's love rendered that impossible. Should she take them with her in
her flight? That would render her arrest certain; and the fact of her
attempting to escape would be urged as evidence of her guilt.
While distracted with these thoughts, the clatter of armed men was heard
at her door. With anguish which none but a mother can comprehend, she
bent over her children and imprinted, as she supposed, a last kiss upon
their cheeks. The affectionate little Hortense, though asleep, was
evidently agitated by troubled dreams. As she felt the imprint of her
mother's lips, she threw her arms around her neck and exclaimed, "Come
to bed, dear mamma; they shall not take you away to-night. I have prayed
to God for you."
Josephine, to avoid waking the children, stepped softly from the room,
closed the door, and entered her parlor. Here she was rudely seized by
the soldiers, who regarded her as a hated aristocrat. They took
possession of the house and all its furniture in the name of the
Republic, left the children to suffer or to die as fate might decide,
and dragged the mother to imprisonment in the Convent of the Carmelites.
When the children awoke in the morning, they found themselves alone and
friendless in the heart of Paris. The wonderful events of their lives
thus far had rendered them both unusually precocious. Eugene in
particular seemed to be endowed with all the thoughtfulness and wisdom
of a full-grown man. After a few moments of anguish and tears, in view
of their dreadful situation, they sat down to deliberate upon the course
to be pursued. Hortense suggested that they should repair to the
Luxembourg and seek the protection of their father in his imprisonment
there. But Eugene, apprehensive that such a step might in some way
compromise the safety of their father, recalled to mind that they had a
great-aunt, far advanced in life, who was residing at Versailles in deep
retirement. He proposed that they should seek refuge with her. Finding
a former domestic of the family, she kindly led them to their aunt,
where the desolate children were tenderly received.
Beauharnais was now in the Conciergerie, doomed to die, and awaiting his
execution. Josephine was in the prison of the Carmelites, expecting
hourly to be led to the tribunal to receive also her doom of death.
Hortense, an affectionate child, ardent and unreflecting in her
impatience to see her mother, one morning left her aunt's house at
Fontainebleau, to which place her aunt had removed, and in a market-cart
travelled thirty miles to Paris. Here the energetic child, impelled by
grief and love, succeeded in finding her mother's maid, Victorine. It
was however impossible for them to obtain access to the prison, and
Hortense the next day returned to Fontainebleau. Josephine, upon being
informed of this imprudent act, to which affection had impelled her
child, wrote to her the following letter:
"I should be entirely satisfied with the good heart of my Hortense, were
I not displeased with her bad head. How is it, my daughter, that,
without permission from your aunt, you have come to Paris? 'But it was
to see me, you will say.' You ought to be aware that no one can see me
without an order, to obtain which requires both means and precautions.
And besides, you got upon M. Dorset's cart, at the risk of incommoding
him, and retarding the conveyance of his merchandise. In all this you
have been very inconsiderate. My child, observe: it is not sufficient to
do good, you must also do good properly. At your age, the first of all
virtues is confidence and docility towards your relations. I am
therefore obliged to tell you that I prefer your tranquil attachment to
your misplaced warmth. This, however, does not prevent me from embracing
you, but less tenderly than I shall do when I learn that you have
returned to your aunt."
On the evening of the 24th of July M. de Beauharnais received the
announcement in his cell, that with the dawn of the next morning he was
to be led to the guillotine. Under these circumstances he wrote the
following farewell letter to his wife:
"I have yet a few minutes to devote to affection, tears, and regret, and
then I must wholly give myself up to the glory of my fate and to
thoughts of immortality. When you receive this letter, my dear
Josephine, your husband will have ceased to live, and will be tasting
true existence in the bosom of his Creator. Do not weep for him. The
wicked and senseless beings who survive him are more worthy of your
tears, for they are doing mischief which they can never repair. But let
us not cloud the present moments by any thoughts of their guilt. I wish,
on the contrary, to brighten these hours by the reflection that I have
enjoyed the affection of a lovely woman, and that our union would have
been an uninterrupted course of happiness, but for errors which I was
too late to acknowledge and atone for. This thought wrings tears from my
eyes, though your generous heart pardons me. But this is no time to
revive the recollection of my errors and of your wrongs. What thanks I
owe to Providence, who will reward you.
"That Providence disposes of me before my time. This is another
blessing, for which I am grateful. Can a virtuous man live happy when he
sees the whole world a prey to the wicked? I should rejoice in being
taken away, were it not for the thought of leaving those I love behind
me. But if the thoughts of the dying are presentiments, something in my
heart tells me that these horrible butcheries are drawing to a close;
that the executioners will, in their turn, become victims; that the
arts and sciences will again flourish in France; that wise and moderate
laws will take the place of cruel sacrifices, and that you will at
length enjoy the happiness which you have deserved. Our children will
discharge the debt for their father.
* * * * *
"I resume these incoherent and almost illegible lines, which were
interrupted by the entrance of my jailer. I have submitted to a cruel
ceremony, which, under any other circumstances, I would have resisted at
the sacrifice of my life. Yet why should we rebel against necessity?
Reason tells us to make the best of it we can. My hair has been cut off.
I had some idea of buying a part of it, in order to leave to my wife and
children an unequivocal pledge of my last recollection of them. Alas! my
heart breaks at the very thought, and my tears bedew the paper on which
I am writing. Adieu, all that I love. Think of me, and do not forget
that to die the victim of tyrants and the martyrs of liberty sheds
lustre on the scaffold."
Josephine did not receive this letter until after her husband's
execution. The next afternoon one of the daily papers was brought into
the prison of the Carmelites. Josephine anxiously ran her eye over the
record of the executions, and found the name of her husband in the fatal
list. She fell senseless to the floor in a long-continued swoon. When
consciousness returned, she exclaimed at first, in the delirium of her
anguish, "O God, let me die! let me die! There is no peace for me but in
the grave." And then again a mother's love, as she thought of her orphan
children, led her to cling to the misery of existence for their sake.
Soon, however, the unpitying agents of the revolutionary tribunal came
to her with the announcement that in two days she was to be led to the
Conciergerie, and thence to her execution.
In the following letter Josephine informed her children of the death of
their father, and of her own approaching execution. It is a letter
highly characteristic of this wonderful woman in the attempt, by the
assumption of calmness, to avoid as far as possible lacerating the
feelings of Eugene and Hortense.
"The hand which will deliver this to you is faithful and sure. You will
receive it from a friend who knows and has shared my sorrows. I know not
by what accident she has hitherto been spared. I call this accident
fortunate; she regards it as a calamity. 'Is it not disgraceful to
live,' said she yesterday, 'when all who are good have the honor of
dying?' May Heaven, as the reward of her courage, refuse her the fatal
honor she desires.
"As to me, I am qualified for that honor, and I am preparing myself for
receiving it. Why has disease spared me so long? But I must not murmur.
As a wife, I ought to follow the fate of my husband, and can there now
be any fate more glorious than to ascend the scaffold? It is a patent of
immortality, purchased by a prompt and pleasing death.
"My children, your father is dead, and your mother is about to follow
him. But as before that final stroke the assassins leave me a few
moments to myself, I wish to employ them in writing to you. Socrates,
when condemned, philosophized with his disciples. A mother, on the point
of undergoing a similar fate, may discourse with her children.
"My last sigh will be for you, and I wish to make my last words a
lasting lesson. Time was, when I gave you lessons in a more pleasing
way. But the present will not be the less useful, that it is given at so
serious a moment. I have the weakness to water it with my tears. I
shall soon have the courage to seal it with my blood.
"Hitherto it was impossible to be happier than I have been. While to my
union with your father I owed my felicity, I may venture to think and to
say that to my character I was indebted for that union. I found in my
heart the means of winning the affection of my husband's relations.
Patience and gentleness always succeed in gaining the good-will of
others. You also, my dear children, possess natural advantages which
cost little, and are of great value. But you must learn how to employ
them, and that is what I still feel a pleasure in teaching you by my
example.
* * * * *
"Here I must record the gratitude I owe to my excellent brother-in-law,
who has, under various circumstances, given me proofs of the most
sincere friendship, though he was of quite a different opinion from your
father, who embraced the new ideas with all the enthusiasm of a lively
imagination. He fancied liberty was to be secured by obtaining
concessions from the king, whom he venerated. But all was lost, and
nothing gained but anarchy. Who will arrest the torrent? O God! unless
thy powerful hand control and restrain it, we are undone.
"For my part, my children, I am about to die, as your father died, a
victim of the fury he always opposed, but to which he fell a sacrifice.
I leave life without hatred of France and its assassins, whom I despise.
But I am penetrated with sorrow for the misfortunes of my country. Honor
my memory in sharing my sentiments. I leave for your inheritance the
glory of your father and the name of your mother, whom some who have
been unfortunate will bear in remembrance."