THE MARRIAGE OF JOSEPHINE AND GENERAL BONAPARTE.
1794-1799
Release of Josephine.--Apprenticeship of Eugene and Hortense.--Napoleon
Bonaparte.--Josephine and Napoleon.--Josephine to her aunt.--Marriage of
Josephine.--Letter to Eugene.--Rising greatness of Napoleon.--Expedition
to Egypt.--Letter to Bonaparte.--Madame Campan.--School-girl
days.--Letter from Josephine.--Napoleon's return from
Egypt.--Josephine's anguish.--Jealousy of Napoleon.--The meeting in
Paris.--The cruel repulse.--The reconciliation.--Napoleon First
Consul.--The Luxembourg.
The day before Josephine was to be led to her execution there was a new
revolution in Paris. Robespierre and the party then in power were
overthrown. From condemning others, they were condemned themselves. They
had sent hundreds, in the cart of the executioner, to the guillotine.
Now it was their turn to take that fatal ride, to ascend the steps of
the scaffold, and to have their own heads severed by the keen edge of
the knife. Those whom they had imprisoned were set at liberty.
As Josephine emerged from the gloom of her prison into the streets of
Paris, she found herself a widow, homeless, almost friendless, and in
the extreme of penury. But for her children, life would have been a
burden from which she would have been glad to be relieved by the
executioner's axe. The storms of revolution had dispersed all her
friends, and terror reigned in Paris. Her children were living upon the
charity of others. It was necessary to conceal their birth as the
children of a noble, for the brutal threat of Marat ever rang in her
ears, "We must exterminate all the whelps of aristocracy."
Hoping to conceal the illustrious lineage of Eugene and Hortense, and
probably also impelled by the necessities of poverty, Josephine
apprenticed her son to a house carpenter, and her daughter was placed,
with other girls of more lowly birth, in the shop of a milliner. But
Josephine's beauty of person, grace of manners, and culture of mind
could not leave her long in obscurity. Every one who met her was charmed
with her unaffected loveliness. New friends were created, among them
some who were in power. Through their interposition, a portion of her
husband's confiscated estates was restored to her. She was thus provided
with means of a frugal support for herself and her children. Engaging
humble apartments, she devoted herself entirely to their education. Both
of the children were richly endowed; inheriting from their mother and
their father talents, personal loveliness, and an instinctive power of
attraction. Thus there came a brief lull in those dreadful storms of
life by which Josephine had been so long buffeted.
But suddenly, like the transformations of the kaleidoscope, there came
another and a marvellous change. All are familiar with the circumstances
of her marriage to the young and rising general, Napoleon Bonaparte.
This remarkable young man, enjoying the renown of having captured
Toulon, and of having quelled a very formidable insurrection in the
streets of Paris, was ordered by the then existing Government to disarm
the whole Parisian population, that there might be no further attempt at
insurrection. The officers who were sent, in performance of this duty,
from house to house, took from Josephine the sword of her husband, which
she had preserved as a sacred relic. The next day Eugene repaired to the
head-quarters of General Bonaparte to implore that the sword of his
father might be restored to him. The young general was so much impressed
with the grace and beauty of the boy, and with his artless and touching
eloquence, that he made many inquiries respecting his parentage, treated
him with marked tenderness, and promptly restored the sword. Josephine
was so grateful for the kindness of General Bonaparte to Eugene, that
the next day she drove to his quarters to express a mother's thanks.
General Bonaparte was even more deeply impressed with the grace and
loveliness of the mother than he had been with the child. He sought her
acquaintance; this led to intimacy, to love, and to the proffer of
marriage.
In the following letter to a friend Josephine expressed her views in
reference to her marriage with General Bonaparte:
"I am urged, my dear, to marry again by the advice of all my friends,
and 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, and to tell me
whether I ought or not to consent to a union which certainly seems
calculated to relieve me from the discomforts 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 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 that 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 can not 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 upon the
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 to me
quickly, and pray scold me if you think me wrong. You know every thing
is welcome that comes from you.
"Barras[B] assures me that 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 on the subject yesterday, General
Bonaparte said:
[Footnote B: Barras, a leading member of the Directory, and a strong
friend of General Bonaparte.]
"'Do they think that I can not 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 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?
"Madame Tallien desires me to present her love to you. She is still fair
and good as ever. She employs her immense influence only for the benefit
of the unfortunate. And when she performs a favor, she appears as
pleased and satisfied as though she herself were the obliged party. Her
friendship for me is most affectionate and sincere. And of my regard for
her I need only say that it is equal to that which I entertain for you.
"Hortense grows more and more interesting every day. Her pretty figure
is fully developed, and, if I were so inclined, I should have ample
reason to rail at Time, who confers charms on the daughter at the
expense of the mother. But truly I have other things to think of. I try
to banish gloomy thoughts, and look forward to a more propitious future,
for we shall soon meet, never to part again.
"But for this marriage, which harasses and unsettles me, I could be
cheerful in spite of every thing. Were it once over, happen what might,
I could resign myself to my fate. I am inured to suffering, and, if I be
destined to taste fresh sorrow, I can support it, provided my children,
my aunt, and you remain to comfort me.
"You know we have agreed to dispense with all formal terminations to our
letters. So adieu, my friend,
"JOSEPHINE."
In March, 1796, Josephine became the bride of Napoleon Bonaparte, then
the most promising young general in France, and destined to become, in
achievements and renown, the foremost man in all the world. Eugene was
immediately taken into the service of his stepfather.
In the following letter to Eugene we have a pleasing revelation of the
character of Hortense at that time, and of the affectionate relations
existing between the mother and her children:
"I learn with pleasure, my dear Eugene, that your conduct is worthy of
the name you bear, and of the protector under whom it is so easy to
learn to become a great captain. Bonaparte has written to me that you
are every thing that he can wish. As he is no flatterer, my heart is
proud to read your eulogy sketched by a hand which is usually far from
being lavish in praise. You well know that I never doubted your
capability to undertake great things, or the brilliant courage which you
inherit. But you, alas! know how much I dislike your removal from me,
fearing that your natural impetuosity might carry you too far, and that
it might prevent you from submitting to the numerous petty details of
discipline which must be very disagreeable when the rank is only
subaltern.
"Judge, then, of my joy on learning that you remember my advice, and
that you are as obedient to your superiors in command as you are kind
and humane to those beneath you. This conduct, my child, makes me quite
happy, and these words, I know, will reward you more than all the favors
you can receive. Read them often, and repeat to yourself that your
mother, though far from you, complains not of her lot, since she knows
that yours will be brilliant, and will deserve so to be.
"Your sister shares all my feelings, and will tell you so herself. But
that of which I am sure she will not speak, and which is therefore my
duty to tell, is her attention to me and her aunt. Love her, my son, for
to me she brings consolation, and she overflows with affection for you.
She prosecutes her studies with uncommon success, but music, I think,
will be the art she will carry to the highest perfection. With her sweet
voice, which is now well cultivated, she sings romances in a manner that
would surprise you. I have just bought her a new piano from the best
maker, Erard, which redoubles her passion for that charming art which
you prefer to every other. That perhaps accounts for your sister
applying to it with so much assiduity.
"Were you here, you would be telling me a thousand times a day to beware
of the men who pay particular attention to Hortense. Some there are who
do so whom you do not like, and whom you seem to fear she may prefer.
Set your mind at rest. She is a bit of a coquette, is pleased with her
success, and torments her victims, but her heart is free. I am the
confidante of all her thoughts and feelings, which have hitherto been
just what they ought to be. She now knows that when she thinks of
marrying, it is not my consent alone she has to seek, and that my will
is subordinate to that of the man to whom we owe every thing. The
knowledge of this fact must prevent her from fixing her choice in a way
that may not meet the approval of Bonaparte, and the latter will not
give your sister in marriage to any one to whom you can object."
There was now an end to poverty and obscurity. The rise of Napoleon was
so brilliant and rapid that Josephine was speedily placed at the head of
society in Paris, and vast crowds were eager to do her homage. Never
before did man move with strides so rapid. The lapse of a few months
transformed her from almost a homeless, friendless, impoverished widow,
to be the bride of one whose advancing greatness seemed to outvie the
wildest creations of fiction. The unsurpassed splendor of Napoleon's
achievements crowded the saloons of Josephine with statesmen,
philosophers, generals, and all who ever hasten to the shrine of rising
greatness.
After the campaign of Italy, which gave Napoleon not only a French but a
European reputation for military genius and diplomatic skill, he took
command of the Army of Egypt. Josephine accompanied him to Toulon.
Standing upon a balcony, she with tearful eyes watched the receding
fleet which bore her husband to that far-distant land, until it
disappeared beneath the horizon of the blue Mediterranean. Eugene
accompanied his father. Hortense remained with her mother, who took up
her residence most of the time during her husband's absence at
Plombières, a celebrated watering-place.
Josephine, anxious in every possible way to promote the popularity of
her absent husband, and thus to secure his advancement, received with
cordiality all who came to her with their congratulations. She was
endowed with marvellous power of pleasing. Every one who saw her was
charmed with her. Hortense was bewitchingly beautiful and attractive.
Josephine had ample means to indulge her taste in entertainments, and
was qualified eminently to shine in such scenes. The consequence was
that her saloons were the constant resort of rank and wealth and
fashion. Some enemy wrote to Napoleon, and roused his jealousy to a very
high degree, by representing Josephine as forgetting her husband,
immersed in pleasure, and coquetting with all the world.
Napoleon was exceedingly disturbed, and wrote Josephine a very severe
letter. The following extract from her reply fully explains the nature
of this momentary estrangement:
"Is it possible, general, that the letter I have just received comes
from you? I can scarcely credit it when I compare that letter with
others to which your love imparts so many charms. My eyes, indeed, would
persuade me that your hands 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 caused
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.
"On my first acquaintance with you, the affliction with which I was
overwhelmed led me to believe that my heart must ever remain a stranger
to any sentiment resembling love. The sanguinary scenes of which I had
been a witness and a victim constantly haunted my thoughts. I therefore
apprehended no danger to myself from the frequent enjoyment of your
society. Still less did I imagine that I could for a single moment fix
your choice.
"I, like every one else, admired your talents and acquirements. And
better than any one else I foresaw your future glory. But still I loved
you only for the services you rendered to my country. Why did you seek
to convert admiration into a more tender sentiment, by availing yourself
of all those powers of pleasing with which you are so eminently gifted,
since, so shortly after having united your destiny with mine, you
regret the felicity you have conferred upon me?
"Do you think I can ever forget the love with which you once cherished
me? Can I ever become indifferent to the man who has blest me with the
most enthusiastic and ardent passion? Can I ever efface from my memory
your paternal affection for Hortense, the advice and example you have
given Eugene? If all this appears impossible, how can you, for a moment,
suspect me of bestowing a thought upon any but yourself?
"Instead of listening to traducers, who, for reasons which I can not
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 reached 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 which 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 inquire about you, and to recommend them to
console you, by their friendship, for the absence of her who is your
best and truest friend.
"I acknowledge that I see a great deal of company; for every one is
eager to compliment me on your success, and I confess that 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 mention ladies Arquillon, 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 every body_. These are your
words. And they would be hateful to me were I not certain that you had
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
that it is displeasing to our authorities, who are always suspicious and
fearful of losing their newly-gotten power. If they are envious now,
what will they be when you return crowned with fresh laurels? Heaven
knows to what lengths their malignity will then carry them. But you will
be here, and then nothing can vex me.
"But I will say no more of them, nor of your suspicions, which I do not
refute one by one, because they are all equally devoid of probability.
And to make amends for the unpleasant commencement of this letter, I
will tell you something which I know will please you.
"Hortense, in her efforts to console me, endeavors as far as possible to
conceal her anxiety for you and her brother. And she exerts all her
ingenuity to banish that melancholy, the existence of which you doubt,
but which I assure you never forsakes me. If by her lively conversation
and interesting talents she sometimes succeeds in drawing a smile, she
joyfully exclaims, 'Dear mamma, that will be known at Cairo.' The fatal
word immediately calls to my mind the distance which separates me from
you and my son, and restores the melancholy which it was intended to
divert. I am obliged to make great efforts to conceal my grief from my
daughter, who, by a word or a look, transports me to the very place
which she would wish to banish from my thoughts.
"Hortense's figure is daily becoming more and more graceful. She dresses
with great taste; and though not quite so handsome as your sisters, she
may certainly be thought agreeable when even they are present.
"Heaven knows when or where you may receive this letter. May it restore
you to that confidence which you ought never to have lost, and convince
you, more than ever, that, long as I live, I shall love you as dearly as
I did on the day of our separation. Adieu. Believe me, love me, and
receive a thousand kisses.
"JOSEPHINE."
There was at that time a very celebrated female school at St. Germain,
under the care of Madame Campan. This illustrious lady was familiar with
all the etiquette of the court, and was also endowed with a superior
mind highly cultivated. At the early age of fifteen she had been
appointed reader to the daughter of Louis XV. Maria Antoinette took a
strong fancy to her, and made her a friend and companion. The crumbling
of the throne of the Bourbons and the dispersion of the court left
Madame Campan without a home, and caused what the world would call her
ruin.
But in the view of true intelligence this reverse of fortune only
elevated her to a far higher position of responsibility, usefulness, and
power. Impelled by necessity, she opened a boarding-school for young
ladies at St. Germain. The school soon acquired celebrity. Almost every
illustrious family in France sought to place their daughters under her
care. She thus educated very many young ladies who subsequently occupied
very important positions in society as the wives and mothers of
distinguished men. Some of her pupils attained to royalty. Thus the
boarding-school of Madame Campan became a great power in France.
Hortense was sent to this school with Napoleon's sister Caroline, who
subsequently became Queen of Naples, and with Stephanie Beauharnais, to
whom we shall have occasion hereafter to refer as Duchess of Baden.
Stephanie was a cousin of Hortense, being a daughter of her father's
brother, the Marquis de Beauharnais.
In this school Hortense formed many very strong attachments. Her most
intimate friend, however, whom she loved with affection which never
waned, was a niece of Madame Campan, by the name of Adèle Auguié,
afterwards Madame de Broc, whose sad fate, hereafter to be described,
was one of the heaviest blows which fell upon Hortense. It would seem
that Hortense was not at all injured by the flattery lavished upon her
in consequence of the renown of her father. She retained, unchanged, all
her native simplicity of character, which she had inherited from her
mother, and which she ever saw illustrated in her mother's words and
actions. Treating the humblest with the same kindness as the most
exalted, she won all hearts, and made herself the friend of every one in
the school.
But her cousin Stephanie was a very different character. Her father, the
Marquis, had fled from France an emigrant. He was an aristocrat by
birth, and in all his cherished sentiments. In his flight with the
nobles, from the terrors of the revolution, he had left his daughter
behind, as the protégée of Josephine. Inheriting a haughty disposition,
and elated by the grandeur which her uncle was attaining, she assumed
consequential airs which rendered her disagreeable to many of her
companions. The eagle eye of Josephine detected these faults in the
character of her niece. As Stephanie returned to school from one of her
vacations, Josephine sent by her the following letter to Madame Campan:
"In returning to you my niece, my dear Madame Campan, I send you both
thanks and reproof:--thanks for the brilliant education you have given
her, and reproof for the faults which your acuteness must have noticed,
but which your indulgence has passed over. She is good-tempered, but
cold; well-informed, but disdainful; lively, but deficient in judgment.
She pleases no one, and it gives her no pain. She fancies the renown of
her uncle and the gallantry of her father are every thing. Teach her,
but teach her plainly, without mincing, that in reality they are
nothing.
"We live in an age when every one is the child of his own deeds. And if
they who fill the highest ranks of public service enjoy any superior
advantage or privilege, it is the opportunity to be more useful and more
beloved. It is thus alone that good fortune becomes pardonable in the
eyes of the envious. This is what I would have you repeat to her
constantly. I wish her to treat all her companions as her equals. Many
of them are better, or at least quite as deserving as she is herself,
and their only inferiority is in not having had relations equally
skillful or equally fortunate.
"JOSEPHINE BONAPARTE."
On the 8th of October, 1799, Napoleon landed at Fréjus, on his return
from Egypt. His mind was still very much disturbed with the reports
which had reached him respecting Josephine. Fréjus was six hundred miles
from Paris--a long journey, when railroads were unknown. The
intelligence of his arrival was promptly communicated to the metropolis
by telegraph. Josephine received the news at midnight. Without an hour's
delay she entered her carriage with Hortense, taking as a protector
Napoleon's younger brother Louis, who subsequently married Hortense, and
set out to meet her husband. Almost at the same hour Napoleon left
Fréjus for Paris.
When Josephine reached Lyons, a distance of two hundred and forty-two
miles from Paris, she learned, to her consternation, that Napoleon had
left the city several hours before her arrival, and that they had passed
each other by different roads. Her anguish was dreadful. For many months
she had not received a line from her husband, as all communication had
been intercepted by the British cruisers. She knew that her enemies
would be busy in poisoning the mind of her husband against her. She had
traversed the weary leagues of her journey without a moment's
intermission, and now, faint, exhausted, and despairing, she was to
retrace her steps, to reach Paris only many hours after Napoleon would
have arrived there. Probably in all France there was not then a more
unhappy woman than Josephine.
The mystery of human love and jealousy no philosophy can explain. Secret
wretchedness was gnawing at the heart of Napoleon. He loved Josephine
with intensest passion, and all the pride of his nature was roused by
the conviction that she had trifled with him. With these conflicting
emotions rending his soul, he entered Paris and drove to his dwelling.
Josephine was not there. Even Josephine had bitter enemies, as all who
are in power ever must have. These enemies took advantage of her absence
to fan the flames of that jealousy which Napoleon could not conceal. It
was represented to him that Josephine had fled from her home, afraid to
meet the anger of her injured husband. As he paced the floor in anguish,
which led him to forget all his achievements in the past and all his
hopes for the future, an enemy maliciously remarked,
"Josephine will soon appear before you with all her arts of fascination.
She will explain matters, you will forgive all, and tranquillity will be
restored."
Napoleon, striding nervously up and down the floor, replied with pallid
cheek and trembling lip,
"Never! never! Were I not sure of my resolution, I would tear out this
heart and cast it into the fire."
Eugene had returned with Napoleon. He loved his mother to adoration.
Anxiously he sat at the window watching, hour after hour, for her
arrival. At midnight on the 19th the rattle of her carriage-wheels was
heard, as she entered the court-yard of their dwelling in the Rue
Chantereine. Eugene rushed to his mother's arms. Napoleon had ever been
the most courteous of husbands. Whenever Josephine returned, even from
an ordinary morning drive, he would leave any engagements to greet her
as she alighted from her carriage. But now, after an absence of eighteen
months, he remained sternly in his chamber, the victim of almost
unearthly misery.
In a state of terrible agitation, with limbs tottering and heart
throbbing, Josephine, assisted by Eugene and accompanied by Hortense,
ascended the stairs to the parlor where she had so often received the
caresses of her husband. She opened the door. Napoleon stood before her,
pale, motionless as a marble statue. Without one kind word of greeting
he said sternly, in words which pierced her heart,
"Madame, it is my wish that you retire immediately to Malmaison."
The meek and loving Josephine uttered not a word. She would have fallen
senseless to the floor, had she not been caught in the arms of her son.
It was midnight. For a week she had lived in her carriage almost without
sleep. She was in a state of utter exhaustion, both of body and of mind.
It was twelve miles to Malmaison. Napoleon had no idea that she would
leave the house until the morning. Much to his surprise, he soon heard
the carriage in the yard, and Josephine, accompanied by Eugene and
Hortense, descending the stairs. The naturally kind heart of Napoleon
could not assent to such cruelty. Immediately going down into the yard,
though his pride would not permit him to speak to Josephine, he
addressed Eugene, and requested them all to return for refreshment and
repose.
In silent submission, Eugene and Hortense conducted their mother to her
apartment, where she threw herself upon her couch in abject misery. In
equally sleepless woe, Napoleon retired to his cabinet. Two days of
wretchedness passed away. On the third, the love for Josephine, which
still reigned in the heart of Napoleon, so far triumphed that he
entered her apartment. Josephine was seated at a toilette-table, with
her head bowed, and her eyes buried in her handkerchief. The table was
covered with the letters which she had received from Napoleon, and which
she had evidently been perusing. Hortense, the victim of grief and
despair, was standing in the alcove of a window.
[Illustration: THE RECONCILIATION.]
Apparently Josephine did not hear the approaching footsteps of her
husband. He advanced softly to her chair, placed his hand upon it, and
said, in tones almost of wonted kindness, "Josephine." She started at
the sound of that well-known and dearly-loved voice, and turning towards
him her swollen and flooded eyes, responded, "My dear." The words of
tenderness, the loving voice, brought back with resistless rush the
memory of the past. Napoleon was vanquished. He extended his hand to
Josephine. She rose, threw her arms around his neck, rested her
throbbing, aching head upon his bosom, and wept in convulsions of
anguish. A long explanation ensued. Napoleon again pressed Josephine to
his loving heart, satisfied, perfectly satisfied that he had deeply
wronged her; that she had been the victim of base traducers. The
reconciliation was perfect.
Soon after this Napoleon overthrew the Directory, and established the
Consulate. This was on the ninth of November, 1799, usually called 18th
Brumaire. Napoleon was thirty years of age, and was now First Consul of
France. After the wonderful achievements of this day of peril, during
which Napoleon had not been able to send a single line to his wife, at
four o'clock in the morning he alighted from his carriage at the door of
his dwelling at the Rue Chantereine. Josephine, in a state of great
anxiety, was watching at the window for his approach. She sprang to meet
him. Napoleon encircled her in his arms, and briefly recapitulated the
memorable scenes of the day. He assured her that since he had taken the
oath of office, he had not allowed himself to speak to a single
individual, for he wished the beloved voice of his Josephine might be
the first to congratulate him upon his virtual accession to the Empire
of France. Throwing himself upon a couch for a few moments of repose, he
exclaimed gayly, "Good-night, my Josephine. To-morrow we sleep in the
palace of the Luxembourg."
This renowned palace, with its vast saloons, its galleries of art, its
garden, is one of the most attractive of residences. Napoleon was now
virtually the monarch of France. Josephine was a queen, Eugene and
Hortense prince and princess. Strange must have been the emotions of
Josephine and her children as, encompassed with regal splendor, they
took up their residence in the palace. But a few years before,
Josephine, in poverty, friendlessness, and intensest anguish of heart,
had led her children by the hand through those halls to visit her
imprisoned husband. From one of those apartments the husband and father
had been led to his trial, and to the scaffold, and now this mother
enters this palace virtually a queen, and her children have opening
before them the very highest positions of earthly wealth and honor.