Chapter VIII: Part 8

The crisis which Bonaparte had foreseen at length arrived; the people demanded the overthrow of the weak and tyrannical government. During the 19th of Brumaire, Josephine remained at home, in the most anxious inquietude, relieved, indeed, from time to time, by her husband's attention in despatching notes of what was passing at St. Cloud. When night, however, and at last morning, came, without sight, or even tidings, of him, she was in a condition bordering on distraction. In this state, she had retired to bed, when, at length, about four in the morning, the _Consul_ entered the apartment. A lively conversation ensued, and Bonaparte gayly announced that the fate of thirty millions of people bad passed into his hands, by the remark, "Good night--to-morrow we sleep in the Luxemburg."

The palace of the Luxemburg was soon found "_trop etroit_,"--too confined,--and the consuls removed their residence to the Tuileries, the ancient palace of the kings, now disguised by the title of the "governmental palace." To the wife of the "first consul" a portion of the former royal apartments was assigned, and here, soon after the installation, she made her first essay in the grand observances of empire. On the evening of her first levee, the drawing-rooms were crowded, at an early hour, by a most brilliant assembly, and so numerous, that the doors of her private apartments were thrown open. Madame Bonaparte was announced, and entered, conducted by M. de Talleyrand, then minister for foreign affairs. A momentary feeling of disappointment may have crossed the minds of those who had looked for magnificence and state. Josephine was attired with the utmost simplicity, in a robe of white muslin: her hair, without decoration of any kind, and merely retained by a plain comb, fell in tresses upon her neck, in the most becoming negligence; a collar of pearls harmonized with and completed this unpretending costume. A spontaneous murmur of admiration followed her entrance: such were the grace and dignity of her deportment, that, in the absence of all the external attributes of rank, a stranger would have fixed upon the principal personage in the circle, as readily as if radiant with diamonds and stars of every order. Making the tour of the apartments, the ambassadors from foreign powers were first introduced to her. When these were nearly completed, the first consul entered, but without being announced, dressed in a plain uniform, with a sash of tri-colored silk. In this simplicity there were both good taste and sound policy. The occasion was not a royal levee; it was merely the first magistrate and his wife receiving the congratulations of their fellow-citizens.

Josephine was at this time thirty-six years old; but she yet retained those personal advantages which usually belong only to more youthful years. The surpassing elegance and taste displayed in the mysteries of the toilet were doubtless not without their influence in prolonging the empire of beauty; but nature had been originally bountiful. Her stature was exactly that perfection which is neither too tall for female delicacy, nor so diminutive as to detract from dignity. Her person was faultlessly symmetrical, and the lightness and elasticity of its action gave an aerial character to her graceful carriage. Her features were small and finely modelled, of a Grecian cast. The habitual character of her countenance was a placid sweetness. "Never," says a very honest admirer, "did any woman better justify the saying, 'The eyes are the mirror of the soul.'" Josephine's were of a deep blue, clear and brilliant, usually lying half concealed under their long and silky eyelashes. The winning tenderness of her mild, subdued glance had a power which could tranquillize Napoleon in his darkest moods. Her hair was "glossy chestnut brown," harmonizing delightfully with a clear and transparent complexion, and neck of almost dazzling whiteness. Her voice has already been mentioned; it constituted one of her most pleasing attractions, and rendered her conversation the most captivating that can easily be conceived.

On the 7th of May, 1800, the first consul took leave of his wife, on his departure for Italy. "Courage," said he, "my good Josephine! I shall not forget thee, nor will my absence be long." To both promises he was faithful. On the 2d of July, less than two months after he left Paris, he again slept at the Tuileries, having, in that brief space, broken the strength of the mighty armies which opposed him, wrested Italy, which the Austrians had reconquered during his absence in the East, again from their power, and thus laid deep the foundations of his future empire. During this brilliant campaign, Josephine's absorbing enjoyment was to read the letters from Italy. These, in the handwriting of the consul, or dictated to his secretary, arrived almost daily at Malmaison, where she had resided, superintending the improvements. At this period, too, she began a collection of rare animals; to which the power or conquests of her husband, or a grateful remembrance of her own kindness, brought her accessions from all quarters of the globe.

The first consul now had leisure to enjoy the tranquillity which he had restored. The _jours de conge_, or _holydays_, on which, retiring to Malmaison, he threw off the cares of state, now came round more frequently. His visitors, on these occasions, were, besides the chief officers of state and of the army, the persons most distinguished for talent and for birth, the historic names of the olden time mingling with the new men of the revolution. Josephine received her visitors with elegance and grace, and with a simplicity which placed every one perfectly at his ease. The amusements were of the simplest kind. The favorite was the familiar, schoolboy game of "prison-bars." Bonaparte, in the selection of partisans, always chose Josephine, never suffering her to be in any camp but his own. When by chance she was taken prisoner, he seemed uneasy till she was released, making all exertions for that purpose, though a bad runner himself, often coming down, in mid career, plump upon the grass. Up again, however, he started, but usually so convulsed with laughter that he could not move, and the affair generally ended in his own captivity.

But Josephine did not neglect the higher duties of her station. From the moment she had the power, her endeavors were used to alleviate the misfortunes of those whom the revolution had driven into exile, and a considerable portion of her income was devoted to their support. To the general act of amnesty, which the consul had issued on his access to power, there were many exceptions. To smooth the difficulties which lay in the way of the return of such, Josephine's influence and exertions were seldom denied, and rarely unsuccessful. "Josephine," as her husband remarked, "will not take a refusal; but, it must be confessed, she rarely undertakes a cause that has not propriety, at least, on its side."

In May, 1804, destiny was fulfilled in the prediction of which Josephine had professed so long to believe. On the 18th of that month, the Senate, headed by the ex-second consul, proceeded in state to her apartments, and saluted her as Empress of the French. She received their congratulations with emotion, but with her accustomed benignity and grace. The succeeding night was passed by her in tears. "To be the wife of the _first consul_, fulfilled her utmost ambition." Presentiments of evil now filled her bosom. The ambition of founding a new dynasty had found a place in the breast of the _consul_: would not this increase in strength in that of the _emperor_? The hopes of establishing it in his own line were now little likely to be realized, and the enemies of Josephine had already hinted at a divorce. What impression these might have made had been effaced for the time by the grant of power to Bonaparte to name his successor in the consulship, and by the birth of a son to Louis, who had married Hortense, but especially by his undiminished affection for his wife. He now had the inducement of seeking, by new family ties, to secure the stability of his throne. But such thoughts did not permanently disturb the repose of Josephine. Impressions were readily made, and as quickly effaced; and she possessed the true secret of happiness--the art of postponing imaginary evil, and of enjoying the real good of the moment.

In her new situation Josephine found another source of sorrow. The state and ceremony of the consulship had sadly marred the pleasures of domestic intercourse. But now she found herself alone, above the kindly glow of equal affections--a wretched condition for one "whose first desire was to be loved." She sought, however, by increased kindness, to lessen the distance between herself and her old friends and companions. Nothing could be more amiable than the reception which she gave to those who came to take the oaths of fidelity on receiving appointments in her household. She took care to remove all ostentatious ceremony, talked to them on familiar topics, and sought to make the whole pass as an agreement between two friends to love each other. This condescension extended even to her humble domestics, yet never degenerated into undignified familiarity or absence of self-possession, as the following little incident will show. On the first occasion of her leaving St. Cloud for a distant excursion as empress, she traversed a whole suit of apartments to give directions to a very subaltern person of the household. The grand steward ventured to remonstrate on her thus compromising her dignity. The empress gayly replied, "You are quite right, my good sir; such neglect of etiquette would be altogether inexcusable in a princess trained from birth to the restraints of a throne; but have the goodness to recollect that I have enjoyed the felicity of living so many years as a private individual, and do not take it amiss if I sometimes venture to speak kindly to my servants without an interpreter."

The frequent excursions made by the court formed a principal class of events in Josephine's life as empress; they constituted those alternations which gave her most pleasure. When such journeys were in contemplation, none knew the hour of departure, or even the route--a secrecy adopted to guard against conspiracies. "We set out at such an hour," generally an early one, Napoleon would carelessly say, as he retired for the night. By the appointed hour every preparation was made, and the imperial travellers departed.

Sometimes Josephine travelled alone; and, on such occasions, every thing was arranged beforehand, including the replies she was to make to the addresses made to her, and the presents she was to bestow. Even the most minute thing was set down in a huge manuscript volume, which Josephine diligently conned previous to every ceremony. But if any thing chanced to escape her memory in this multiplicity of details, her unpremeditated answers or arrangements were always delivered with so much eloquence and propriety, or marked with such perfect kindness, that all parties were satisfied. Sometimes, however, a little mistake occurred, as, for example, on departing from Rheims, Josephine presented the mayoress with a medalion of malakite, set with diamonds, using the expression, "It is the emblem of hope." Some days after, on seeing this absurdity in one of the journals, she could not believe that she had used it, and despatched a courier instantly to Napoleon, fearing his displeasure above all things. This occasioned the famous order that no journalist should report any speech of the emperor or empress, unless the same had previously appeared in the "_Moniteur_." But Josephine usually adhered with scrupulous exactness to her written instructions. "He has said it, and it must be right," was the constant remark with which she silenced all suggestions of change. On these excursions, every thing like vain etiquette was laid aside: every thing passed as if among a party of equals, on an excursion of pleasure, each being bound to supply a modicum to the common fund of enjoyment; the empress studying opportunities of showing those attentions which cost so little, and yet go so far in winning a way to the heart.

Charlemagne had received the holy unction from the hands of the head of the Catholic church. Napoleon aspired to the same distinction, but with this difference,--instead of going to Rome to receive it, the pope was brought to Paris to administer it. He suffered much from the climate of France, which was too severe for his delicate health. The solicitude of the empress to provide for his comfort was extreme. The orders of the emperor had provided every thing that could be deemed necessary; but the observant delicacy of the empress supplied many wants which might else have been overlooked. Every day she sent to inquire after his welfare, frequently visited, and sometimes corresponded with him. The following letter, addressed to him, does equal credit to her head and to her heart:--

"THE EMPRESS TO HIS HOLINESS PIUS VII.

"Whatever experience of human change the knowledge of our religion
may have taught, your holiness will view, doubtless, not without
astonishment, an obscure woman ready to receive from your hands
the first among the crowns of Europe. In an event so far beyond
the ordinary course, she recognizes and blesses the work of the
Almighty, without daring to inquire into his purposes. But, holy
father, I should be ungrateful, even while I magnified the power
of God, if I poured not out my soul into the paternal bosom of him
who has been chosen to represent his providence--if I confided not
to you my secret thoughts. The first and chief of these is the
conviction of my own weakness and incapacity. Of myself I can do
nothing, or, to speak more correctly, the little I can do is
derived from that extraordinary man with whom my lot is cast.
* * * How many are the difficulties which surround the station to
which he has raised me! I do not speak of the corruption, which,
in the midst of greatness, has tainted the purest minds; I can
rely upon my own, so far as, in this respect, not to fear
elevation. But from a height whence all other dignities appear
mean, how shall I distinguish real poverty? Ah, truly do I feel
that, in becoming empress of the French, I ought also to become to
them as a mother. But of what avail are intentions? Deeds are what
the people have a right to demand of me, and your holiness, who so
well replies to the respectful love of your subjects by continual
acts of justice and benevolence, more than any other sovereign, is
qualified to instruct me. O, then, holy father, may you, with the
sacred unctions poured upon my head, not only awaken me to the
truth of these precepts which my heart acknowledges, but also
confirm the resolution of applying them to practice!"

On the 2d of December, 1804, Napoleon placed the imperial crown upon the head of Josephine, as she knelt before him on the platform of the throne in the cathedral of Notre Dame. Her appearance at this moment was most touching; tears of deep emotion fell from her eyes; she remained for a space kneeling, with hands crossed upon her bosom, then, slowly and gracefully rising, fixed upon her husband a look of gratitude and tenderness. Napoleon returned the glance. It was a silent but conscious interchange of the hopes, the promises, and the memories, of years.

In the spring of the following year, at Milan, Josephine received from her husband the crown of the ancient Lombard sovereigns. The festivities which followed were interrupted by a summons to put down a new combination against France. She resolved to accompany the emperor on his return to Paris, though suffering most severely from the rapidity of the journey. At each change of horses, it was necessary to throw water on the smoking wheels; yet Napoleon kept calling from the carriage, "On, on! We do not move!"

On his departure for the splendid campaign of Austerlitz, Josephine was appointed regent of the empire. The victory, decisive of the fate of Austria, was productive of renewed pleasure to the empress, by the marriage of her Eugene with the princess royal of Bavaria. Joyfully obeying the mandate which was to restore her for a time to the society of those she loved, the empress left Paris for Munich, where the marriage was celebrated. This union proved a most happy one; and the domestic felicity of her son--now made viceroy of Italy--constituted, both in her prosperous and adverse fortunes, a cause of rejoicing to Josephine. Her daughter, Hortense, soon after became queen of Holland. Could grandeur command or insure happiness, Josephine had subsequently never known misfortune. Every wish, save one, was gratified. She found herself on the most splendid of European thrones, beloved by the wonderful man who had placed her there, adored by the French nation, and respected even by enemies. Her children occupied stations second only to herself, with the prospect, either directly or in their issue, of succeeding to empire when death should relax the giant grasp which now swayed the sceptre.

All these brilliant prospects were closed to her by the death, in 1807, of her grandson, the prince royal of Holland. This boy had gained, in an astonishing manner, upon the affections and hopes of his uncle, and there seems to be no reason for discrediting the belief of the emperor's intention to adopt him as his successor. Napoleon was strongly affected by the loss of his little favorite, and was often heard to exclaim, amidst the labors of his cabinet, "To whom shall I leave all this?"

To Josephine this loss was irremediable: hers was a grief not less acute, yet greater, than a mother's sorrow; for, while she grieved for a beloved child, she trembled to think of the consequences to herself.

But for two years longer she enjoyed such happiness as Damocles may be supposed to have felt with the sword suspended over his head. The final blow was not struck till 1809. On the 26th of October of that year, Napoleon, having once more reduced Austria to sue for peace, arrived most unexpectedly at Fontainbleau. The court was at St. Cloud, and there were none to receive him. A courier was despatched to inform Josephine, who instantly obeyed the summons. During the succeeding night, it is supposed that Napoleon first opened to her the subject of a separation; for from the morning of the 27th, it was evident that they lived in a state of constant restraint and mutual observation; Napoleon scarcely venturing to look upon Josephine, save when he was not observed; while she hung upon every glance, and trembled at every word, at the same time that both endeavored to be composed and natural in their demeanor before the courtiers. But these are quicksighted to detect any change of condition in their superiors; nor was it one of the least of Josephine's troubles to be exposed to their ingratitude. "In what self-restraint," said she, "did I pass the period during which, though no longer his wife, I was obliged to appear so to all eyes! Ah, what looks are those which courtiers suffer to fall upon a repudiated wife!" The circumstance which, more than others, excited suspicion, was the shutting up, by the emperor's commands, of the private access between their apartments. Formerly, their intercourse had thus been free, even amid the restraints of a court. Napoleon would surprise Josephine in her _boudoir_, and she would steal upon his moments of relaxation in his cabinet. But now all was reversed; the former never entered, but knocked when he would speak to the latter, who hardly dared to obey the signal, the sound of which caused such violent palpitations of the heart, that she had to support herself against the wall as she tottered towards the little door, on the other side of which Napoleon waited her approach. At these conferences he sought to persuade her of the political necessity and advantages of a separation--a measure which he at first rather hinted at than disclosed as a matter determined upon.

But it was not the less fixed, and on the 30th of November, after dinner, the emperor ordered his attendants to withdraw. Of what passed at this interview Josephine has been the chronicler. "I watched," says she, "in the changing expression of his countenance that struggle which was in his soul. At length his features settled into stern resolve. I saw that my hour was come. His whole frame trembled; he approached, and I felt a shuddering horror come over me. He took my hand, placed it upon his heart, gazed upon me for a moment, then pronounced these fearful words: 'Josephine! my excellent Josephine! thou knowest if I have loved thee! To thee, to thee alone, do I owe the only moments of happiness which I have enjoyed in this world. Josephine! my destiny overmasters my will. My dearest affections must be silent before the interests of France. Say no more.' I had still strength sufficient to reply, 'I was prepared for this, but the blow is not the less mortal.' More I could not utter. I became unconscious of every thing, and, on returning to my senses, found I had been carried to my chamber."

During the interval between the private announcement of the divorce and the 16th of December, the most splendid public rejoicings took place on the anniversary of the coronation, and in commemoration of the victories of the German campaign. At all these, Josephine appeared in the pomp and circumstance of station, and even with a smiling countenance, while her heart was breaking.

On the 15th of December, the council of state were first officially informed of the intended separation. On the 16th, the whole imperial family assembled in the grand saloon at the Tuileries. Napoleon's was the only countenance which betrayed emotion. He stood motionless as a statue, his arms crossed upon his breast, without uttering a single word. The members of his family were seated around, showing in their expression a satisfaction that one was to be removed who had so long held influence, gently exerted as it had been, over their brother. In the centre of the apartment was an arm-chair, and before it a little table, with a writing apparatus of gold. A door opened, and Josephine, pale, but calm, appeared, leaning on the arm of her daughter. Both were dressed in the simplest manner. All rose on her entrance. She moved slowly, and with wonted grace, to the seat prepared for her, and, her head supported on her hand, listened to the reading of the act of separation. Behind her chair stood Hortense, whose sobs were audible; and a little farther on, towards Napoleon, Eugene, trembling, as if incapable of supporting himself. It had required all a mother's influence to prevent him, on the first announcement of that mother's wrongs, from abandoning the service of the wrong-doer; that influence had done more; it had persuaded him not only to witness her own renouncement of the crown, but to be present at the coronation of her successor.

Josephine heard with composure--the tears coursing each other down her cheeks--the words which placed an eternal barrier between affection and its object. This painful duty over, pressing for an instant the handkerchief to her eyes, she rose, and, in a voice but slightly tremulous, pronounced the oath of acceptance; then, sitting down, she took the pen and signed. The mother and daughter now retired, followed by Eugene, who appears to have suffered the most severely of the three; for he had no sooner reached the ante-chamber, than he fell lifeless on the floor.

The emperor returned to his cabinet, silent and sad. He threw himself on a sofa in a state of complete prostration. Thus he remained for some minutes, his head resting on his hand; and, when he rose, his features were distorted. Orders had previously been given to proceed to Trianon. When the carriages were announced, he took his hat, and proceeded by the private staircase to the apartment of Josephine. She was alone. At the noise caused by the entrance of the emperor, she rose quickly, and threw herself, sobbing, on his neck: he held her to his breast, and embraced her several times; but, overcome by her emotions, she fainted. As soon as she exhibited signs of returning sensation, the emperor, wishing to avoid the renewal of a scene of grief which he could not calm, placing her in the arms of an officer who had attended him, and who relates the occurrence, he withdrew rapidly to his carriage. Josephine immediately perceived his absence, and her sobs and moans increased. Her female attendants, who had come in, placed her on a couch. In her agony, she seized the hands of the officer, and besought him to tell the emperor not to forget her, and to assure him that her attachment would survive all contingencies. It was with difficulty that she suffered him to leave her, as if his absence severed the last link by which she still held to the emperor.

Henceforward, the life of Josephine, passed either at Malmaison or Navarre, offers but few incidents. The emperor would not suffer any change to be made in the regal state to which she had been accustomed at the Tuileries. Her household was on a scale of imperial magnificence. She continued to receive the visits, almost the homage, of the members of the court of Napoleon and Maria Louisa; for it was quickly discovered, that, however unpleasant to her new rival, such visits were recommendations to the emperor's favor. The apartments in which the empress received her guests were elegant, the furniture being covered with needle-work, wrought by the empress and her ladies; but the residence altogether was small--an inconvenience increased through Josephine's veneration of every thing that had been Napoleon's. The apartment he had occupied remained exactly as he had left it; she would not suffer a chair to be moved, and, indeed, very rarely permitted any person to enter, keeping the key herself, and dusting the articles with her own hands. On the table was a volume of history, with the page doubled down where he had finished reading; beside it lay a pen, with the ink dried upon the point, and a map of the world, on which he was accustomed to point out his plans to those in his confidence, and which still showed on its surface many marks of his impatience. These Josephine would allow to be touched on no account. By the wall stood his camp-bed, without curtains; above hung his arms; on different pieces of furniture lay different articles of apparel, just as Napoleon had flung them from him.

It was long before the harassed feelings of Josephine were sufficiently calmed to take any interest in common affairs. So severe had been her sufferings, that it was six months before her sight recovered from the effects of inflammation and swelling of the eyes. The first circumstance which produced something like a change for the better, was her removal to Navarre, the repairing of which became at once a source of amusement and a means of benevolence. This once royal residence had suffered from the revolution, and was nearly in a state of dilapidation. The restoration of the buildings and grounds furnished employment to great numbers of people; and Josephine, in addition to the pleasures of planting and agriculture, enjoyed the delight--to her more dear--of spreading comfort and fertility over a region where before reigned extreme misery.

Her life at Navarre was now more agreeable to her, because free from the restraints of etiquette. Though constantly surrounded by the pomp of a court, her courtiers were for the most part old and valued friends, with whom she lived rather in society, than as mistress and dependants. She exhausted every means to render their retreat agreeable to them--a retreat, however, recompensed by salaries equal to those of the imperial court, and which conciliated Napoleon's approval. Benevolence and kindliness of feeling were the leading traits of Josephine's character; besides distributing, by the hands of competent and pious persons, a large portion of her limited revenues in relieving distress wherever it occurred, she kept constantly about her a number of young ladies, orphans of ancient houses, now fallen into decay, to whom she not only gave an accomplished education, but watched over their establishment in life with parental solicitude.

The first event of importance which broke in upon the tranquillity of Josephine's life, was the birth of the king of Rome. It happened that the whole household were at Evreux, at a grand entertainment, when the news reached that place. The party returned immediately to the palace, where Josephine had remained. "I confess," says a youthful member of the party, "that my boundless affection for Josephine caused me violent sorrow, when I thought that she who occupied her place was now completely happy. Knowing but imperfectly the grandeur of soul which characterized the empress, her absolute devotion to the happiness of the emperor, I imagined there must still remain in her so much of the woman as would excite bitter regret at not having been the mother of a son so ardently desired. I judged like a frivolous person, who had never known cares beyond those of a ball. On arriving at the palace, I learned how to appreciate one who had been so long the cherished companion, and always the true friend, of Napoleon. I beheld every face beaming with joy, and Josephine's more radiant than any. No sooner had the party entered than she eagerly asked for details. 'How happy,' said she, 'the emperor must be! I rejoice that my painful sacrifice has proved so useful for France. One thing only makes me sad; not having been informed of his happiness by the emperor himself; but then he had so many orders to give, so many congratulations to receive. Yes, ladies, there must be a _fete_ to celebrate this event; the whole city of Evreux must come to rejoice with us; I can never have too many people on this occasion.'"

The emperor's omission seems to have greatly pained Josephine; for the same night she wrote him a delicate and touching letter, from which these are extracts:--

"Sire,--Amid the numerous felicitations which you receive from every corner of Europe, can the feeble voice of a woman reach your ear, and will you deign to listen to her who has so often consoled your sorrows, and sweetened your pains, now that she speaks to you only of that happiness in which all your wishes are fulfilled? Having ceased to be your wife, dare I felicitate you on becoming a father? Yes, sire, without hesitation; for my soul renders justice to yours, as you know mine. Though separated, we are united by a sympathy which survives all events. I should have desired to learn the birth of the king of Rome from yourself, and not from the cannons of Evreux; but I know that your first attentions are due to the public authorities, to your own family, and especially to the fortunate princess who has realized your dearest hopes. She cannot be more devoted to you than I; but she has been enabled to contribute more towards your happiness, by securing that of France. Not till you have ceased to watch by her bed, not till you are weary of embracing your son, will you take the pen to converse with your best friend. I wait."

The next day, Eugene arrived, charged with a message from the emperor: "Tell your mother," said he, "that I am certain she will rejoice more than any one at my good fortune. I would have written to her already, had I not been completely absorbed in looking at my son. I tear myself from him only to attend to the most indispensable duties. This evening I will discharge the sweetest of all--I will write to Josephine." Accordingly, about eleven o'clock the same evening, the folding-doors were opened in great form, and the announcement, "From the emperor," ushered in one of his own pages, bearer of a letter from Napoleon. The empress retired to read this ardently-desired epistle; and on her return it was easy to see that she had been weeping. The curiosity of her court was gratified by hearing various portions of the letter, which concluded in these words: "This infant, in concert with _our Eugene_, will constitute my happiness, and that of France." "Is it possible," said Josephine, "to be more amiable? or could any thing be better calculated to soothe whatever might be painful in my thoughts at this moment, did I not so ardently love the emperor? This uniting of my son with his own is worthy of him, who, when he wills, is the most delightful man in the world."

From their separation, the correspondence between Napoleon and Josephine continued undiminished in respect and affection. Notes from the emperor arrived weekly, and he never returned from any journey or long absence without seeing the "illustrious solitary." No sooner had he alighted, than a messenger, usually his own confidential attendant, was despatched to Malmaison: "Tell the empress I am well, and desire to hear that she is happy." In every thing Napoleon continued to evince for her the most confiding tenderness. All the private griefs in which Josephine had shared, and the sorrows to which she had ministered, were still disclosed to her. He gave a further proof of it by allowing her frequently to see his son--a communication which the jealous temper of Maria Louisa would have sought to prevent, had it not been secretly managed. Josephine had so far complied with the wishes of the emperor as to attempt an intercourse with her successor. "But the latter," to use Josephine's own words, "rejected the proposal in a manner which prevented me from renewing it. I am sorry for it; her presence would have given me no uneasiness, and I might have bestowed good counsel as to the best means of pleasing the emperor."

The personal intercourse between Napoleon and Josephine was conducted with the most decorous attention to appearances. It ended in one hurried and distressful interview after the return of Napoleon from his disastrous Russian campaign. But in the midst of the tremendous struggle that followed, Napoleon found leisure to think of her. His letters to her were more frequent and more affectionate than ever, while hers, written by every opportunity, were perused, under all circumstances, with a promptitude which showed clearly the pleasure or the consolation that was expected: in fact, it was observed that letters from Malmaison or Navarre were always torn rather than broken open, and read, whatever else might be retarded.

On the approach of the allies to Paris, Josephine retired from Malmaison to Navarre. Her only pleasure, during the period of painful uncertainty which followed, was to shut herself up alone, and read the letters she had last received from the emperor. A letter from him at last put an end to all uncertainty; it announced his fall and his retirement to Elba. The perusal of it overwhelmed her with grief and consternation; but, recovering herself, she exclaimed, with impassioned energy, "I must not remain here: my presence is necessary to the emperor. The duty is, indeed, more Maria Louisa's than mine; but the emperor is alone, forsaken. I, at least, will not abandon him." Tears came to her relief. She became more composed, and added, "I may, however, interfere with his arrangements. I will remain here till I hear from the allied sovereigns. They will respect her who was the wife of Napoleon." Nor was she deceived. The Emperor Alexander sent assurances of his friendship, and the other allies united in a request that she would return to Malmaison. Here every thing was maintained on its former footing. Her court, elegant as ever, was frequented by the most distinguished personages of Europe. Among the earliest visitors was Alexander. Josephine received him with her wonted grace, and expressed how much she felt on the occasion. "Madam," replied Alexander, "I burned with the desire of beholding you. Since I entered France, I have never heard your name pronounced but with benedictions. In the cottage and in the palace I have collected accounts of your goodness; and I do myself a pleasure in thus presenting to your majesty the universal homage of which I am the bearer." The king of Prussia also visited her, and she received attentions even from the Bourbons. Her children were protected, and Eugene was offered his rank as marshal of France; but he declined it.

The health of Josephine, which had been undermined by previous sufferings, sunk entirely under these new and agitating emotions. On the 4th of May, 1814, she became, for the first time, decidedly ill. The Emperor Alexander was unremitting in his attentions to her, and to him her last words were addressed. "I shall die regretted. I have always desired the happiness of France; I did all in my power to contribute to it; I can say with truth, that the first wife of Napoleon never caused a single tear to flow." She then sunk into a gentle slumber, from which she never awoke.

The funeral procession, which was headed by representatives of the sovereigns of Russia and Prussia, and was composed of princes, marshals, and generals, the most celebrated in Europe, was closed by two thousand _poor_, who had voluntarily come to pay their last tribute to the memory of their benefactor and friend. The spot where her remains are buried is marked by a monument of white marble, bearing this simple, yet touching inscription:--

"EUGENE AND HORTENSE TO JOSEPHINE."

MARIE ANTOINETTE.

Jeanne Josephe Marie Antoinette, of Lorraine, archduchess of Austria, the unfortunate queen of Louis XVI. of France, was the daughter of Francis I. and Maria Theresa, and was born at Vienna, in 1755. She was educated with the utmost care, and nature had bestowed upon her the highest beauty of person. Her accomplishments, talents, grace, virtue, and uncommon loveliness, fitted her for the queen of a gallant nation; and as such she would have been honored in France, had she lived before oppression had roused the people to madness. Her mother, in a letter to her future husband, after alluding to the care with which she had formed her mind, says, "Your bride, dear dauphin, is separated from me. As she has ever been my delight, so she will be your happiness. For this purpose, I have enjoined upon her, as among her highest duties, the most tender attachment to your person, the greatest attention to every thing that can please or make you happy. Above all things, I have recommended to her humility towards God, because I am convinced that it is impossible for us to secure the happiness of the subjects confided to us without love to Him who destroys the sceptres and the thrones of kings according to his will."

The marriage took place at Versailles, May 16th, 1770, and was celebrated with uncommon splendor; but, immediately after the ceremony, a thunder-storm of unparalleled violence broke over the palace of Versailles, darkened the surrounding scenery, and struck terror into the hearts of the people for miles around. On May 30th, the festivities at Paris were saddened by a most terrible accident; a number of citizens being crushed to death in the Rue Royale, by some mismanagement on the part of the proper authorities. Fifty-three persons were found dead, and three hundred more were dangerously injured.

The magnanimity of Marie Antoinette displayed itself soon after her elevation to the throne, on the death of Louis XV. An officer of the body-guard, who had given her offence on some former occasion, expressed his intention of resigning his commission; but the queen forbade him. "Remain," said she; "forget the past. Far be it from the queen of France to revenge the injuries of the dauphiness." She devoted herself to the interests of her people with an assiduity unparalleled in a sovereign of her age; yet, becoming obnoxious to the court party, her character was assailed in every shape and quarter; she was accused of setting on foot conspiracies which never existed, and of entertaining views which never entered her mind. She was termed the _Austrian_, and it was openly asserted, as well as privately insinuated, that her heart was estranged from the country of her husband, and her mind solely occupied with the interests of her native land.

In her conduct, there was matter for gentle reproof, but none for malevolent accusation. A gayety which sometimes degenerated into levity, a passion for fashionable novelties, and an undisguised contempt for court formalities, instead of being regarded as the foibles and imprudences of a young and innocent mind, were construed into evidences of the existence of loose principles, unbridled extravagance, and hatred for the nation. She was likewise charged with pettishness under reproof; and we can readily conceive how a female of so high a rank, conscious of the purity of her intentions, and perpetually assailed by reckless cavillers, assumed, in reply to the unworthy insinuations of her enemies, the tone which her virtue and her birth appeared to warrant. The affair of the diamond necklace created an extraordinary sensation. A jeweller at Paris demanded payment for a necklace so costly that the finances of a queen would hardly warrant its purchase. The result of an examination was the proof of the queen's integrity.

On the 6th October, 1789, the mob broke into the palace of Versailles, murdered some of the bodyguards, and threatened the queen in the most frightful language. At midnight, she received a letter from a friendly clergyman, advising her to seek safety in flight, as her life would be sacrificed early the next morning. She resolved to remain, and destroyed the warning letter. She heard the footsteps of the ruffian rabble; she thought her time had come, but her life was saved. The progress of the ruffians was arrested at the very door of her chamber, where her faithful guardsmen laid down their lives to secure for their queen a retreat to the chamber of the king. The king and queen showed themselves, with their children, in the balcony. The mass of heads beneath for a moment ceased to be agitated; but it was only for a moment. Silence was broken by a thousand tongues--"No children--no children! The queen! the queen alone!"

This was a trying moment; but Antoinette had firmness for the crisis. Putting her son and daughter into her husband's arms, she advanced alone into the balcony. A spectacle like this filled the fierce people with admiration, and thundering sounds of "_Vive la Reine!_" succeeded to the imprecations of the preceding moment. Such is the fickleness of a mob! The march to Paris was a succession of terrors! The heads of the two faithful guardsmen, elevated on pikes, met the eyes of the poor queen as she looked from her carriage windows.

The fate of Antoinette darkened rapidly. With the king, she fled to Varennes--with him was brought back to Paris. Her courage did not fail in the scene of the Legislative Assembly, before which body she was present with her husband, heard his deposition pronounced, and then went into the Temple, where he was imprisoned. Here, where the light of heaven faintly fell through grated windows, surrounded by her family, she appeared to feel entire resignation to the will of Him on whom the happiness of the humblest individual depends. When she heard the condemnation of the king from the lips of the royal victim, she had the firmness to congratulate him on the speedy delivery from trouble that awaited him. Her eternal separation from her son did not shake her firmness, and, with a heart apparently unbroken, she was consigned to the loathsome depths of a dungeon, August 5th, 1793.

The accusations brought against the unhappy queen, on her trial, were all unfounded, and merely advanced because her enemies had still respect enough for justice to mimic its forms in their guilty court. She was charged with having squandered the public money, and with leaguing in secret with the common enemies of France. The clearness of her innocence, the falsehood and frivolity of the witnesses, the eloquence of the defenders, and her own noble bearing, were of no avail: Marie Antoinette was doomed to die upon the scaffold.

The expression of her countenance, as she passed to the place of execution, awed the bloodthirsty populace; but the once matchless beauty of that noble countenance was gone forever. One unacquainted with the ravages of grief could not believe that the haggard and forsaken being whom they led to sacrifice, was the same young queen, who, a short time before, held in thrall the chivalry of France, by her exquisite loveliness, her winning grace, and sportive gayety. Antoinette cast back a long, last look at the Tuileries--a look which told of sorrowful remembrance and of agonizing emotion; then, with an air of dignified resignation, she ascended the scaffold. "My God," cried she, as she kneeled on that fatal platform, "enlighten and affect my executioner! Adieu, my children, my beloved ones: I am going to your father!" Thus she perished, in her thirty-eighth year, October 16th, 1793.

In the gayety of youth and the sunshine of prosperity, Marie Antoinette had exhibited some foibles amid many virtues. In the beginning of her trials, she displayed, as well as those around her, serious mistakes of judgment; but in the dark hour of adversity, she exhibited a spectacle of truth, firmness, and dignity, hardly less than sublime. When confined with her family in the prison of the Temple, with only a glimmering ray of light stealing through the iron bars, she displayed the utmost calmness, cheered all around with her counsel and example, and taught them to disregard privation, sickness, and suffering.

When her husband told her that he was condemned to the scaffold, she congratulated him upon the speedy termination of an existence so painful, and the unperishing reward that should crown it. Before the Revolutionary Tribunal she was unabashed, and, when accused of a horrid crime, she put her traducers to shame by exclaiming, "I appeal to every mother here whether such an act be possible!" In solitude, and in the depths of a damp and loathsome dungeon, where she was confined for weeks, she was still serene and uncomplaining. In parting with her son; in taking a last adieu of the palace which had witnessed her triumphs; in facing the scaffold, and the wretches around it; and in bidding a final farewell to life,--Marie Antoinette evinced that patient, deep, and touching heroism which a woman and a Christian alone can display.

MADAME ROLAND.

When, in May, 1793, Robespierre and the Mountain effected the final overthrow of the Girondists--the moderate party of the French revolutionists--M. Roland, who had recently resigned his office in the ministry, was forced to flee, and his wife was thrown into prison. To solace the sad hours of her captivity, she began to write her own Memoirs. "I propose to myself," she says, "to employ the leisure hours of my captivity in relating the history of my life, from my infancy to the present time. Thus to retrace the steps of one's career is to live a second time; and what better can a prisoner do than, by a happy fiction, or by interesting recollections, to transport herself from her prison?"

Her Memoirs are dated at the "Prison of St. Pelagie, August 9th, 1793," and she thus commences: "Daughter of an artist, wife of a philosopher, who, when a minister of state, remained a man of virtue; now a prisoner, destined, perhaps, to a violent and unexpected death,--I have known happiness and adversity; I have learned what glory is, and have suffered injustice. Born in an humble condition, but of respectable parents, I passed my youth in the bosom of the arts, and amidst the delights of study; knowing no superiority but that of merit, no grandeur but that of virtue."

Her father, Gratien Philipon, was an engraver. During the early years of Manon's life, he was well off, employing many workmen under him. His wife possessed little of what is called knowledge, but she had a discerning judgment and a gentle and affectionate disposition. By her example, as well as by the course of education which her disposition led her to pursue, she formed in her daughter the same gentle, feminine spirit which she herself possessed.

"The wisdom and kindness of my mother," says Madame Roland, "quickly acquired over my gentle and tender character an ascendency which was used only for my good. It was so great that, in those slight, inevitable differences between reason which governs and childhood which resists, she had need to resort to no other punishment than to call me, coldly, _Mademoiselle_, and to regard me with a severe countenance. I feel, even now, the impression made on me by her look, which at other times was so tender and caressing. I hear, almost with shivering, the word _mademoiselle_ substituted for the sweet name of _daughter_, or the tender appellation of _Manon_. Yes, Manon; it was thus they called me: I am sorry for the lovers of romances, the name is not noble; it suits not a dignified heroine; but, nevertheless, it was mine, and it is a history that I am writing. But the most fastidious would have been reconciled to the name, had they heard my mother pronounce it, or had they seen her who bore it. No expression wanted grace, when accompanied by the affectionate tone of my mother; when her touching voice penetrated my soul, did it teach me to resemble her? Lively without being ever rompish, and naturally retiring, I asked only to be occupied, and seized with quickness the ideas which were presented to me. This disposition was so well taken advantage of, that I do not remember learning to read: I have heard that I did so before I was four years old, and that, after that time, nothing more was required than to supply me with books."

Her passion for these was subjected to little guidance or control; she read whatever chance threw in her way; they were, for the most part, of a serious character--Locke, Pascal, Burlamaque, Montesquieu; relieved, however, by works on history, the poems of Voltaire, Don Quixote, and some of the popular romances; but, as these were few in number, she was compelled to read them often, and thus acquired a habit of thought. When she was nine years old, Plutarch's Lives fell in her way, and more delighted her than any romance or fairy tale. The book became her bosom companion; and from that moment, she says, "she dated the ideas and impressions which made her a republican without her knowing that she was becoming one."

"But this child, who was accustomed to read serious books, could explain the circles of the celestial sphere, could use the pencil and the graver, and at eight years old was the best dancer in a party of girls older than herself, assembled for a family festival. The same child was often called to the kitchen to prepare an omelette, wash herbs, or to skim the pot. This mixture of grave studies, agreeable exercise, and domestic cares, ordered and regulated by the wisdom of my mother, rendered me fit for all circumstances, seemed to anticipate the vicissitudes of my fortune, and has aided me in bearing them. I feel nowhere out of place; I can prepare my soup with as much ease as Philopemon cut wood, though no one seeing me would deem that such a task was fitted for me."

The study of Plutarch and the ancient historians was not, perhaps, favorable to the happiness of Mademoiselle Philipon. She regretted that her lot had not been cast in a free state, which she had persuaded herself was the only nursery of virtue, generosity, and wisdom. She contrasted the state of society, as she saw it around her, with the ideal state of its existence in ancient Greece and Rome. She had once paid a visit of eight days to Versailles, and witnessed the routine of the court. How different were the weak and dissolute actors upon that tinsel and tawdry stage from the heroes and philosophers with whom she was wont, in imagination, to associate! She "sorrowfully compared the Asiatic luxury, the insolent pomp, with the abject misery of the degraded people, who ran after the idols of their own creating, and stupidly applauded the brilliant shows for which they paid out of their own absolute necessaries." Sometimes she was taken to visit certain ladies who called themselves noble, and who, looking upon her as an inferior, sent her to dine with the servants. But their airs of condescending kindness were even yet more offensive, and made her bosom swell with indignant emotion. She acknowledges that this feeling made her hail the revolution with greater transport.