Chapter XIII: Part 13

The tribunal which judged the queen was composed of a president and four judges, the public prosecutor, Fouquier-Tinville,—a man who even at that time was notorious as being amongst the most inhuman of the monsters who then governed revolutionary France,—the chief registrar, and fifteen jurymen. Fouquier-Tinville had himself drawn out at great length the act of accusation. He looked upon it as his _chef d’œuvre_, and Chauveau-Lagarde, the queen’s counsel, did not exaggerate when he called it a “work of the devil.” In it the queen was compared to Messalina, Brunehild, Frédégond, and the Medici. He declared that “since her arrival in France she had been the curse and leech of the French nation; that she had maintained a secret correspondence with the king of Bohemia and Hungary; that her aim was the ruin of the country; that by her instigation, and in concert with the brothers of Louis XVI. and the infamous Calonne, formerly minister of finance, she had lavished the wealth of the nation, the spoils of the sweat of the people, in maintaining her criminal expenditure and in paying the agents of her treasonable intrigues; that she had sent millions out of the country to the emperor, in order to maintain the war against the republic, and that she had thus exhausted the revenues of the country. Further, that since the commencement of the Revolution she had not ceased an instant from maintaining a treasonable correspondence with the enemy, and, by every means in her power, aided and abetted a counter revolution.” He then went back and harped, at great length, upon the affair of the Gardes du Corps at Versailles in 1789, and also on the flight to Varennes; accused her of the loss of life on the 17th of July, 1792, at the _Champs de Mars_, and declared that owing to her, and her alone, the massacre occurred at Nancy and elsewhere. “Thus this man raved on in an endless series of accusations, which seem more as if they came from the disordered brain of a homicidal maniac than from a man in his senses.”

Indeed, one can only believe that some of the writings and actions of the actors in the year of terror, 1793, were owing to a state of madness. It is said, and on good authority, that Fouquier-Tinville ultimately confessed to being pursued by horrible visions, saying that he saw the spirits of those he had condemned to death menacing him, not in his dreams, like Richard III., but in broad daylight. And well he might; for between the 10th of March, 1793, and the 27th of July of the following year, two thousand six hundred and sixty-nine victims were sent from that tribunal to the guillotine.

Then followed the second day. “What is your name?” inquired one of the judges.

“Marie Antoinette de Lorraine d’Autriche,” answered the queen.

“What is your condition?” was the next question.

“Widow of Louis, king of France.”

“What is your age?”

“Thirty-eight.”

The act of accusation was then read, and the witnesses appeared. Of these there were forty-one,—men of all sorts and conditions of life, and who were ready to swear anything, however improbable, however atrocious, against the queen. All through the long hours of that awful day the different witnesses were questioned and cross-questioned. She saw again faces familiar to her in past years, faces that must have recalled Versailles and the Trianon; and with what feelings of horror must she have recognized Simon, her son’s jailer and persecutor, among that crowd of witnesses! When the charges relative to the queen’s treatment of her son were again alluded to, the queen deigned no reply. Seeing this, one of the jurors called the attention of the president to her silence. One can imagine what a hush must at that moment have fallen on that great crowd, eager to hear what the queen would answer to such an infamy. But Marie Antoinette was equal, aye, more than equal, to the occasion. She rose proudly from her chair, and in a majestic voice exclaimed: “If I have not answered, it is because nature herself refuses to answer such an accusation made to a mother. I appeal to all that may be present.”

“A thrill ran through that vast hall—a thrill that has not ceased to be felt by all who can enter into what the feelings of that mother were at such a moment. No wonder that when Robespierre heard what a sensation had been made by the sublime manner in which the queen had met that charge, and the effect it had upon the audience, he, being then at dinner, should have broken his plate with rage, and cursed the folly of Fouquier-Tinville in preferring it.” At last all was over, and the queen was asked if she had anything to say. “I was a queen, and you took away my crown; a wife, and you killed my husband; a mother, and you deprived me of my children. My blood alone remains. Take it, but do not make me suffer long.” Then in the dignity of silence, and without the moving of a muscle, she listened to the sentence condemning her to die. It was ten minutes past four in the morning of the 16th of October. The queen had, with hardly an interval, endured this trial more than twenty hours. “Rising from her seat, she walked away calmly and serenely, leaving her judges, or rather murderers, without one look of reproach or shade of anger. But on nearing the portion of the hall where, beyond the barriers, the mob was collected, she raised somewhat her noble head. A great French painter has left a picture of this scene. The queen faces the spectator, as she walks along the side of the barriers, above which the crowd are eagerly scanning her; behind follow the _gens d’armes_ with shouldered muskets; beyond, under the dim light of a lamp, appear the faces of the judges, a lurid background. Delaroche has introduced the thin, handsome face of a youth who seems to feel the iniquity of the transaction keenly: we recognize the features of Bonaparte. Next to the almost angelic sublimity of the figure of the queen, the most touching thing in the picture is the face of a young girl, who gazes, with a look of ineffable pity, through her tears, at the queen as she walks by.”

Truly writes Sainte-Beuve. “I do not believe,” he says, “that a monument of more atrocious stupidity, of greater ignominy for our species, can exist, than this trial of Marie Antoinette. When one reflects that a century which considered itself enlightened and of the most refined civilization, ends with public acts of such barbarity, one begins to doubt of human nature itself, and to fear that the brute, which is always in human nature, has the ascendency.”

All Paris was under arms on this morning of the 16th of October. The roll of the drum was heard through all the sections; thirty thousand troops lined the streets along which lay the route of the queen’s passage. The bridges were guarded with cannon, by which stood the gunners with lighted matches. Artillery was placed also upon the squares and points of junction. At ten o’clock no carriage was allowed in any of the streets that lie between the Conciergerie and the Place de la Revolution. All Paris was patrolled, and all this martial pomp, which sounds as though the army of the enemy were at the very gates of Paris, had been brought out to see a woman die!

Before the Conciergerie, before those beautiful iron gates on which the royal arms of France and the golden lilies are conspicuous, the crowd was thickest; every window had its groups of spectators, every housetop had its crowd of people.

There stands the wretched open cart, with its single horse, its plank the only seat. There is a stir among the crowd, and the queen ascends the prison steps. On seeing the cart, she makes an involuntary pause. It is but an instant. Then, with proud step and undaunted mien, Marie Antoinette advances. A moment more, and she is sealed in the cart. Sanson takes his place behind her.

Both he and his assistant have their three-cornered hats under their arms. “On that occasion the only people who behaved with decency were the executioners.”

Slowly the cart winds its way through the Rue Saint-Honoré. The rabble yell, shout, and mouth at her, while for the last time falls on her ear that hateful cry, “_À bas l’Autrichienne! à bas l’Autrichienne!_”

Yet as much a queen is she,—this silent white-robed figure, so simple, yet so grand in its forlornness,—as when in her gilded coach, surrounded by a brilliant body-guard of cavalry, she swept through the Avenue des Champs Élysées, to the echoing shouts of “_Vive la reine!_”

“You all know the Place de la Concorde,
’Tis hard by the Tuileries’ wall.
’Mid terraces, fountains, and statues,
There rises an obelisk tall.”

Ah! what a sight was this mighty Place de la Concorde, then the Place de la Revolution, on that bright October morning, filled with a vast and silent throng, while the splendid palace and gardens of the Tuileries, where so often the queen had been hailed with acclamations, the spacious Elysian Fields, the pride of Paris, were all spread around, as if in mockery of the sacrifice which was there to be offered; and in the centre, sublime in its terrific grandeur, towered the blood-red posts of the guillotine. Slowly the cart made its way between the noble buildings of the “_Garde Meuble_” and the Admiralty, and finally reached the foot of the scaffold.

As the queen mounted the slippery steps, she trod upon the foot of the executioner. “Pardon me,” said Marie Antoinette, with as much courtesy as if she were addressing a _grand seigneur_ in the palace of Versailles. Kneeling, she uttered a brief prayer, and then turning her eyes to the distant towers of the Temple, exclaimed, “Adieu, my children; I go to rejoin your father.”

She was bound to the plank. The gleaming axe slid through the groove, and the long and dreadful tragedy of the life of Marie Antoinette was closed.

That night, upon the records of the cemetery of the Madeline, was made this entry:—

“_For the coffin of the Widow Capet,—six livres_.”

“The Revolution,” says De Tocqueville, “will ever remain in darkness to those who do not look beyond it. It can only be comprehended by the light of the ages which preceded it. Without a clear view of society in the olden time, of its laws, its faults, its prejudices, its sufferings, and its greatness, it is impossible to understand the conduct of the French during the sixty years which have followed its fall.”

If absolute power could ever be fitly confided to mortal man, where could nobler depositaries of that high trust have been found than in the succession of great men who fill up the interval in the history of France from the accession of Henry IV. to the death of Louis XIV.?

“What ruler of mankind was ever gifted with a spirit more genial, or with views more comprehensive, than those of Henry IV.? or with an integrity and a patriotism more noble than that of Sully? or with an energy of will superior to that of Richelieu? or with subtlety more profound than that of Mazarin? or with a zeal and activity surpassing that of Colbert? or with greater decision of character than Louvois? or with a majesty transcending that of Louis XIV?” And yet, what were the results of so much genius and intellectual power when intrusted with political powers so vast and unrestricted? The favorable results were to add to the greatness of France, and to give birth to some undying traditions, pointing to her still more extensive aggrandizement. The unfavorable results were to produce every possible variety of internal and external misgovernment; to promote wars more sanguinary than had ever before been waged between Christian nations; to produce a waste of treasure so vast, that the simple truth seems fabulous; to kindle persecutions which altogether eclipse, in their enormity, those to which the early Christians were subjected by the emperors of Rome; and to corrupt the moral sense of the people by an exhibition, at the court of their sovereigns, of a profligacy of manners better befitting a prince of the barbarians than a king of France.

According to the doctrine of M. Thomas, there is a general law which regulates the progress of political society. “Emerging from chaos, where its elements battle with each other in wild confusion, it makes a steadfast, though it may be a tardy, progress toward that perfect symmetry and order in which its ultimate perfection consists.”

Thus the anarchy of the tenth and eleventh centuries was the chaotic period of France. Out of that abyss first rose the feudal oligarchy,—a state of orderly disorder. Then succeeded the Capetian despotism, destined to crush, one by one, the countless feudal privileges, whether legislative, administrative, or judicial. When the iron grasp of “royalty” had subdued and conquered them all, then “royalty,” in the midst of the triumphs she had won, presented herself to the nation in the person of Louis XIV., the king _par excellence_, the _one_ gigantic privilege, the conqueror and survivor of all the rest. This was the golden age of kings. The crown was everything; the people, nothing. Robbed under the name of custom and of law, the peasants toiled joylessly from the cradle to the grave. Their sons were sent to strew Europe with their bodies, in wars undertaken at the nod of a courtesan. Their wives and daughters were torn from them; and for the purpose of supporting lascivious, and riotous splendor, of building _Parcs aux Cerfs_, of pensioning discarded favorites, and of enriching corrupt minions of every stamp, they were taxed,—so taxed that the light and air of heaven hardly came to them free; and, sunk in the dregs of indigence, a short crop compelled them to live on food that the hounds of their taskmasters would reject; and, finally, when in their agony they asked some mitigation of their hard fate, they were answered by the bayonets of foreign mercenaries.

“And a people,—stout manhood, gentle womanhood, gray-haired age, and tender infancy, might turn their pale faces upward and shriek for food, while fierce, licentious nobles would scornfully bid them eat grass.”

Such was the condition of the greater part of the French people during the reign of that vilest of monarchs, King Louis XV.

“Royalty” had sinned right royally. Right royally must “royalty” atone for it. And the guillotine upon the Place de la Concorde was but the expiation of St. Bartholomew, of the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and of the _Parc aux Cerfs_.

And though we know that a people, crushed and downtrodden, are striving to free themselves from lawless oppression, we cannot but sympathize with Marie Antoinette, through no fault of her own made queen of France, to reap the whirlwind of wicked deeds sown by her husband’s royal ancestors.

Frederick the Great, amid the battle-smoke at Sohr, or Napoleon, upon the ensanguined field of Waterloo, never struggled harder in support of their respective causes, than did she, in the _salons_ of Versailles and the Tuileries, to sustain the falling monarchy.

“And when, at last, the long conflict was terminated, and her combined enemies were victorious, when bereft of her throne, of her husband, of her children, and of her liberty, she was a prisoner in the hands of those whose unalterable object was her destruction, she bore her accumulated miseries with a serene resignation, an intrepid fortitude, a true heroism of soul, of which the history of the world does not afford a brighter example.”

In the royal burying-vault of the Bourbons, at the Cathedral of St. Denis, now rest the remains of her,—once the pride and joy of France,—the beautiful, unfortunate Queen Marie Antoinette.

Grandeur, triumphs, sorrows, all are over.

“Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.”

THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE.

A.D. 1763-1814.

“Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown.”—SHAKESPEARE.

“Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness.”—SHAKESPEARE.

STRANGER than fiction are the facts of history; and nowhere, among the imaginary characters of romance and poetry, can be found a story of a life more marvellously varied in experience, more weirdly strange in its many thrilling scenes of unutterable misery or dazzlingly triumphant splendor, than the history of the Empress Josephine affords.

But remarkable as were the events of her life, her character was still more remarkable. With no early advantages of education, outside of the fashionable accomplishments of music, drawing, and dancing; by her self-taught acquirements, and diligent study, together with an intuitive perception and aptitude, which enabled her mind to grasp the gravest questions, she was in after-life a most brilliant conversationalist; and by her comprehensive genius and marvellous political foresight, she became the safest, wisest, and most far-seeing of all Napoleon’s advisers and counsellors. When influenced by her persuasive voice, prompted by a heart incapable of any motive but that of the sternest rectitude, and most exalted and unselfish devotion, Napoleon’s acts were always to be commended; and so highly did he prize her counsel, that he called her his “Mentor.”

EMPRESS OF FRANCE.]

Never did she advise him to a false step; and history has shown that, regarding those plans and deeds of Napoleon, which results have proved to have been unwise or grievous mistakes, the gentle voice of Josephine had never failed to give prophetic warning.

As Napoleon stands forth pre-eminent amongst the famous men of history, so does the name of Josephine shine with undying lustre among those of the most celebrated heroines of the world. We are dazzled by her gorgeous state and magnificence as empress. We admire her keen intellect and exquisite tact, which never failed to suggest the most perfect and pleasing demeanor, under every emergency, in a time of many unsettled political opinions and tottering thrones. But we love the gentle, unselfish _woman_, whose heart ever responded to every call for sympathy; whose hand was ever open to bestow benefits; and whose marvellous heroism could support her in the midst of such terrible reverses and peculiar trials as only a woman’s heart could suffer, and only a woman’s love could endure.

In writing the history of Josephine, we are forced to look upon the darker side of Napoleon’s character. From the time he ceased to heed her loving voice,—the persuasive sweetness of which, he himself acknowledged; declaring, “that the first applause of the French people sounded to my ear sweet as the voice of Josephine,”—from that time, the hitherto invincible Napoleon made one false step after another, allowing himself to be influenced by ambitious flatterers and deceived by evil counsellors; following the _ignis fatuus_ of an overweening ambition and thirst for power, which had taken the place of the noble spirit of aspiring to the uplifting of his countrymen and defending the sacred rights of the people, which had actuated his former deeds, and covered his name with the splendid glory and well-deserved honor which he had before achieved.

But now even his transcendent genius and glorious deeds of valor are to be tarnished by grievous mistakes, and even crime.

The first false step taken, his downfall was as terrible and rapid as his uprising had been sudden and glorious.

Already evil counsellors are whispering in his ear their diabolical advice. Just here, with all our admiration for Napoleon, we are amazed at him. That a man possessing such great genius, and with such far-reaching intuitions, should have allowed his mind and deeds to be influenced by the base flatterers who surrounded him, is strange indeed. That Napoleon should not have discovered the Mephistopheles, in Fouché, is surprising; equally amazing, that he should have become so blinded as to turn from his truest friends and most unselfish advisers, and have bared his breast to the poisonous fangs of the wily serpents, who hissed around him like a nest of rattlesnakes.

That steadfastness of purpose which made Napoleon so invincible in overcoming the most stupendous difficulties when his cause was righteous, and which made him the wonder of the world, became the greatest obstacle in his way when his cause was wrong and his resolves pernicious.

The very element in his nature which made him transcendent for good, rendered him also powerful for evil, when his resolution had once been taken in a wrong direction. His unconquerable will, which bore him upward through the most overwhelming difficulties, and crowned him with well-merited success, when his aspirations were inspired by true patriotism and the laudable desire to benefit his country,—that same unconquerable will became his bane, and led him into the most lamentable errors when his former high aspirations had been supplanted by personal ambition and inordinate desire for power.

We cannot give a consecutive history of Napoleon’s errors and downfall in this sketch, but they will appear from time to time, as we trace a short outline of the life of Josephine. We do not pretend to say that Josephine always consciously guided Napoleon’s career and moulded the events of his life. His own genius raised him to his exalted position, we admit; but we do contend that with Josephine he prospered, and without her he fell.

And according to many authorities, it was Josephine’s bridal gift to him that gave him the command of the army of Italy; for it was Barras who recommended Bonaparte to the convention; and it was Barras who assured Madame de Beauharnais that if she married General Bonaparte he would contrive to have him appointed to that command.

We have space but to give two scenes in the life of Josephine before she became Madame Bonaparte. The former occurred upon the island of Martinique, when Josephine was a young girl; the latter, after she had become Vicomtesse de Beauharnais.

One day, when Josephine was about fifteen years of age, she was walking through the spacious grounds of her uncle’s West Indian plantation, in the island of Martinique, when she observed a number of negro girls gathered around an old woman who was engaged in telling their fortunes. Josephine, with girlish curiosity, drew near; whereupon, the old sibyl seized her hand, and, reading the lines there, appeared to be greatly moved.

“What do you see?” inquired Josephine.

“You will not believe me if I speak,” answered the fortune-teller.

“Speak on, good mother,” said Josephine; “what have I to fear or hope?”

“On your own head be it then; listen,” said the old sibyl.

“You will be married soon; that union will not be happy; you will become a widow, and then,—you will be queen of France! Some happy years will be yours; but you will die in a hospital, amid civil commotion;” after saying which, the old woman speedily disappeared.

Josephine thought little of this matter at the time, and only laughed about it with her friends; and when she was residing at Navarre, after the divorce, she thus commented upon it:—

“On account of the seeming absurdity of this _ridiculous prediction_, I thought little of the affair. But afterwards, when my husband had perished on the scaffold, in spite of my better judgment this prediction forcibly recurred to my mind; and though I was then myself in prison, the transaction assumed a less improbable character, and when I, myself, had been also condemned to die, I comforted my companions, who were weeping around me, by smilingly exclaiming:—

“‘That not only should I not die, but that I should become _Queen of France_’.

“‘Why then do you not appoint your household?’ asked Madame d’Aiguillon, who was also one of the prisoners of the Revolution.

“‘Ah! that is true,—I had forgotten. Well, my dear, you shall be maid of honor; I promise you the situation.’

“Upon this the tears of those ladies flowed more abundantly; for they thought, on seeing my coolness at such a crisis, that misfortune had affected my reason. Such, ladies, is the truth about this so celebrated prophecy. The end gives me but little inquietude. I live here peacefully in retirement; I have no concern with politics; I endeavor to do all the good in my power; and thus I hope to die calmly in my bed.”

After the death of the Vicomte de Beauharnais on the scaffold, his wife Josephine, who had also been imprisoned by the Jacobins, was at length condemned to die.

A few days before her terrible doom was to have been sealed, Josephine and Madame de Fontenay, also a prisoner, were standing together at the barred window of their prison. M. Tallien, a man of much influence with the rising power which was opposing the tyranny of Robespierre, was in love with Madame de Fontenay, and daily walked past the convent of the Carmelites, where Josephine and the other ladies of high birth were imprisoned.

Observing M. Tallien, Madame de Fontenay made a sign for him to draw near, and she then dropped from the window a piece of cabbage-leaf, in which she had enclosed the following note:—

“My trial is decreed; the result is certain. If you love me as you say, urge every means to save France and me.”

Roused by the danger of her whom he loved, M. Tallien proceeded to the convention, and making an impassioned and eloquent speech, denouncing Robespierre, he turned the tide of popular opinion against the tyrant, and in a short time Robespierre’s head fell under the bloody guillotine, where he had already caused so many thousands to perish.

The manner in which Josephine received the news of her enemy’s death was strange and interesting. It was the day before that upon which it had been decreed that Madame de Beauharnais should be put to death. Josephine was standing at the window of her prison, calmly gazing upon the outward world, while her fellow-prisoners were weeping around, overcome with the thought of the terrible doom which awaited their loved friend. But Josephine’s fortitude did not desert her, and she was endeavoring to comfort her mourning companions, when her attention was arrested by a woman in the street below, who seemed trying to give her some information by various strange signs.

At first the woman held up her robe, pointing to it several times. Josephine called out through the grated window, “_Robe?_” and the woman eagerly made a sign of assent; and picking up a stone, which in French is _pierre_, she held it up. Josephine cried out, “_Pierre?_” and the woman joyfully nodded, and then pointed first to her robe and then to the stone. Whereupon Josephine wonderingly exclaimed, “_Robespierre?_” and the woman again assented with every mark of delight, and continued to draw her hand around her throat, making the signs of cutting off a head. The glad cry soon resounded through the prison, “_Robespierre is dead!_”

Thus was the axe lifted from the neck of Josephine, and she soon walked forth free, saying smilingly to her friends:—

“You see I am not guillotined; and _I shall yet be queen of France!_”

Thus not only had the life of the future empress of France, but the fate of that great kingdom itself, depended at one time upon a tiny cabbage-leaf, thrown by the hand of a feeble woman.

After Josephine de Beauharnais was betrothed to General Bonaparte, on one occasion she requested him to accompany her to the residence of M. Raguideau, an old lawyer, who had long been her confidential friend and adviser, that she might inform him of her coming marriage. On arriving at the lawyer’s office, Josephine withdrew her hand from the arm of Bonaparte, and requested him to wait for her in the outer apartment until she had spoken with her old friend alone. Neglecting, however, to close the door which separated the two offices, Bonaparte was able to overhear the conversation between his intended bride and the old lawyer.

“M. Raguideau,” said Madame de Beauharnais, “I have come to inform you of my approaching marriage.”

“And with whom, madame?” exclaimed the astonished lawyer.

“I am about to marry General Bonaparte, sir.”

“General Bonaparte, do you say? Pshaw, madame! a soldier of fortune, who has his way to make.”

“He will make it, my good friend!” replied Josephine, with flushed cheeks.

“When, and how?” was the incredulous retort. “But first, what is he worth at present?”

“Nothing, save his house in the Rue Chantereine.”

“A _shed!_ A likely fortune, indeed! And so you are really resolved to marry this adventurer?”

“I am.”

“So much the worse for you, madame.”

“Explain yourself, sir!” said Josephine, with offended dignity.

“Because, madame, you had much better remain a widow than marry a paltry general, without either name or prospects. You must assuredly be mad! Will your Bonaparte ever be a Dumouriez or a Pichegru? Will he ever be the equal of our great republican generals? I have a right to doubt it. Moreover, let me tell you that the profession of arms is worthless now; and I would much rather know that you were about to marry an army-contractor than General Bonaparte.”

“Every one to his taste, monsieur,” disdainfully replied Josephine, stung to the quick by the contemptuous tone of the old man, who had always heretofore been fatherly to her. “You, sir, it would appear, regard marriage merely as an affair of finance;” and she rose with queenly dignity to take her leave.

“And you, madame,” broke in the excited and angry old man, “you see in it only a matter of sentiment, and what you, no doubt, call love. Again I repeat, all the worse for you, madame! all the worse for you! I had given you more credit for good sense than to suspect that you would allow yourself to be dazzled by a pair of gold epaulets. Reflect before you make such a sacrifice; for rest assured, that if you are rash enough to persist in this foolish scheme, you will repent your folly all the days of your life. Who ever heard of a rational woman throwing herself away upon a man whose whole fortune consists in his _sword_ and his _great-coat?_”

General Bonaparte had listened to this extraordinary conversation with rising excitement; and when he heard the words “sword” and “great-coat” so contemptuously uttered, he sprang from his chair, with blazing eyes, forgetting the presence of the astonished clerks; but, recovering himself instantly, he sat down again, determined not to expose himself to ridicule.

Josephine soon appeared, looking highly annoyed and indignant, followed by the irate old lawyer; but Bonaparte, giving him no time for further insult, drew the hand of his betrothed within his arm, and, making a silent and contemptuous bow, withdrew.

Josephine had no idea that Bonaparte had been an unwilling listener; but she noticed his marked increase of kind and courtly attention on the way home; and not until the day of the coronation did either Josephine or Raguideau entertain the slightest suspicion that their conversation had been overheard by Bonaparte. On the day of the coronation, when the emperor and empress were about to proceed to the palace of the archbishop, Napoleon sent one of his chamberlains to M. Raguideau, with the command that the emperor desired his immediate presence at the Tuileries. The astonished lawyer, arriving with breathless haste, overwhelmed with mingled feelings of fear and hope at such unexpected summons, was ushered into the grand _salon_, where Napoleon, attired in his royal robes, was conversing with Josephine, who was also arrayed in her gorgeous coronation costume.

“Ah! here you are at last, M. Raguideau!” said Napoleon, with a quizzical smile upon his imposing countenance; “I am very happy to see you!”

“Sire,” began the trembling old man, not knowing whether that august smile betokened promotion or decapitation.

“My good sir,” continued the emperor, not giving him time to reply, “do you remember a day in 1796, when I accompanied to your house Madame de Beauharnais, now _empress_ of the French?”—emphasizing the word “empress” with all the depth of his magnetic voice. “Do you remember the eulogy which you uttered on the military profession, and the personal panegyric of which I was the object? Well, what say you _now?_ Were you a true prophet? You declared that my fortune would always consist of my sword and my great-coat; that I should never make a name nor position, like Dumouriez or Pichegru; and that Madame de Beauharnais was insane to sacrifice herself to a ‘_mere general_.’ I have made my way, nevertheless, as you perceive, and in despite of your sagacious predictions. Think you that the ‘_army-contractor_’ would have bestowed a brighter boon upon his wife, after eight years of marriage, than a _crown_, and that crown the _imperial diadem of France_?”

As he ceased speaking, Napoleon lovingly raised the hand of Josephine to his lips, while she looked with amazement upon this bewildering scene. The poor old lawyer, overwhelmed with consternation, stood trembling in dumb despair; his eyes were cast upon the floor, and his limbs shook as with an ague fit; while the emperor gazed upon him with an amused smile, highly enjoying his discomfiture. At last the frightened man stammered:—

“Sire, I could not foresee. Sire, did you really overhear?”

“Every word, M. Raguideau. You are aware that walls have ears, and I owe you a severe reprisal; for, if my excellent Josephine had listened to your advice, it would have cost her a throne, and me the best of wives. You are a great culprit, M. Raguideau!”

At those terrible words “_reprisal_” and “_culprit_,” the poor old man turned pale as a corpse; his tottering limbs almost refused to support his agitated form.

“How could I tell? how could I imagine?” he gasped out; “I thought only of her, of her fatherless children. I had loved them for years. I was anxious to see them once more restored to prosperity and happiness.”

“I believe you,” said the emperor, touched by the emotion of the gray-haired old man, who had been a friend to his wife in her days of need; “you could not tell; you could not foresee;” and for a moment Napoleon paused, and then continued in more solemn tones, “the future is beyond the grasp of any living man.” Then, resuming his bantering way: “So, now, we will return to the present; and, as I cannot altogether overlook the injury which you sought to inflict upon me, I condemn you to go this day to Nôtre Dame, and to witness the ceremony of my coronation. Not in a corner, not behind a pillar, which will prevent my having ocular evidence of your obedience, but in the seat that I shall cause to be retained for you. Do you hear, sir? I must see you both in the cathedral and in the line of the procession.”

Transported with the overwhelming relief and the ecstatic joy of such an honor, the poor old lawyer was hardly able to express his gratitude, and could scarcely maintain his dignity as he bowed himself from the royal presence, and hastened to prepare for the coming august ceremony.

Napoleon having jested with his wife over the abject terror of the trembling culprit, the emperor and empress entered their carriage, and proceeded to the archbishopric. As they left the cathedral after the magnificent ceremony of the coronation, Napoleon recognized the old lawyer in the crowd; and as their eyes met the Emperor smiled graciously upon his former enemy. The smile was answered by so profound a bow, that Napoleon afterwards laughingly declared to Josephine, “that for several seconds he was in doubt whether the sage prophet of 1796 would ever be able again to assume the perpendicular.”

During Napoleon’s campaigns, Josephine was at all times in receipt of news from the army, brought to her by couriers from Bonaparte. No matter at what time the despatches arrived, day or night, she always received them with her own hands, and made inquiries of the courier of all in the army whom she knew. She would always say some pleasant thing to him, and reward him with a more or less costly gift, according to the importance of the news received.

At one time, when Bourrienne had remarked to Josephine, “Madame, I really believe that in spite of yourself you will be made queen or empress,” Josephine exclaimed: “Bourrienne, such ambition is far from my thoughts. That I may always continue the wife of the First Consul, is all that I desire.”

During the Prussian campaign, nothing was talked of throughout Germany but Napoleon’s generous conduct with respect to Prince Hatzfeld. Among the letters seized at Berlin, and delivered to Napoleon, was one from the prince to the king of Prussia, in which he revealed the condition and strength of the French army. The prince was arrested, and tried as a spy, and condemned to death. The remainder of the scene is described in Napoleon’s letter to Josephine, which is as follows:—

“I have received your letter, in which you seem to reproach me for speaking ill of women. It is true that I dislike female intriguers above all things. I am used to kind, gentle, and conciliatory women. I love them, and if they have spoiled me, it is not my fault, but yours. However, you will see that I have done an act of kindness to one deserving woman. I allude to Madame de Hatzfeld. When I showed her her husband’s letter, she stood weeping, and in a tone of mingled grief and ingenuousness, said, ‘It is indeed his writing!’ This went to my heart, and I said: ‘Well, madame, throw the letter into the fire, and then I shall have no proof against your husband.’ She burned the letter, and was restored to happiness. Her husband now is safe; two hours later, and he would have been lost. You see, therefore, that I like women who are simple, gentle, and amiable; because they alone resemble you.”

Josephine’s kindness and consideration for the comfort of every one in her household, even down to the lowest menial, was proverbial. When travelling with Napoleon, a picket-guard was appointed by the emperor for her service. One cold night, in the early dawn, she heard marching and coughing under her window. She wondered who could be out so late in the chill of that hour; and upon inquiry, she learned that it was the sentinel posted there. She thereupon sent for the officer of the guard, and said to him, “Sir, I have no need of a sentinel at night; these brave men have endured enough in the army when they followed it to the wars; they must rest while in my service. I don’t want them to catch cold.” The officer, smiling at the apprehensive solicitude of the empress, and touched by her unexpected kindness, dismissed the sentinel, and his place was not supplied.

Napoleon is said to have talked but little. When out of his own house, if he chanced to stop and speak with any one, it was considered of enough importance to be remarked and reported. The following is Josephine’s portrait of Napoleon at home: “He had a fine intellect, a sensible and grateful heart, simple tastes, and the qualities of an amiable man; to the sentiments of an honest man, he united a prodigious local memory.”

When Josephine spoke of her husband, she always said, “The emperor says,” “the emperor wishes,” “the emperor orders,” etc. She very rarely called him by name in public, and in private she called him Bonaparte; while her tender name for him was _mon ami_. When speaking of her, Napoleon usually called her _the empress_, or he would say, “I am going to see _my wife_”; but in addressing her he called her _Josephine_, unless he spoke with severity or on some serious occasion, when he called her _Madame_, without other title or name.

It cannot be denied that Josephine had a great weakness for extravagant jewels and adornments; but as she dressed always with perfect taste and elegance, and as she was as lavish in her bounties as she was in her personal expenditures, she may be pardoned this feminine weakness. She at least never offended the eyes of admirers of good taste, and her pleasing person, so becomingly adorned, was one of the most charming sights of the court of the empire.

This was another cause of the jealousy of her sisters-in-law; and even Pauline, the Bonaparte beauty, was often most sorely chagrined to find her own boasted charms thrown in the shade by the refined elegance and queenly bearing of the emperor’s wife.

An amusing story is told of the mortification of this proud beauty upon one grand occasion, when she had resolved for once to outshine her hated sister-in-law.

Pauline, Madame Le Clerc, after wearing her widow’s weeds for as short a time as possible after the death of her first husband, General Le Clerc, had wedded a real prince, and was accordingly to make her _début_ at court as Princess Borghèse.

Pauline has kept her own counsel about her _grande toilette_ for that momentous occasion; but the rumor is afloat that she intends to make a _grand coup_ with her gorgeous appearance, and quite extinguish her august sister-in-law.

Josephine, having heard that she was to be crushed into utter insignificance by the vain beauty, quietly determined a little stratagem of her own. Confident of being mistress in the art of dress, she accordingly resolved to assume a costume which should delight by its very simplicity. But a simplicity so artistically arranged that the very splendor of her rival should but heighten the effect of her own toilet. Her dress was of the finest Indian muslin, bordered with gold and embroidery, and gracefully draped to show the perfect elegance of her figure. Her hair was dressed _à la grecque_, and banded with pearls, while antique gems and pearls formed her sole ornaments.

“_Ravissante!_” exclaimed her ladies, as she entered the _salon_; and even Napoleon’s usual gravity relents, as he cries:—

“_Josephine, je suis jaloux! Tu es divine!_” and he kisses her on the forehead, pinching her ear laughingly, which was his favorite manner of bestowing a gracious caress.

The time passes, but no princess. Napoleon impatiently retires from the _salon_; his time is too precious to wait longer the “official visit,” as he calls it, of the prince and princess.

At length the clatter of horses’ hoofs is heard. A carriage grand enough, with its gilding and emblazonry, to have borne the _Grand Monarque_ himself, dashes into the _Cour d’Honneur_ of St. Cloud.

Six gayly caparisoned horses are harnessed to this gorgeous vehicle, and a large retinue of outriders surround it, bearing torches. On the grand staircase are stationed the entire staff of domestics to receive their princely guests.

Presently the _huissier_ opens the doors of the _salon_, and announces with becoming grandiloquence:—

“_Monseigneur le Prince, and Madame la Princesse Borghèse_.”

The _grande entrée_ is made with imposing hauteur, and Pauline sees with satisfaction that she has made a sensation. But her vain heart is ruffled because she is obliged to cross the room to Josephine, instead of being met by her, as _la grande princesse_ had of course expected.

But she comforted her wounded pride with the thought that this promenade would give her the opportunity to display her velvet train embroidered with diamonds.

Pauline was indeed magnificent. Her costume was a pale green velvet embroidered with gold, and thickly sprinkled with flashing brilliants. The front of her dress was a _tablier_ of diamonds, with diamond stomacher, and the same glistening jewels upon her sleeves. Her handsome head was adorned with a diadem of emeralds and diamonds, and the same gems sparkled upon snowy arms, wrists, and throat. In fact, she was loaded with the entire wealth of diamonds possessed by the princely family of Borghèse; and as it was reported that when she came back from St. Domingo, where her former husband died, she had guarded carefully a coffin, containing the supposed remains of her late husband, but in reality filled with diamonds and other precious stones. If this was true, Pauline doubtless had diamonds of her own to add to the vaunted store of the family of her second princely husband.

Be that as it may, Pauline flashed in diamonds from head to foot; nay more, even to the end of her gorgeous train, where the same rich jewels also sparkled.

She was indeed dazzling!

Josephine and Pauline are at length seated side by side. The proud princess is forced to acknowledge that Josephine’s toilet is charming; and all beholders are confirmed in their opinion that Madame Bonaparte’s taste is faultless.

But horrors! What has happened? Pauline, _la princesse_, has grown pale as death. Is she ill? Oh! worse than that. Oh, awful catastrophe! Pauline, gazing into a large mirror before her, expecting to be ravished with her own beauty, perceives this dreadful fact. The furniture and draperies of the newly furnished _salon_, while giving full effect to Josephine’s costume, actually transform herself into a hideous spectacle. Wearing a _green velvet gown_, she has seated herself upon a _blue velvet sofa_! It is positively _too shocking_ for her nerves to endure. Had her boasted triumph encountered such ignominious defeat? Hastily rising, she made her adieus, and departed to weep in mortified chagrin and baffled pride. Poor Pauline! kind-hearted Josephine had not intended to achieve such an unexpected triumph.

The Empress Josephine was very generous to her attendant ladies, often making them costly presents. As she frequently gave them handsome costumes and pretty novelties which she had worn but once or twice, the ladies at length entered into quite a trade with certain Jews, who came to the court to display their merchandise. As the robes of the empress were often too rich for the ladies who received them to wear themselves, they exchanged them for piece-goods, which the Jewish merchants brought for sale. These garments of the empress became quite the rage; and at one ball, Josephine might have beheld the ladies in an entire quadrille, arrayed in her cast-off robes. Even princesses were frequently the purchasers of these gowns from the Jews, who had obtained them in exchange for the merchandise with which they had supplied the ladies of Josephine’s court.

At one time an ambassador arrived from Persia, bringing very magnificent presents to the Emperor Napoleon and costly cashmeres to Josephine. For some time his Persian Excellency was all the rage, and the ladies of the French court vied with each other in endeavoring to show attention to these eastern guests. The parties given by the Persian ambassador and his suite, at their residences, were largely attended, and much curiosity was evinced to partake of the foreign tea and queer cakes offered by their Persian hosts.

The empress at length determined to attend one of their parties incognito, being accompanied by several of her ladies. On being introduced to the ambassador, Josephine received a gracious smile, and the Persian presented her with a small bottle of attar of roses, a kind of present which, among the Persians, denoted a mark of high honor and respect.

Josephine tasted several mysterious Persian dishes, and expressed admiration of his Excellency’s pipe, which was brought to him by two slaves, who kneeled when they offered it to their august master. Josephine noticed that the tips of his Excellency’s finger-nails were colored with different tints.

The ambassador being impressed with the manner and grace of the empress, invited her to be seated by his side on his divan. She graciously declined the attention, saying that such an honor belonged only to privileged persons, fearing that her identity would be made known. The Persian then asked, through his interpreter, if she would be willing to go and reside with him in Persia, promising that he would give her a high position.

Scarcely restraining her mirth, Josephine replied that she was married and had two children, and that her duty and interests would keep her in France. And with as much haste as courtesy would allow, the empress and her ladies retired from the presence of their Persian host.

On the day of the ambassador’s public presentation at court, Josephine, arrayed in all her imperial magnificence, received him with a gracious smile. The poor, dumfounded Persian, who recognized in the empress the woman whom he had vainly tried to captivate, was completely amazed, and his manner and attitude expressed his astonished mortification.

But Josephine, with winning smile, quickly relieved him of his embarrassment, saying, in her sweet persuasive tones:—

“You must admit, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, that I had good reason for telling you that I preferred to remain in France. If you think well of me, you will remain faithful to that beautiful wife of yours.” And with a sign of respect, the humiliated Persian withdrew.

At Josephine’s early receptions as wife of the First Consul, the costumes of the guests were very heterogeneous in style. The fashions of the Republic had been copied after ancient Greek and Roman styles; and the ladies of the Republic flaunted their Grecian tunics and Roman sandals with great pride. But after a time it was remarked “that military boots and pantaloons, clanking swords and cockades, were in a considerable minority, and that silk stockings, shoes with buckles, dress swords, and _chapeaux sous le bras_ were the rule. Some of the company had, however, endeavored to spare their feelings too complete a shock, by an attempt to unite the past and the present. While returning to powder and embroidery, lace ruffles and cravats, they contrived to retain in their costumes some reminiscence of the fast vanishing and much regretted ‘_sans-culottism_’ of the Republic. This resulted in amusing and startling incongruities.”

But during the empire, Napoleon was particular about the etiquette of his court. He regarded it as the chief barrier of the throne, and of great importance. He caused an exact account of all the ceremonies in use at the courts of Louis XIV. and Louis XV. to be drawn up, and he directed the most scrupulous attention to be paid to their performance. Josephine was sufficiently a daughter of the Revolution to smile at too strict etiquette; she said: “It was perhaps appropriate for princesses, born to the throne and accustomed to the restraints it imposes; but she, who had lived so many years as a private person, ought, she considered, to be less exacting, less severely punctilious in her intercourse with those who knew and remembered the circumstances of her former life.” “And although she learned to wear her crown and mantle of state and to sit on her throne right royally, she was ever unfailingly indulgent in the matter of etiquette, and always pleased to throw aside its restraints.”

After the imperial decree had ennobled many to whom the mysteries of the court had hitherto been sealed books, very amusing incidents occurred. The Faubourg St. Germain resented the indignity which had been offered to their patrician prejudices; and the newly created nobles were often treated with superb disdain by those entitled to such rank from birth.

“The Duchesse de Chevreuse desired her waiting-woman to inform her laundress that she should no longer intrust her with her linen, until she became a countess; and the Comte de Brissac addressed a note to his boot-maker as follows:—

“‘My dear baron! do not fail to bring me my boots to-morrow.’ And when on the next day the astonished tradesman assured him that he had been the recipient of no such title, De Brissac exclaimed with elegant impertinence: ‘Can this be possible? You really astonish me! Console yourself, however, Maizenat; for rest assured that you will be included in the next baking.’”

But it was hardly to be wondered at, perhaps, that the old nobles sneered at some of these new-titled persons, whose own presumptuous pride made them fit subjects for mirth. This throng of new courtiers, most of whom had sworn eternal hatred to kings and royalty, now danced attendance at the _levées_ of the emperor, and vied with each other to obtain a look or word from his imperial highness, that they might repay him for it with the pompous titles of “Sire,” and “Your Majesty,” which they did with an air of self-gratulation, which appeared as if the individual considered himself to be ennobled by the privilege of merely uttering the magic words. Among the strange actions related of some of these “_newly baked dignitaries_,” one or two are quite amusing.

The wife of a marshal purchased several dresses of old brocade, such as were worn at the Court of Louis XV., and kept them spread out upon chairs in the hall leading to her bedroom, as if placed there to air. When her curious visitors asked her what she was going to do with them, she replied with apparent carelessness, under which lurked much pompous pride: “Do with them? Oh! nothing at all; but they belonged to my grandmother, and I wish to keep them as long as I can for her sake.”

Books on heraldry brought fabulous prices; and the father behind his counter, and the mother at her wash-tub, were entertained by their pretty daughters, endeavoring to master the high-bred French titles of the _ancien régime_.