Chapter XIV: Part 14

One soap-dealer, whose daughter had married an officer in the army, and had embellished the panels of her carriage with a gloved hand grasping a sword,—the military crest of her husband,—innocently thanked his daughter for having tried to copy the golden arm which figured above his shop-door; though he regretted that she should have had it painted to look like iron, and generously stated that had he known of it, he would willingly have paid the difference of cost himself.

The return to Paris of several _grandes dames_ promised a gradual reorganization of “_la bonne compagnie_,” and several of the contractors’ wives were ambitious to be received in the Faubourg St. Germain; and one of them, Madame Privas, who was desirous of opening her _salon_ to the _beau monde_, having read Madame de Genlis’ work, “Adèle et Théodore,” at once exclaimed to her husband: “Privas! this is the lady for us.” Whereupon Madame Privas arrayed herself in resplendent robes, and attended by a negro servant in Moorish costume, she entered her gorgeous carriage and proceeded to take Madame de Genlis by storm.

She had not the least doubt of the success of her errand, which was no less than the attempt to secure Madame de Genlis, who had returned to Paris in pinched circumstances, to come to her magnificent hotel in the Rue St. Dominique, and as a lady, receive for her: in short, put her in the way of learning the old etiquette with which she should honor people who were quite _comme il faut_. And so with pompous brusqueness she announces the object of her visit to Madame de Genlis. She would give her a salary of twelve thousand francs. She would promise not to tyrannize over her, and even if she had a dear friend she also would be welcome. What more could she require?

“Madame, I thank you for your obliging offer, which I have the honor to inform you it is not in my power to accept,” replied Madame de Genlis, rising with the courtly manner of a _grande dame_ of the court of the _Grand Monarque_.

“You refuse it!” cried Madame Privas in astonishment. “Why, I offer much more than you can get for your books. And besides, you would have friends in us;—friends with a fortune of five millions. _C’est beau, ca! eh?_”

“Madame,” replied Madame de Genlis, “I have answered you. It is impossible.”

“Well, adieu then, my _bonne dame_. Privas and I made sure you would jump at the offer. In case you should change your mind, I’ll leave you my address. Write me, if you think better of it.” And with her plumes waving in ruffled pride, and her velvets and satins rustling in their gorgeous costliness, Madame Privas bounced out of the room, forgetting her assumed elegance of manner at the affront offered to her darling dollars.

Josephine’s manners, “_en representation_,” were charming. She appeared a very queen at the emperor’s public receptions. Her air and attitude were dignified, graceful, and yet natural. She conversed with ease and fluency, employing the choicest terms of expression; and the spectator could not resist a pleased astonishment at the gracious bearing which charmed all classes of society, and at her alluring tact which enabled her to address crowds of persons in quick succession, and yet with a pleasing and appropriate word to each, turning with equal ease from a tradesman to a monarch.

The emperor was one day about to undertake some important business, when Josephine besought him to put it off for a time, remarking that it was Friday, which was regarded as an unlucky day. Napoleon replied: “’Tis so perhaps to you, Madame, but it is the most fortunate in my life. I never shall forget that it was the day of our marriage.” The empress was deeply touched at this mark of devotion from her husband, and she ceased to enforce her request.

The time for the coronation ceremony had arrived. Josephine felt the solemnity as well as the grandeur of the occasion, as is evinced from these few lines written to Pope Pius VII. at this time:—

“Ah! truly do I feel, that in becoming empress of the French, I ought also to become to them as a mother at the same time. What would it avail to bear them in my heart, if I proved my affections for them only by my intentions? _Deeds_ are what the people have a right to demand from those who govern them.”

And truly, Josephine exemplified her words by her actions.

On the 2d of December, 1804, all was stir in Paris and the Tuileries from an early hour.

“On this morning, which was to witness the completion of her greatness, Josephine rose about eight o’clock, and immediately commenced her momentous _grande toilette_. The body drapery of the empress was of white satin, beautifully embroidered in gold, and ornamented on the breast with diamonds. The mantle was of crimson velvet, lined with satin and ermine, studded with golden bees, and fastened by an aigrette of diamonds.

“The coronation jewels consisted of a crown, a diadem, and a ceinture. The first used for the actual crowning, and worn only on state occasions, consisted of eight branches, four wrought in palm, and four in myrtle leaves of gold, incrusted with diamonds; round the circlet ran a corded fillet set with eight very large emeralds, and the bandeau which immediately enclosed the head, shone with resplendent amethysts.

“The diadem worn before the coronation, and on the more ordinary state occasions, was composed of four rows of the finest pearls interlaced with foliage of diamonds, the workmanship of which equalled the materials; in front were several brilliants, the largest weighing one hundred and forty-nine grains. The ceinture was of gold, so pure as to be quite elastic, enriched with thirty-nine rose-colored diamonds.

“Napoleon’s coronation robes were equally magnificent. His close dress was of white velvet, embroidered in gold, with diamond buttons; his stockings of white silk, the gussets wrought in gold, harmonized with the buskins of white velvet laced and bordered with gold; his upper garment, as also the short mantle, were of crimson velvet, richly embroidered in gold, with diamond fastenings. This mantle was similar to that of the empress, but much heavier, weighing upwards of eighty pounds.

“‘All very fine, Monsieur le Drôle,’ said Napoleon, to his favorite valet, playfully pinching his ear; ‘all very fine; but we shall see the accounts.’

“At eleven precisely the cavalcade moved from the Tuileries towards Nôtre Dame. The imperial carriage, drawn by eight bays, had been constructed with the entire panelling of glass, a circumstance which accounts for the mistake made by their Majesties, who first seated themselves, like criminals, with their backs to the horses. Josephine was the first to discover this error, which she instantly rectified by lightly assuming the proper position saying at the same time to the emperor:—

“‘_Mon ami_, unless you prefer riding _vis-à-vis_, this is your seat,’ pointing to the rich cushion on the right. Napoleon, laughing heartily at his blunder, moved to the place indicated.

“The procession advanced, attended by ten thousand horsemen, the flower of ‘Gallic chivalry,’ who defiled between double lines of infantry, selected from the bravest soldiers, and extending above a mile and a half; while more than four hundred thousand spectators filled up every space whence a lance could be obtained.

“The thunders of innumerable artillery, the acclamations of the assembled multitude, expressed the general enthusiasm; and, as if to light up the gorgeous spectacle, the sun suddenly broke through the mists which till then had hung heavily over the city. The _cortège_ stopped at the archiepiscopal palace, whence a temporary covered gallery, hung with the banners of the sixteen cohorts of the Legion of Honor, conducted into the interior of the cathedral and to the throne.

“To this latter was an ascent of twenty-two semicircular steps, covered with blue cloth, gemmed with golden bees, and crowded with the grand officers of the empire.

“On the throne itself, hung with crimson velvet, under a canopy of the same, appeared Napoleon, with Josephine on his left, attended by the princesses of the empire, and on his right his two brothers, with the archchancellor and archtreasurer.

“The religious ceremony continued nearly four hours, enlivened by music composed for the occasion, and sung by more than three hundred performers. The martial band was still more numerous, which executed in the intervals marches afterwards adopted and still used in the armies of France.

“Napoleon, in the midst of the ceremony, stood up and laid his hand upon the imperial crown,—a simple diadem of gold wrought into a chaplet of interwoven oak and laurel,—and placed it on his own head. Afterward, Napoleon took the crown destined for the empress, and, first putting it for an instant on his own, placed it upon his consort’s brow, as she knelt before him on the platform of the throne.

“The appearance of Josephine was at this moment most touching. Even then she had not forgotten that she was once an ‘obscure woman’; tears of deep emotion fell from her eyes; she remained for a moment 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.

“Cardinal Fesch, as grand almoner of France, now placed the Gospels on the throne; Napoleon stood up, laid his hand on the sacred volume, and in his deep and solemn tones pronounced the oaths with such firmness and elevation of voice, that each word was distinctly heard by the vast assembly.

“Shouts of ‘Long live the emperor! God bless the empress!’ resounded through the cathedral, and were caught and repeated by the multitude without; the organ pealed forth _Te Deum_, and the imposing ceremony was over.

“The _cortège_ re-entered the palace at half-past six in the evening. Josephine retired to her closet to give vent in secret to the fulness of her heart, and to implore the protection of Him by whom kings reign.”

Josephine’s mode of life after she became empress is thus described: “At the Tuileries, at St. Cloud, and during the grand journeys of the court, her habit was to rise at eight in the morning, and commence her toilet. While her hair was being dressed, she would glance over half a dozen journals, and receive her _modistes_, or such other persons as she could not admit into the _salon_. When she was fully dressed, which operation lasted ordinarily about an hour, she would pass into the _salon_ at ten or eleven o’clock, where she found the _dames de service_ and those whom she had invited to breakfast with her. At noon she sat at table at least an hour. Breakfast was in some sort her only meal, for, on leaving her bed, she was in the habit of taking nothing but a cup of tea with a little citron. I do not speak of her breakfasting with the emperor; for he was always so engaged that he scarcely had time to eat. After breakfast, if the weather was good, she would ride out in a calèche, and go to Malmaison or on a hunting party.

“In case she did not go out, she received calls from all such persons as had obtained the promise of a meeting, of which she was advised either by the _dame d’honneur_, or the _chamberlain de service_. These two functionaries could introduce only such persons as the empress was unacquainted with, or knew but slightly, whilst all the ladies who were admitted to her court came whenever they pleased, without a card of invitation, unless there was a concert or a spectacle,—a matter appertaining to the emperor’s chief chamberlain.

“From breakfast until four o’clock, Josephine would receive two or three private visits in her separate apartment, or repose upon a sofa; at four she retired to her cabinet, undressed, went to reading, and took a little refreshment. This lasted till five, when a second toilet commenced. She rarely received a call at this time, because it was the hour at which the emperor came, unless engaged in council.”

M’lle Avrillion, _femme de chambre_ of the Empress Josephine, tells several amusing stories regarding these visits of Napoleon while his wife was making her _grande toilette;_ and the many suggestions he made as to the becomingness of certain attire, and his marked antipathy to some styles. The poor _femme de chambre_ dreaded these visits as much as Josephine enjoyed them, for the emperor would always turn the entire wardrobe topsy-turvy in making the selections of his favorite costumes, and the jewel-caskets would suffer equal disarrangement. On one occasion, when Josephine had unconsciously donned an attire displeasing to the taste of her husband, he ruthlessly spattered ink upon the obnoxious gown, so that the amiable empress was obliged to remove the offending robe, and array herself to please her particular lord.

The emperor and empress usually dined together alone at six o’clock, and afterwards Josephine again entered the _salon_, where she found the _dames de service_. In the evening, the ministers, marshals, generals, and others made their calls. Josephine conversed with ease with every one, now and then playing a game of backgammon or whist. If the emperor came in, which was never before nine o’clock, he remained only about a quarter of an hour, unless he wished to form a party at play, and then he would appoint the persons to compose it. His party always consisted of ladies, never of gentlemen. But woe betide his partner! for such was the preoccupation of his mind that he paid no attention to the card he was playing, and did not notice his mistakes. No one dared to make any remark upon his mode of playing. After going through with this kind of game, the emperor left the apartment, Josephine meanwhile remaining in the _salon_ until it was time to retire.

At Malmaison, the only difference in her mode of life was that she saw somewhat less company, and spent much time in walking through the delightful grounds of this rustic retreat. She had established at Malmaison a botanical garden, a menagerie, and a school of agriculture. Josephine preserved her simple tastes and her love for rural life even after she became empress. One of her greatest delights was the embellishment of her beautiful gardens. She was well versed in botany and natural history, and France and Europe are indebted to her for the camellia. Napoleon’s happiest days were spent at Malmaison; and after the divorce, he continued to visit Josephine at this retreat. He would lead her into the park, remain an hour or two, bring her back to the _salon_, and then get into his carriage. She received him with perfect politeness and dignity of manner, going forward to meet him; and when he left, accompanying him to the door of the vestibule.

The appearance of Josephine after she became empress, is thus described: “Her features were small and finely modelled, the curves tending rather to fulness and the profile inclining to Grecian, but without any statue-like coldness of outline. The habitual character of her countenance was a placid sweetness, which perhaps would have given at first an impression of lack of energy. But this could have been for an instant only, for the real charm of this mild countenance resided in its power of varied expression, changing with each vicissitude of thought and sentiment. ‘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, even imposing in their expression when turned fully upon any one; but in her usual manner they lay half concealed beneath their long and silky eyelashes. She had a habit of looking thus with a mild, subdued glance upon those she loved, throwing into her regard such winning tenderness as might not easily be resisted; and even in his darkest moods, Napoleon confessed its tranquillizing power. Josephine’s long hair ‘was glossy chestnut brown,’ whose sunny richness harmonized delightfully with a clear and transparent complexion and neck of almost dazzling whiteness. Her eyebrows were a shade darker, arching regularly, and pencilled with extreme delicacy. The perfect modulation of her voice constituted one of her most pleasing attractions, and rendered her conversation extremely captivating.”

It was difficult for Napoleon ever to resist the persuasive voice of Josephine.

On the eve of Napoleon’s departure for Germany, in April, 1809, having taken leave of Josephine, she had retired to her apartment, and thrown herself upon her bed in deep distress, because she could not obtain his consent to allow her to accompany him to Strasburg.

The emperor, returning unexpectedly to her room at the last moment, said to Josephine:—

“You have played the part of empress long enough; you must now become again the wife of a general. I leave immediately; you will accompany me to Strasburg.”

Josephine herself thus tells the story:—

“I was not at all prepared for the journey, for only a few days before he had refused to permit me to accompany him on the campaign. At three o’clock in the morning we were travelling speedily on the Alsace road. My husband scarcely gave me time to throw on a night-cloak, and all my women had left the château _en déshabillé;_ so that when morning came, the officers who accompanied us could scarcely preserve their gravity at seeing us in such a plight. Napoleon was extreme in every thing, and it was never until the decisive moment came that he expressed his final resolution. I had been so long accustomed to his singular character, that I ceased to be astonished at the striking contrasts which it exhibited. Our journey was full of gayety; we met sundry original characters on the way, who furnished us abundance of amusement. We arrived at Strasburg. My husband had a secret presentiment that he should return victorious. He said to me, on leaving me:—

“‘Josephine watches over all that I love, and my guardian angel will never cease to utter her prayers for the safety and success of her husband.’

“He knew me well, that mortal whose astonishing destiny had opened to him the road to the most splendid throne on earth. I cherished not a thought, I formed not a wish, which was not directed to his glory. If certain political drones have dared accuse me of levity in my conduct, let those unjust censors remember that it was under the mask of sincere friendship that I sought to overawe certain powerful personages. Had I regarded them with an eye of indifference, they might have surrounded Napoleon with perils from which no human prudence could have rescued him. Often did I, in concert with him, carry on a correspondence. I flattered all parties, for I love to do justice to all. When Napoleon supposed he had grounds of complaint against any of his military officers, I warmly pleaded their cause. He would tell me:—

“‘It depends only on me whether I will be rid of that officer. I have only to pronounce his doom.’

“‘You are right,’ I would reply; ‘you are right; but such language does not become your generous and noble nature.’

“‘And who can oppose me in it!’ was his quick reply.

“‘Yourself, Napoleon. ’Twould arm against your person a multitude of brave men who are necessary to you. Certainly, a great man should fear nothing; but he captivates all hearts when he pardons. The first function of kings and the firmest pillar of a throne is justice.’”

Thus Josephine’s influence was always on the side of mercy and justice. She possessed the most perfect tact, which rendered her address irresistibly winning when partisans were to be gained for Napoleon. She was entirely engrossed in the welfare and glory of him to whom her heart was most unselfishly devoted and loyal. She gained for him friends on every side; as Napoleon himself acknowledged, saying, “I conquer empires; but Josephine wins hearts.” Bonaparte was never so prosperous, so well-served, and so well-beloved, as during the years when he was blessed with the counsels and aided by the adoring love of the faithful woman, who was always his best adviser and most constant friend.

When on one occasion Josephine warned Napoleon to be on his guard against the advice which might be given him by his flatterers, he replied:—

“You are right, Madame, I know how to guard myself against all their influences. You are my _wife_ and _friend_. I want none other. Your lot is bound to mine forever; and woe to that one of us who shall be the first to break our oath.”

And yet in 1809, he could not guard himself against the “bees” of his court, who hummed in his ears:—

“You must separate from the Empress Josephine. A princess of the blood of the Cæsars will esteem it a glory to give heirs to the great Napoleon. Then will his dynasty be established forever.”

The divorce in 1809 was brought about by the joint efforts of all the members of the Bonaparte family, aided by some of Napoleon’s most confidential servants, whom Josephine, either as Madame Bonaparte, or empress, had failed to make her friends, notwithstanding her ceaseless endeavors to harmonize all the hostile elements around her. Even as early as the time when Napoleon was in Egypt, these intriguers first tried to lay snares for the unsuspicious and magnanimous Josephine, and various scandals were originated and reported to the absent Bonaparte.

Junot was made their tool either willingly or unwillingly, and the evil whispers became louder and louder. During the first months of the Egyptian expedition, Bonaparte’s letters to his wife were affectionate and confiding. But the poison was soon at work, and the rumors which Junot had repeated to Bonaparte roused his jealous anger.

Poor Josephine knew naught of these dread scandals, until the letters received from her husband, accusing her of errors of which she was guiltless, stabbed her to the heart. Her appeals against these injurious aspersions were in accordance with her own noble nature. We can only quote a few lines from her letter to Napoleon:—

“Can it be possible, my friend? Is the letter indeed yours which I have just received? Scarcely can I give it credence, on comparing the present with those now before me, and to which your love gave so many charms! My eyes cannot doubt that those pages which rend my heart are too surely yours; but my soul refuses to admit that yours could have dictated those lines, which to the ardent joy experienced on hearing from you have caused to succeed the mortal grief of reading the expressions of a displeasure, the more afflicting to me that it must have proved a source of fearful pain to you.

“I am entirely ignorant in what I have offended, to create an enemy so determined to ruin my repose by interrupting yours; but surely it must be a great reason which can thus induce some one unceasingly to renew against me calumnies of such a specious nature as to be admitted, even for a moment, by one who hitherto has deemed me worthy of his entire affection and confidence.

“Oh, my friend! in place of lending an ear to impostors, who, from motives which I cannot explain, seek to ruin our happiness, why do you not rather reduce them to silence by the recital of your benefits to a woman whose character has never incurred the suspicion of ingratitude? On hearing what you have done for me and for my children, my traducers would be silent. Your conduct, admired as it has been throughout the whole of Europe, has in my heart but awakened deeper adoration of the husband who made choice of me, poor as I was, and unhappy. Every step which you take adds to the splendor of the name I bear—and is such a moment seized to persuade you that I no longer love you? What absurdity, or rather what vileness, on the part of your companions, jealous as they are of your marked superiority! I tremble when I think of the dangers which surround you. God knows when or where this letter may reach you. May it restore to you a repose which you ought never to have foregone, and more than ever give you an assurance, that while I live you will be dear to me as on the day of our last separation. Farewell, my only friend! Confide in me, love me, and receive a thousand tender caresses.”

This touching letter, from which we have only quoted a few lines, was probably not received by Bonaparte until after his return to France. And Napoleon returning to Paris found Josephine absent, for she had started to meet him in wild impatience to welcome him; but missing him on the road, he arrived home first and found his house deserted: but his mother, sisters, and sisters-in-law, and in short every member of his family, except Louis, who had attended Madame Bonaparte to Lyons, came to him immediately, and insinuated the basest scandals about his devoted wife, who was only absent because she had flown to meet him. But the impression made upon him by his deserted home and the false accusations of his family were profound and terrible; and nine years afterwards, when the tie between himself and Josephine was broken, he showed that he had not forgotten that time. From not finding his wife with his family, he inferred that she felt herself unworthy of his presence and feared to meet the man she had wronged; and he considered her journey to Lyons a mere pretence,—so cruelly had these evil slanderers blackened her lovely and devoted character. After the reconciliation which followed, Bonaparte seemed for a time to have forgotten these evil lies; but his family were intensely chagrined.

Madame Pauline Le Clerc was most vexed at the pardon which Napoleon had granted his wife. Bonaparte’s mother was also very ill-pleased, for she had never liked Josephine. Madame Bacchiocchi gave free vent to her ill-humor and disdain, and Bonaparte’s brothers were at open war with Josephine. No wonder that with such a host of evil-minded, envious relations, poor Josephine was most terribly maligned! Bonaparte’s brothers, desirous of obtaining entire dominion over Napoleon, strenuously endeavored to lessen the influence which Josephine possessed over him.

Napoleon would probably have adhered to his first idea of adopting Eugène de Beauharnais as his successor, had it not been for his own family, all eager for wealth and honors, all jealous of any favors shown to Josephine or her children, all of them constantly urging a divorce.

“Divorce her at once,” Joseph Bonaparte exclaimed; “you are not married to her. The woman may die, and it will then be said you have poisoned her,—that you found it to your interest to do so.”

Napoleon was staggered at these monstrous suggestions. His countenance became of a deathlike paleness as these terrible insinuations fell upon his ear. After a moment or two of silence he murmured:—

“You have forced on me an idea which would never have occurred to me, and with it the possibility of a divorce.”

Thus was the evil working, which should end in the cruel blow to Josephine and the downfall of Napoleon. Years elapsed before Napoleon was induced to act upon these suggestions, but the tempters had begun their diabolical work.

As Napoleon’s marriage with Josephine had at first been only a civil ceremony,—the religious service having been only performed at the time of the coronation, when religious worship had been reinstated in France,—Joseph Bonaparte basely insinuated that the tie between them was not binding; and as by some mistake the necessary witnesses had not been present at the after religious ceremony, and a signature was said to be wanting to make the certificate of marriage complete, these circumstances were afterwards laid stress upon, in declaring that their marriage had been irregular and could therefore be annulled. And either by evil intent or inadvertence a notice of the religious ceremony did not appear in the _Moniteur_, which described the coronation at great length. Thus was the web spun by the political spiders closer and closer around their poor innocent victim, Josephine, and she became the subject of their vilest plots.

Napoleon’s attachment to Josephine withstood all suggestions during the period preceding the Empire, and Josephine herself afterwards declared, “that unless urged by others, he would not of himself have thought of a separation.”

But at length, instigated by Fouché and his own relations and other evil advisers, Napoleon determined to divorce Josephine. This same wily Fouché hinted to Josephine her coming doom, and advised that she should first broach the subject to the emperor; but Josephine indignantly refused.

“It was on Sunday, on returning from church, that Fouché, the minister of the police, leading Josephine to the embrasure of a window in the château at Fontainebleau, gave her the first shock on the subject of the divorce, which did not take place until two years after.”

The family of Bonaparte became more openly hostile to Josephine. One of the writers of her memoirs says:—

“Joseph could not endure her, while on the other hand, his wife rendered her the fullest justice. As to Madame Murat, she was by no means careful to conceal her thoughts, and on many occasions sought to humiliate Napoleon’s wife. Madame Bacchiocchi, Napoleon’s eldest sister, considered Josephine as the earliest instrument of her brother’s greatness. ‘But,’ said she, ‘the moment her power becomes too great it must be broken down, and that without pity.’ She was one of the first to advise that unrighteous separation, which worked so much prejudice to the emperor and his whole family. Madame Letitia, Napoleon’s mother, occasioned real trouble and vexation to her daughter-in-law. Their feelings were in perpetual opposition. The one was remarkable for her acts of benevolence; the other for her extreme parsimony. The mother loudly disapproved of the luxury which reigned at her son’s court, and charged the fault to Josephine.”

When Joseph Bonaparte became king of Naples, his sister Caroline, then Grand Duchess of Berg, avoided as much as possible her modest sister-in-law, the queen of Naples. But finding herself obliged to give her the title of “Your Majesty,” she dared at length to complain to Napoleon that he had not yet given her a crown. Napoleon replied: “Your complaint astonishes me, madame! To hear you, one might suppose I had deprived you of your right of succession to the throne of your _ancestor_.”

No one of Napoleon’s evil advisers was more crafty, insidious, and unscrupulous than Fouché. Like a Mephistopheles, with sardonic smile he held his fingers on the keys which played the tune of politics. Through his minions, the police, he entered even the closed doors of his Majesty’s cabinet, and caught the rumors which dropped in idle gossip from the rosy lips of the beauties of the court.

After his cool affront to Josephine, in endeavoring to persuade her that she should herself suggest to Napoleon the divorce, she begged the emperor to remove Fouché from his office of minister of police; but Bonaparte, with strange blindness, kept the wily serpent near him, and banished from his presence his own guardian angel. And when at last he had been stung himself by the treacherous fangs of the insidious viper, and Napoleon became at length convinced that Fouché was maintaining a correspondence with England, through his spies, the emperor dismissed him; but it was too late.

The same Fouché who had thrust the dagger into the heart of Josephine, afterwards proved to be one of the chief instigators of the plots which caused the second abdication of Napoleon. Bourrienne thus pithily describes him:—

“Fouché had opinions, but he belonged to no party; and his political success is explained by the readiness with which he always served the party he knew must triumph, and which he himself overthrew in its turn. He maintained himself in favor, from the days of blood and terror until the time of the second restoration, only by abandoning and sacrificing those who were attached to him. In all things he looked only to himself; and to this egotism he sacrificed both subjects and governments.

“Such were the secret causes of the sway exercised by Fouché during the Convention, the Directory, the Empire, and after the return of the Bourbons. He helped to found and to destroy every one of these successive governments.”

Napoleon afterwards realized some of the treachery of this archtraitor, and thus spoke of him at St. Helena:—

“Fouché is a miscreant of all colors;—a priest, a Terrorist, and one who took an active part in many bloody scenes of the Revolution. He is a man who can worm all your secrets out of you with an air of calmness and of unconcern.”

What wonder that poor unsuspicious Josephine was betrayed by such a Judas!

This smiling Mephistopheles might thus have counselled with his crafty soul:—

“And so her Majesty beseeches that I be dismissed! We’ll see, my lady, whether you or I shall conquer in this contest! You think you hold your husband’s heart; but I hold the ear of his proud ambition. Which, think you, will prevail? You are surrounded by his relations, who hate you with envious and jealous hatred, than which there is none more bitter. I am their confidant. Ha! methinks my cards in hand shall win the game, even against the _Queen of Hearts_!”

Bourrienne relates the following conversation with Fouché, which bears upon this point:—

“I said a few words to him about Bonaparte’s regret at not having children. My object was to learn Fouché’s opinion on this subject; and it was not without a feeling of indignation I heard him say, ‘It is to be hoped the empress will soon die. Her death will remove many difficulties. Sooner or later he must take a wife who will bear him a child; for as long as he has no direct heir, there is every chance that his death will be the signal for a revolution. His brothers are perfectly incapable of filling his place, and a new party would rise up in favor of the Bourbons, which must be prevented above all things.’”

And yet this same Fouché afterwards intrigued for the return of the Bourbons.

Just before Napoleon signed his second abdication, a provisional government was established with Fouché at the head. This crafty schemer was at that time the agent of Louis XVIII. and of the Duke of Wellington; and so it was Fouché, who, as a leader in the Chamber of Deputies, forced Napoleon to sign the second abdication. The Marquis de Bonnay wrote concerning his intrigues:—

“I know for a certainty that M. de M., who was sent to Vienna by Fouché, has taken part in a dialogue to the following effect:—

“‘Do not go to war with us, and we will rid you of that man.’

“‘Well, then; rid us of him at once.’

“‘Would you like the king of Rome, or a regency?’

“‘No!’

“‘The Duke of Orleans?’

“‘No!’

“‘Well, Louis XVIII.?—since it must be so. But no nobility, no priestcraft, and above all, no Blacas.’

“‘Begin by ridding us of Bonaparte and all his race.’”

And rid them of Bonaparte, Fouché did; and again this wily diplomat, or base traitor,—according as the reader sides with one or the other party,—came once more to the front, and received again the office of minister of police under Louis XVIII. Thus Fouché had played his cards and won, and Josephine and Napoleon had lost. Surely the title which Lanfrey applies to Napoleon would most fittingly describe Fouché,—“_an incorrigible gambler_.”

During their private conferences, previous to the direct announcement of his determination, Napoleon endeavored to persuade Josephine of the political necessity of a separation; veiling his real intentions, so that they should appear only hints of the measure. Sometimes these vague hints would be met by Josephine with tears and supplications; at other times she would rise in calm dignity and defend her claims with unanswerable facts and predictions. There are several most interesting accounts given of various conversations between them at different times, before the final announcement. The following is perhaps the most impressive.

On one occasion Josephine dared predict to him, that the day he separated himself from her his bright star of destiny should fade, and that their parting hour would be the beginning of his downfall.

“You need,” she said, “a friend, and you have nothing but flatterers. Do you believe that your generals are truly attached to you? No! the most of them only wait a propitious moment to turn their arms against you. Do you think they will, with unconcern, see the Emperor Napoleon searching for a wife among the daughters of kings? No! they have been bred in the same school as yourself; they have _earned true nobility_, at the price of their blood; and the blazonry upon their armor, of which they are so justly proud, is but the evidence of valor which has given them the prodigious power they now enjoy in Europe.

“But remember! in you they but behold their equal. If they sustain the glory of your throne, it is only because your elevation seems their work. They believe you great, because the rays of your grandeur are reflected by themselves. If they burn incense to you, they breathe with delight the incense of a power which they share. But the moment a foreign wife shall come and seat herself at your side, the court will cease to be directed by the same influence. You are too _new_ a man to attach to your person the ancient families. You may load them with favors; you have it in your power, and it is your duty to make them forget the wrongs inseparable from the Revolution. But beware you do not humble the old generals who served their country before you. Banish from your halls that too severe etiquette which was not made for them. Their wives and children ought not to be made to blush, either in your presence or in that of your future companion. The sword of the brave will ever be your surest safeguard. I myself have ever been careful to conciliate all parties, and to be indulgent to all opinions; so much so, that, since your fortunes have become so wonderful, I have in a manner taught your officers to forget the immense distance which exists between General Bonaparte and the Emperor Napoleon.”

Some days before the divorce, Josephine is reported to have thus addressed Napoleon:—

“Bonaparte, even now you have no confidence in the stability of your power. You want an ally; and the very sovereign whom you have lately vanquished, the sovereign who has just grounds to hate you, sees himself flattered by the very man who has so lately overrun his country. If such an enormous sacrifice as the giving his daughter to you in marriage be necessary to give peace to his subjects, you cannot but know that he will secretly despise you, and say to himself:—

“‘The man who so lately made me tremble, who imposed such cruel conditions upon me, is on the eve of some dreadful catastrophe. Did he suppose himself firmly seated upon his throne, he would not need to resort to a foreign alliance; and the very circumstance that the mighty conqueror is so anxious to obtain a companion of illustrious birth, is evidence that he intends, should a storm ever arise, to lean upon that foreign support.’”

It was indeed strange that the cry of the Revolution, “Down with the _Autrichienne_!” did not warn Napoleon that it would be an impolitic action to place another Austrian woman upon the throne of France.

The Empress Josephine, after having long dreaded the terrible misfortune which at length overwhelmed her, was totally unprepared for the shock when it fell. She had for a time been lulled into a fancied security, and had regained tranquillity just as the blow came. Nothing had been done to prepare her for it. Even when all Europe was talking of this probable event, and after negotiations had been entered into regarding her successor, still no direct word had been spoken to the poor victim of this atrocious cruelty and perfidious crime.

The letter in which Napoleon told her of his approaching arrival at Fontainebleau still exists. Its tone is particularly affectionate; and he thus wrote: “_I am feasting on the thought of seeing thee again_;—I embrace thee. Ever thine.” These were his words sent from Nymphenburg, Oct. 21, 1809. When he arrived at Fontainebleau, however, Josephine perceived that he was constrained and cold, which alarmed her; and the triumphant airs of her sworn enemies, his sisters and brothers and mother, who hastened to greet him with officious homage, betokened that some new effront would soon be offered her.

While she was obliged to conceal beneath a smiling countenance her consuming anxieties, in the midst of the brilliant _fêtes_ of the court, she found that the communication between her suite of apartments and those of the emperor had been closed by his orders, which announced to her that her dreaded doom was nigh.

The Duchesse D’Abrantes gives this account of a visit to Josephine just previous to the public announcement of the divorce: “I had an interview with the empress at Malmaison. I had sent her a plant from the Pyrenees, and she wished me to see it in the hot-house. But in vain she attempted to employ herself with those objects which pleased her the most; her eyes were frequently suffused with tears; she was pale, and her whole manner marked indisposition. ‘It is very cold!’ she said, drawing her shawl about her; but, alas! it was the chill of grief creeping about her heart, like the cold hand of death. ‘Madame Junot,’ she said, ‘remember what I say to you this day here, in this hot-house,—this place which is now a paradise, but which may soon become a desert to me,—remember that this separation will be my death, and it is they who will have killed me! I shall be driven in disgrace from him who has given me a crown! Yet God is my witness that I love him more than my life, and much more than that throne, that crown, which he has given me.’ The empress may have appeared more beautiful, but never more attractive than at that moment. If Napoleon had seen her then, surely he could never have divorced her.” Lanfrey thus comments upon this event: “On the evening of Nov. 30, the prefect of the palace was on duty in an apartment adjoining the drawing-room where the emperor and Josephine were sitting, when he heard piercing cries, and with amazement recognized the voice of the empress. A few moments afterwards the door opened, and Napoleon having called him in, he beheld the empress suffering from a violent nervous attack, and uttering exclamations of distress and despair. He then helped Napoleon to carry her into her own apartment. In fact, the much-dreaded explosion had taken place. The emperor had at first determined to await the arrival of the Prince Eugène in Paris, in order that the presence and consolations of the son whom Josephine so tenderly loved might soften the bitterness of his intended communication. When he announced the terrible news to her who alone was ignorant of it,—to the woman who, by having brought him among her wedding presents the chief command of the army in Italy, had so eminently contributed towards his exalted fortune,—eight days had already elapsed since he had desired Champagny to ask for him the hand of the Emperor Alexander’s sister. It was Russia, his ally, not Austria, whom he thought it better to address first.

“As the sad scene which had revealed the domestic trouble in the imperial family was soon publicly known, the divorce became the subject of conversation at the court and throughout the nation. The unfortunate Josephine was supported, it is true, by the affection of her children, who felt the blow scarcely less keenly than herself; but being convinced of the absolute futility of resistance, she had, after the deepest anguish, submitted, rather than resigned herself to that strong will which henceforward became inflexible.

“In order to feign consent, it was necessary that she should show herself in public. Hence she was dragged about to all the grand official receptions, and the scandal-loving public watched her closely, in order to note the extent and progress of her misfortune. The echoes of the palace more than once repeated her sobs and complaints; but it was desirable that this victim of pride and policy should appear content to sacrifice herself, and she was not allowed the satisfaction even of a display of grief. In the _fêtes_ given at the commencement of December, to celebrate the anniversary of the coronation, Paris beheld her, with death in her heart and a smile on her lips, bearing the despair which was a torture to her, with grace playing her part of sovereign for the last time; surrounded by her children, who, to use the expression of a contemporary, were dancing at their mother’s funeral.”

Upon his arrival in Paris, after the blow had fallen upon poor Josephine, Prince Eugène had a mournful interview with his afflicted mother.

“’Tis not,” said that noble woman in the agony of her heart, “’tis not that I regret the throne, my son, but I feel that I am leaving the emperor a prey to the evil-minded men who seek his ruin. I shall be no longer here to warn him against their false-hearted counsels. The task reserved for me henceforth will be to pity him, and to pray for him and the French people whom I love. _My children will imitate my example._”

Bourrienne gives the following words of Josephine, regarding her divorce:—

“I was ushered into the drawing-room at Malmaison, where I found Josephine and Hortense. When I entered, Josephine stretched out her hand to me, saying, ‘Ah, my friend!’ These words she pronounced with deep emotion, and tears prevented her from continuing. She threw herself on the ottoman on the left of the fireplace, and beckoned me to sit down beside her. Hortense stood by the fireplace, endeavoring to conceal her tears. After a struggle to overcome her feelings, Josephine said:—

“‘I have drained my cup of misery. He has cast me off!—forsaken me! He conferred upon me the vain title of empress only to render my fall the more marked. Ah! I knew the destiny that awaited me; for what would he not sacrifice to his ambition!’ As she finished these words, one of Queen Hortense’s ladies entered with a message to her; Hortense withdrew, so that I was left alone with Josephine.

“She seemed to wish for the relief of disclosing her sorrows. Josephine confirmed what Duroc had told me respecting the two apartments at Fontainebleau; then, coming to the period when Bonaparte had declared to her the necessity of a separation, she said:—

“‘My dear Bourrienne, during all the years you were with us you know I made you the confidant of my thoughts, and kept you acquainted with my sad forebodings. They are now cruelly fulfilled. I acted the part of a good wife to the very last. I have suffered all, and I am resigned!

“‘What fortitude did it require latterly to endure my situation, when, though no longer his wife, I was obliged to seem so in the eyes of the world! With what eyes do courtiers look upon a repudiated wife! I was in a state of vague uncertainty worse than death, until the fatal day when he at length avowed to me what I had long before read in his looks!

“‘On the 30th of November, 1809, we were dining together as usual. I had not uttered a word during that sad dinner, and he had broken silence only to ask one of the servants what it was o’clock. As soon as Bonaparte had taken his coffee, he dismissed all the attendants, and I remained alone with him. I saw in the expression of his countenance what was passing in his mind, and I knew that my hour was come.

“‘He stepped up to me,—he was trembling, and I shuddered; he took my hand, pressed it to his heart, and after gazing at me a few moments in silence, he uttered these fatal words:—

“‘“Josephine! my dear Josephine! You know how I have loved you!... To you, to you alone, I owe the only moments of happiness I have tasted in this world. But, Josephine, my destiny is not to be controlled by my will. My dearest affections must yield to the interests of France.”

“‘“Say no more!” I exclaimed, “I understand you: I expected this; but the blow is not the less mortal.”

“‘I could not say another word,’ continued Josephine. ‘I know not what happened after. I seemed to lose my reason; I became insensible, and when I recovered I found myself in my chamber. Your friend Corvisart and my poor daughter were with me. Bonaparte came to see me in the evening; and oh! Bourrienne, how can I describe to you what I felt at sight of him! even the interest he evinced for me seemed an additional cruelty. Alas! I had good reason to fear ever becoming an empress!’”

The 15th of December, 1809, was the fatal day appointed for the consummation of the divorce. The imperial council of state was convened, and the official announcements of the coming separation were made. Napoleon’s address on this occasion is well known. The prepared response which Josephine attempted to read in acceptation of this cruel decree, was too much for even her marvellous fortitude to endure; and Eugène was obliged to take the paper from his weeping mother, and finish for her the heart-breaking avowal which her quivering lips refused to utter.

Upon the following day the council was again assembled with the imperial family in the grand _salon_ at the Tuileries, to witness the legal consummation of the divorce.

All were in court costume. Napoleon entered the apartment, clothed in the imposing robes of state. Pale as a corpse, he stood leaning against a pillar, with folded arms, motionless as a statue.

Again the poor victim of this cruel sacrifice must appear. The keen-edged knife of the political guillotine of blind ambition must this day perform its final act of political decapitation.

The door opens; a sad figure appears. Some reports clothe this sorrowful, weeping woman in white muslin; others in black satin. As the latter seems more fitting: to this funereal scene, we incline to that supposition, which would surely appear more appropriate than bridal white for this moment of public repudiation.

The graceful woman, bending like a weeping-willow before the storm of sorrow which is crushing her to the earth, walks slowly to the seat prepared for her, followed by her son and daughter. The pallor of death is upon her brow. A coffin would have seemed less cruel than the mocking chair of state waiting for her. Had she been Marie Antoinette upon the scaffold, she could scarcely have suffered more; for Marie Antoinette could at least love her dead husband without reproach; while the living husband of poor Josephine holds in his hand the cruel dagger which is piercing her bleeding heart, and his word tears from her brow her rightful royal diadem of wifehood.

The iniquitous decree is read. The quivering victim must pronounce her own sentence. Pressing her handkerchief to her streaming eyes for a moment, she slowly rises, and the oath of acceptance passes her pallid lips. The pen is handed to her, and she signs her own _death-warrant_; and then glides like a mournful spectre from the grand _salon_ of state, the imperial grandeur of which, together with the presence of her triumphant foes, mock her unutterable woe.

It is the evening of the same day. The weeping woman has still another heart-rending duty to perform. She must take her final farewell of the man who has stabbed her to the heart; of the husband whom she still adores with every heart-beat of her loyal, loving soul; of the emperor who has crowned her, only to tear from her brow his royal gift and bestow it upon another. Was ever woman’s soul torn with such conflicting emotions? Pride and love have fought a terrible battle within her heart, since the cruel public sacrifice of the morning. But love has conquered; yes, so royally conquered, that there is no place left in her soul for aught but overpowering devotion to the adored husband of her heart.

Napoleon had retired to his apartments. His valet was about to be dismissed for the night when the door opens, and upon the threshold stands Josephine!—more irresistible in her infinite sorrow than in her most imperial robes of dazzling splendor. Her tender eyes are glistening through her tears; her hair falls in disordered locks around her quivering face; her hands are clasped in agonizing despair. For one moment she gazes upon the face of him who has been her life and happiness;—then, forgetting all but her overpowering love, she throws herself into his arms, exclaiming, in tones of commingled tenderness and heart-broken anguish,—“My husband!—My husband!”