Chapter XV: Part 15

Napoleon was overpowered at last. With streaming eyes he beckoned to his valet to retire, and the husband and wife were left alone for their last sad interview. When an hour afterwards Josephine retired from the apartment, still sobbing with irresistible emotion, the valet entered to remove the lights, and found Napoleon with face buried in the pillow and form convulsed with choking sobs.

The next morning, at eleven o’clock, Josephine was to bid a last adieu to the Tuileries. At the appointed hour she appeared, heavily veiled and leaning upon the arm of one of her lady attendants. Silently she walked through the spacious halls, where all the household had assembled to take final leave of their loved mistress. Not a word was spoken; and as Josephine entered the close carriage she waved an adieu to the weeping friends around her, and without another glance at the grand palace which had witnessed her proud happiness and unutterable woe, she was driven rapidly to her future sad retreat at Malmaison.

But the envious hate of the Bonaparte family received its just reward on the occasion of the marriage of Napoleon to Maria Louisa; and they were then obliged to swallow a more bitter pill of mortified pride than any which had been administered to them during the reign of Josephine.

_Madame Mère Bonaparte_ and the queens of Holland and Naples, the princesses Eliza and Pauline, and the kings Louis and Jerome, were gathered to discuss the coming marriage ceremony of the future empress. Murat, the handsome king of Naples, entered, attired in his rich gala dress of fawn-colored satin embroidered with silver, and wearing a purple mantle lined with ermine and clasped with jewels. The hilt and sheath of his sword sparkled with gems, and his belt was covered with rubies. He wore a sort of cap, of purple, surrounded by an open crown of precious stones, while his boots were of purple velvet edged with fur, and his knee-breeches and vest were of white satin. As he entered the apartment, so proud and so handsome, all of his family exclaimed:

“What a handsome dress!”

“Yes, I flatter myself!” said Murat, gazing into the long mirror before which _la Princesse Borghèse_ was paying court to her own beauty; “but do you know, fair ladies, that you are about to be disgraced in the eyes of all Europe?” continued Murat, holding up a printed paper.

“What is it?” exclaimed all in a breath.

“Read!—_mesdames les reines!_” replied Murat, “and you will learn that _all, queens as you are_, you will to-morrow, in the chapel of the Louvre, during the marriage ceremony, have the honor of bearing the train of the imperial mantle of your august sister-in-law.”

“Napoleon can never request of us such an insulting office,” said one.

“It is no _request_,” said Jerome, “the emperor _commands_ it.”

“As for me,” cried la _Princesse Borghèse_, “I would like to see myself touch her odious mantle!”

“Do not excite yourself, sister,” said the queen of Naples, “this matter does not concern either you or the _grande duchesse_; you are neither of you _queens_.”

“But I am more than a _parvenue_ queen,” gasped Pauline, between her sobs, “my husband was a noble from birth.”

“I, for one, will not officiate as the waiting-woman of my sister-in-law,” said the queen of Naples haughtily.

“I could not venture to hint at such a degradation to my wife,—the daughter of the king of Wurtemberg,” declared Jerome.

“Sons and daughters, son-in-law and daughter-in-law,” said _Madame Mère_, “bear in mind that Napoléoné is accustomed to be obeyed. He is entirely wrong in this matter; but if he is resolved, you will obey.”

“The others may do as they like; but not _I_, _Madame Mère_” said the spoiled beauty, Pauline.

“_You_, like the rest,” replied Madame Bonaparte, with decision.

At that moment the doors were thrown open, and the usher announced, “The Emperor!”

It was in vain that Pauline tried to conceal her tears of rage; or that the queen of Naples endeavored to smooth her ruffled brow; or that Murat hastily sheathed his splendid sword, which he had just drawn in mock defiance to the imperial command.

“_Madame la Princesse Borghèse!_ explain what all this means,” said Napoleon, with severity.

“My sisters and I do not think it proper to carry the mantle of your wife,” Pauline exclaimed defiantly.

“What! do you all refuse?” asked the emperor.

“I cannot disgrace my crown,” sobbed Caroline Murat.

“I will not publicly outrage my unhappy mother!” bravely said Hortense.

“And you, Eliza?” remarked Napoleon; “you probably dread the reproaches of your husband. Ladies, what did I owe to you when I was called upon to reign over France? I have placed you all on such a giddy elevation that it has turned your heads. I have bestowed upon your husbands and yourselves kingdoms, principalities, and splendid establishments; I have overwhelmed you with wealth and honors. What are you without me? Which of you could sustain yourself, if I did not stretch out my hand to support you? Oh! so this is the tone that you assume! Your thrones belong to you by feudal right? Mark me, ladies; the archchancellor of state shall make to you, or rather to your husbands, an official declaration; and whichever one among you ventures to disobey my commands, shall be considered as a culprit, and shall be put under the ban of the empire. And as regards you, Madame Borghèse, who honor us by your alliance, as soon as the marriage _fêtes_ have terminated you will leave Paris; and as you first gave the signal of resistance, so you shall be the first to obey. It is my express determination that the empress, archduchess of Austria, shall receive all the homage due to her birth and rank.”

The emperor then haughtily withdrew. The poor Princess Borghèse fell upon the floor in violent hysterics; and Napoleon, having been apprised of the fact, sent his physician to attend her, bearing also the information to her, that it was the _command_ of the emperor that she should be perfectly recovered before the next day. So Pauline could not feign sickness, and was obliged to resign herself to her fate. But even Napoleon himself could not conquer women’s tears; and although his unwilling relations were forced to obey his imperial command, that fatal train of the empress, measuring twelve yards in length, was borne by weeping queens and princesses, who did not even try to conceal their tears of mortification; and they doubtless then realized that an empress of _royal birth_ was not after all such a desirable acquisition to their family as they had supposed. If poor Josephine had not been too generous to be spiteful, and too sad to note aught but her own humiliation and woe, she might have felt herself somewhat avenged by her unconscious successor. As the gorgeous spectacle passed through the magnificent gallery which connected the Tuileries with the Louvre, a child exclaimed to its mother:—

“Mamma, why does the queen of Holland cry? I thought queens were always laughing.”

Poor Hortense! It was indeed cruel in the extreme, that she should have been forced to bear the mantle of the woman who was so unjustly supplanting her own mother.

Whenever Josephine’s friends conversed in her presence regarding the woman who had taken her place, she was careful to avoid the slightest remark which could be construed into a censure of Maria Louisa, though her sorrow could not be concealed. “He will never love her,” she exclaimed with deep feeling; “he has sacrificed everything to his politics; but his first wife—yes, his first wife, will forever possess his confidence.” And she did not deceive herself in this belief, for the ex-empress had reason upon many occasions to exult in the irresistible ascendency she still exercised over Napoleon.

On hearing of the birth of the king of Rome, Josephine evinced her generous sympathy by making a present to the baby archduke of a little carriage drawn by two superb _merinos_. The emperor was much pleased with this kind attention, but when he spoke of it to Maria Louisa, the Austrian was offended; for she could never endure to hear a word of praise regarding the woman who had preceded her, and she always tried to prevent Napoleon’s visits to his former wife. But the emperor never ceased to honor Josephine by frequent letters, hurried visits, and constant delicate attentions. Josephine was never forgotten by him, and he always spoke of her with new and increasing interest. He was displeased with certain of his courtiers who affected to forget the forsaken Josephine. “Have you been to Malmaison?” he would inquire of them. “How does the empress?” and these fickle courtiers perceived that if they would please the emperor, they must pay their respects to Josephine. Often when returning from a hunt, Napoleon would go and surprise Josephine at Malmaison with a visit, and walk with her in the garden, conversing with the greatest interest about all his affairs; she was still his most intimate confidant. To Josephine alone could he confide his inmost thoughts, sure of never being betrayed, and always receiving her most devoted interest. The emperor would often send word to the grand _écuyer_ to detain the Empress Maria Louisa at the riding-school; and then took advantage of the moment of liberty to go and surprise Josephine at Malmaison. It is said that Napoleon was much displeased with Madame de la R., because, having been in Josephine’s service, she proposed to fulfil the same duties for the Empress Maria Louisa. “No,” said he with indignation; “she shall not. Although I am charged with ingratitude towards my wife, I will have no imitators, especially among the persons whom she has honored with her confidence and loaded with her favors.”

After her divorce, Josephine passed her time alternately at Malmaison and the château of Navarre. She here dispensed daily bounty to multitudes of poor families, who were the recipients of her generous benevolence and the objects of her personal care. The following touching incident is said to have occurred just before Napoleon set out on his fatal campaign to Russia.

The Empress Josephine was seated in her gallery of paintings, when the emperor came upon her unawares, and found her reading that passage in the life of Diocletian relating to his abdication: “O ye, who have seen me seated on a throne, come now and see the lettuce which I have planted with my own hands!” Napoleon appeared to be singularly impressed by these words, and said to Josephine with unusual tenderness: “My wife” (for so he continued to call her), “I shall, perhaps, terminate my course in the same way, and take pride in showing the beautiful fruits of your gardens, cultivated by my own hands, to the envoys of the different nations who may come to visit Napoleon the _Philosopher_.”

“So much the better,” answered Josephine; “then should we be happy indeed.” But soon her eyes filled with tears, and she said with inexpressible sadness: “My friend, you have a new wife and a son; I desire henceforth only to aid you by my counsels. But should you ever be free, or should the blast of adversity ever deliver you to your enemies, come, come, O Bonaparte, to my cherished asylum!”

Josephine was very desirous to behold the young king of Rome. Madame Montesquieu, by the order of the emperor, went to Trianon with her august _élève_. Hither Josephine went, and when she beheld the young prince, she lavished her caresses upon his baby face, exclaiming with streaming eyes: “I now pardon her freely for the wrong she did me in coming to usurp my place. I am now willing to overlook all my husband’s errors, and concern myself solely about the happiness of a father.”

Napoleon’s overthrow was the result of political errors, into which he was led by evil advisers. They were:—

“1. The unjust war in Spain; an almost insupportable draught upon the blood and treasure of France, and utterly unproductive of profit or glory.

“2. The divorce of his wife Josephine,—a matter of cold-blooded calculation; a wrong determination as to the results to arise from the respective positions of the objects upon the political chessboard. It was discarding a _French woman_ for an _Austrian princess_. It offended France; it shocked all hearts by an apparent indifference to the love of a noble-minded, innocent, faithful, and beautiful woman.

“3. The unfortunate campaign to Russia, an effort which France was not then strong enough to sustain; though it was one of the grandest displays of military power in the history of the world.”

And yet, with all Napoleon’s plans, it was not _his_ son who afterwards sat upon the French throne, but the _grandson_ of _Josephine_,—the son of Hortense and Louis Bonaparte who subsequently reigned over France as Emperor Napoleon III. What had the cruel and iniquitous divorce availed after all? Thus a wise Providence seems to declare to the sons of men through the sequences resulting from such historical events, _Ye shall not do evil, presuming to imagine that thereby good may arise_!

Napoleon’s unfortunate and unjust war with Spain proved in the end to have been an enterprise regarding which the keen intuitions of Josephine had not deceived her. She was endowed with an instinct so perfect, which enabled her to foresee the future with such marvellous skill, that it amounted with her almost to a gift of genius; and she was seldom deceived respecting the good or evil tendency of any of Napoleon’s measures. When informed that the emperor intended to place Joseph Bonaparte upon the throne of Spain, she declared that “she was seized with a feeling of indescribable alarm.”

“When Bonaparte separated from Josephine, he left the woman who had exercised a great influence upon his destinies. It was she who had in a manner launched him upon fortune’s car, who knew how to uphold him in spite of envy, who was the guardian angel sent by Providence upon the earth to repair a thousand wrongs; and from the moment he repudiated her, Napoleon, the invincible Napoleon, began to be a prey to fearful forebodings. This false step was a triumph to his enemies, and all Europe was amazed that a man whose former achievements had covered him with glory, should thus, with a sort of ostentation, run after the daughter of a sovereign whom he had subdued by force of arms. ‘From that moment’ (such was the general exclamation) ‘that Napoleon shall start this scandalous project of a divorce, and, not content with severing the bonds which are for him not less sacred than advantageous, shall dare aspire to the hand of the august daughter of the Cæsars, Napoleon is no longer anything of himself; he is but an ambitious man. He will tremble for the result of the part he is acting, for he will seek to sustain himself by force and not by popular favor.’”

As the disasters of his last days gathered around Napoleon, he said to Josephine on one occasion, when paying her a visit at Malmaison:—

“Josephine, when my soul is filled with pain, I feel the need of a true friend into whose bosom I may pour my sorrows. What astonishes me is, that men should study every other science except that of happiness. ’Tis only in retirement that I have found it, and that I may, perhaps, hereafter meet with it!”

Josephine said, regarding the taking of Paris by the allied sovereigns:—

“My courtiers could not long conceal from me the occupation of the capital. I found myself almost in the sad condition of the family of Darius. Should I await the orders of my husband’s conquerors, or should I go and implore their generosity? The melancholy state to which Bonaparte was reduced wholly engrossed my feelings and my thoughts. I was resolved to share his death, or to follow him into exile.”

“Noble-hearted woman! What a contrast does this feeling present to that which actuated his second wife, who abandoned him as readily and with as little compunction or concern, as though her child had been the son of a German boor, and not of one as great as Cæsar or Alexander!”

While Josephine was at Navarre, and anxiously awaiting the next news from the captured city, she received word from the minister Talleyrand, inviting her to return to Malmaison, to meet there the Emperor Alexander and the king of Prussia, who had expressed a wish to see the queen of that palace of enchantments. Of her interview with these sovereigns, Josephine says:—

“I thanked those magnanimous princes for having had the generosity to honor with their presence the forsaken wife of Bonaparte; I recommended to their kind consideration that brave army which had long displayed such prodigies of valor; I pleaded the cause of those brave soldiers who still formed a bulwark around the hero of Austerlitz; and I claimed, earnestly claimed, the liberty of the man whom I still loved. I forgot all his wrongs towards me, and thought only of his misfortunes.”

The Emperor Alexander of Russia said to Josephine: “I congratulate you on having reigned over the French, a nation so worthy to be well governed; I congratulate you on having known how to make friends while on the throne, friends who have followed you into retirement. ’Tis to you, madame, that France is in a great measure indebted for the tranquillity she enjoyed during the first years of your husband’s reign. Had Napoleon continued to listen to your advice, he would probably now have reigned over a great and generous people. All the sovereigns in Europe, and myself the first, would ultimately have applauded the wisdom of his institutions and the strength of his government.”

When Napoleon returned from Elba to Paris, and was once more receiving the acclamations of his adherents at the Tuileries, he is said to have fallen into a “melting mood,” a few nights after his return thither, and he sent for M. Horan, one of the physicians who had attended Josephine in her last illness. After talking about his former wife with much feeling, to whom he certainly was attached even when he so cruelly abandoned her, he said to the physician:—

“So, Monsieur Horan, you did not leave the empress during her malady?”

“No, sire.”

“What was the cause of that malady?”

“Uneasiness of mind—grief.”

“You believe that?” and Napoleon laid a strong emphasis on the word _believe_, looking steadfastly in the doctor’s face. He then asked, “Was she long ill? Did she suffer much?”

“She was ill a week, sire; her Majesty suffered little pain.”

“Did she see that she was dying? Did she show courage?”

“A sign her Majesty made when she could no longer express herself, leaves me no doubt that she felt her end approaching; she seemed to contemplate it without fear.”

“Well!—well!” and then Napoleon, much affected, drew close to M. Horan, and added, “You say that she was in grief; from what did that arise?”

“From passing events, sire, from your Majesty’s position last year.”

“Ah! she used to speak of me, then?”

“Often; very often.”

Here Napoleon drew his hand across his eyes, which were filled with tears. He then said:—

“Good woman! My excellent Josephine! She loved me truly, did she not? Ah! she was a Frenchwoman!”

“Oh yes, sire! she loved you, and she would have proved it, had it not been for dread of displeasing you; she had conceived an idea.”

“How? What would she have done?”

“She one day said that as empress of the French she would drive through Paris, with eight horses to her coach, and all her household in gala livery, to go and rejoin you at Fontainebleau, and never quit you more.”

“She would have done it! She was capable of doing it!” exclaimed Napoleon, with deep emotion and eyes full of tears; and then he asked the physician the most minute questions about the last hours of Josephine: the nature of her disease, the friends and attendants who were around her at the hour of her death, and the conduct of her two children Eugène and Hortense.

How different was Josephine’s fidelity to the man who had even cut her to the heart by his cruel desertion when he was at the height of his glory, but whom in his dire misfortunes she did not cease to love and desire to aid, from the cold apathy of the woman who had taken her rightful place!

After the fall of the emperor, and his departure to the island of Elba, Josephine fell into a profound melancholy. For several days she preferred to remain alone. Her ladies noticed that she often perused a letter which the emperor had written to her from Brienne, in which he said:—

“Josephine, while revisiting the spot where I passed my early childhood, and comparing the peaceful hours I then enjoyed with the agitations which I now experience, I am constrained to say to myself, I fear death no longer—to me it would this day be a blessing,—_but I would once more see Josephine_.”

Speaking of Napoleon at this time, she is reported to have said: “I am the only one to whom he intrusted all his secrets—all except the one which has caused his ruin; and had he communicated that to me in season, I should still have enjoyed his presence; and by means of my counsels he would perhaps have escaped these new calamities.”

Among the last words uttered by the faithful Josephine, were these, regarding Napoleon, whose loved portrait she then gazed upon: “Banished to an island under a foreign sky, torn from France, from a wife and a beloved son, from all his friends; fallen from the palaces of kings, among the hills of Elba, overcome by cares and fatigues, sad and melancholy, alone amidst the dwellers upon that island, there still remains to him one faithful Pylades, and a few warriors who have voluntarily shared his exile. Bonaparte can never find consolation in his deep misfortunes, except in the reflection that there still remains to him one true friend who hath never ceased to watch over his precious life. But, alas! she is lost for him.”

“Josephine, Bonaparte’s last friend; Josephine, the first object of his ambition, and the only woman whom he truly loved. Bonaparte was fortunate while her lot was connected with his. His after-life was less miserable while she survived. Dying, she still wished to press his hand; his name was the last word she uttered, and her last tear fell upon his portrait.”

Time destroys great reputations, but that of Napoleon’s first wife will be deathless while woman’s self-sacrificing love remains.

“At least,” said Josephine, with dying breath; “at least I shall carry with me some regrets. I have aimed at the good of the French people; I have done all in my power to promote it, and I may say with truth to all who attend me in my last moments, that never, no, never, did the first wife of Napoleon Bonaparte cause a tear to flow.”

Beautiful May had already clothed the gardens of Malmaison with verdure and adorned them with radiant flowers. The sunset tints crimsoned the western horizon, and tipped the white clouds with purple and gold. The birds in the groves were softly carolling their vesper songs, and the gentle breeze, swaying the delicate leaves, fanned with caressing touch the fevered cheek of the dying Josephine, who, with eyes fast dimming in death, gazed once more through the open window upon the loved beauties of her favorite Malmaison, which on this 29th of May, 1814, seemed to have put on new loveliness to comfort the gentle spirit so soon to take a fond and last farewell. As the shadows of twilight deepened, and the dying empress looked once more on the portrait of her idolized husband, the emperor, she exclaimed, “_L’isle d’Elbe——Napoleon!_” and closed her eyes on earth, and passed beyond the portals of mortal life.

“The death of Josephine threw all France into tears, and even strangers shared in the general sorrow. They witnessed the universal regrets her death occasioned, and it may be truly said, to the praise of both the friends and foes of Bonaparte, that, on this mournful occasion, all united to scatter flowers upon the tomb of the woman who had adorned the happy days of the illustrious exile.”

On the 2d of June, the funeral honors were paid to the mortal remains of the Empress Josephine, in the parish church at Ruel. Commissioners from the sovereigns of Russia and Prussia headed the procession, which proceeded from Malmaison to Ruel. Many foreign princes, marshals, generals, and officers of the French and allied armies escorted the renowned remains.

The military consisted of Russian Hussars and the National Guards of France. The chief mourners were Prince Eugène, the Grand Duke of Baden, Marquis de Beauharnais (brother-in-law), Count de Tascher (nephew), Count de Beauharnais (cousin), and the grandchildren of the deceased empress.

The funeral oration was pronounced by the Archbishop of Tours, while the bishops of Evreux and Versailles assisted in the religious ceremonies. The body of the empress was enclosed in a leaden coffin, which was afterwards placed in one of sycamore wood covered with black cloth. The casket was deposited in a vault in the church at Ruel, over which was raised a _chapelle ardente_ formed of funeral hangings; the altar, richly decorated in the form of a tomb, and the altar-piece, representing a cross, were surmounted by a canopy. On the right was placed a statue of Immortality, on the left that of Religion. A sepulchral lamp was suspended in the middle of the _chapelle ardente_.

Queen Hortense, who had been conveyed to the church before the funeral obsequies, knelt for a long time beside the tomb, with her brother, after the other mourners had left the church.

The spot is now marked by a monument of white marble, representing the empress kneeling in her coronation robes, and bears this simple and touching inscription:—

EUGÈNE AND HORTENSE TO JOSEPHINE.

The widow and the orphan went daily to weep by her tomb. Many of her faithful friends continued to make visits to the last resting-place of her whose memory was honored by universal respect and sincere mourning. The poor and the rich alike honored her life and mourned her death. “What now remains to Josephine is the recollection of her good deeds,”—a more fitting memorial than costly monument or marble sarcophagus of most elaborate art.

As an empress, none can claim a more exalted place, as the personification of grace, beauty, and queenly dignity. But it is as a _woman_—as a _wife_ and a _mother_—that the brightest halo of glory crowns the pure brow of Josephine; and as _Love’s Martyr_, she has gained the highest place amongst the self-sacrificing women of historic fame.

THE EMPRESS EUGÉNIE.

A.D. 1826.

“Then happy low, lie down;
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”—SHAKESPEARE.

“EVERYTHING happens in France,” says La Rochefoucauld; and indeed it would seem so. The history of no other country of modern times presents such a series of rapid changes, decided extremes, and strange incongruities. Monarchies, empires, republics, follow each other in rapid succession. Yet through it all—in base servility or in fierce revolt, in licentiousness or prudery, in anarchy or order, in despotism or demagogy; under Valois, Bourbon, or Bonaparte; from Versailles and Louis XIV. to Malmaison of the First, and Compiègne of the Second Empire—we see the same thoughts, the same ideas, the same traits of character, though veiled under different garbs.

In 1685 the House of Bourbon was at the zenith of its glory. France, crushed with oppression, bowed beneath its yoke. One hundred and fifty thousand souls rioted in luxury. Twenty-five millions toiled to administer to their luxury. The people cried for bread, and proud, licentious nobles bid them “eat grass,” while the monarch, from his gilded palace, thundered forth his arbitrary dictum, “_L’État c’est moi!_”

“The kingdom is in a deplorable state,” said Mirabeau. “It can only be regenerated by some great internal convulsion. But woe to those who live to see that. _The French people do not do things by halves._” The convulsion comes. The French people do not do things by halves. The throne falls with a crash, and the guillotine stands in the _Place de la Concorde_.

Then comes the Empire. Glory is the object sought, and glory is attained. France is ablaze with glory. Rivoli. Austerlitz. Waterloo! And the First Empire—with its glories and its triumphs, its crowns and its sceptres, its stars and its crosses—fades like a dream, and is gone. The Bourbons return to the homes of their ancestors. Again the storm arises, and the Republic is proclaimed. The Republic becomes the Empire. Laurels, crowns, triumph! Glory is sought, but ’tis pacific glory. “The Empire is peace.” France prospers. But a dark cloud gathers on the horizon. The thunder peals. War rages fast and furious. Defeat, disaster, ruin! The Empire has fallen to pieces! Bourbon and Bonaparte wander through Europe.

’Tis the height of the Paris “season,” and with its gayly dressed crowds and splendid equipages, the _Avenue des Champs Élysées_ wears a festive, smiling air. Bright shines the sun, gilding with its rays the dome and turrets of the Tuileries, the terraces and statues, the obelisk of Luxor, and sending back the waters of the fountains in showers of glittering diamonds, while far in the distance the massive outline of the _Arc de Triomphe_ looms lofty against the clear blue sky. Carriages, horsemen, and pedestrians, a countless throng, are on their way to and from the _Bois de Boulogne_; but one alone attracts universal attention. A tall and graceful figure clad in a dark green habit, and above whose head there floats a snow-white plume, she sits proud and erect upon her splendid thoroughbred. Paris sees with admiration, and in every mouth there is but one question, “Who is yonder fair _equestrienne_, who sits so splendidly, who rides so fearlessly?”

“Tis Eugénie de Montijo, Comtesse de Téba.”

Born in Spain in 1826, in the province of Granada, her early days were passed among the picturesque scenery with which the pen of Irving has made us familiar. Her father, the Count de Montijo and Téba, was a grandee of Spain, and from him she inherited many titles of nobility. Washington Irving, who was then in Spain, knew her mother, Maria Manuela Kirkpatrick, and was a frequent visitor at her house, where he soon made friends with the little Eugénie; and in later years, when she was dazzling Europe with the costliness of her costumes and the splendor of her court, he recalled with interest and amusement the many times he had held upon his knee the future empress of the French, “when she was an alert, dark-eyed little girl, doubtless very happy to be entertained with such stories of her native land as he could tell her.”

From Spain she was sent to Toulouse, and afterwards to Bristol, to pursue her education; and when she left school, beautiful and accomplished, easy in manners and fluent in conversation,—which she could carry on with apparently equal ease in Spanish, English, or in French,—possessing more than average information, and displaying a readiness and aptness of _repartee_ approaching the brilliancy of wit, with a beauty striking and exceptional, a form slender and perfectly moulded, a complexion brilliantly fair, and black eyes, large and expressive, it is not surprising that she became successively the belle of the season in London, Paris, and Madrid.

While in London she was introduced to Louis Napoleon, then an exile from France, and distinguished chiefly for the disastrous failure of his first attempt to overthrow the government of Louis Philippe. In 1851 she met him again. He was then called _Napoleon III._, and she was regarded as one of the leaders of fashion in Paris. His attentions to her gradually became marked and suggestive, and finally he offered to share with her his throne. On the 22d of January, 1853, the approaching nuptials were announced publicly to the Senate. In this communication, Napoleon thus expressed himself:—

“I come, then, gentlemen,” he said, “to announce that I have preferred the woman whom I love and whom I respect, to one who is unknown, and whose alliance would have had advantages mingled with sacrifices. She who has been the object of my preference is of princely descent. French in heart, by education, and the recollection of the blood shed by her father in the cause of the Empire, she has, as a Spaniard, the advantage of not having in France a family to whom it might be necessary to give honors and fortune. Endowed with all the qualities of mind, she will be the ornament of the throne. In the day of danger she will be one of its courageous supporters. A Catholic, she will address to Heaven the same prayers with me for the happiness of France. In fine, by her grace and her goodness, she will, I firmly hope, endeavor to revive in the same position the virtues of the Empress Josephine.”

On the 29th of January, the civil marriage of Louis Napoleon with Mademoiselle de Montijo took place at the Tuileries, and on the following day the religious ceremonies were celebrated at the cathedral of Nôtre Dame. Never had the arches of that venerable pile looked down upon a more brilliant assemblage. The imperial couple sat on two thrones erected in front of the high altar, and the representatives of the army, of the Senate, of the municipal authorities, and of the diplomatic corps surrounded them. All the pomp and splendor of the Catholic service, all the opulence of France’s great capital, all the beauty and brilliancy of the court, all the grim majesty of the military; science, art, and lavish luxury,—all were united and exhausted on the incidents and displays of this momentous occasion.

At last all was over, and to the echoing shouts of “_Vive l’Impératrice!_” Eugénie de Montijo returned with her imperial consort to the palace of the Tuileries.

The career of the great Napoleonic dynasty is without a parallel either in ancient or modern times. Long since, the universal judgment of mankind has decided that its founder, Napoleon I., was in every respect as great a hero, and probably a greater, than Alexander, Cæsar, or Charlemagne, the three most renowned representatives of ambitious daring in the world’s history. The variety and extent of Napoleon’s abilities, both as a commander, a legislator, and a ruler, place him above all his rivals; while the splendor of his victories, the extent of his conquests, and the grandeur of his elevation, exceeds theirs in an eminent degree.

“But in addition to all these elements of superior greatness, the family of Napoleon I. add an unequal attraction to his career. None of his illustrious rivals could boast of a wife as graceful and bewitching as Josephine, or as high-born and nobly descended as Maria Louisa. None could claim brothers as sagacious as Joseph, as gallant as Murat, as capable as Lucien, as romantic as Jerome. None could point to as many relatives who were sovereign princes and princesses, and who owed their lofty elevations to his own powerful arm. And none had a successor equal in talent and in desperate, successful daring, to Napoleon III.”

Charles Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, son of Louis Napoleon, king of Holland, and Hortense, daughter of the Empress Josephine and of her first husband, the Viscomte de Beauharnais, was born at Paris, on the 20th of April, 1808. Along the whole line of the _grande armée_, and throughout the entire extent of the Empire, from Hamburg to Genoa, and from the Danube to the Atlantic, salvos of artillery announced the happy event. This was an honor which fell to the lot of only two members of the imperial family, Louis Napoleon and the king of Rome, for they only were born under the imperial _régime_. It is not our purpose, in this short sketch of the life of the Empress Eugénie, to trace the career of Napoleon III., except in so much only as it bears upon her own.

The Revolution of 1848 was over, and France needed a monarch skilled to rule in a reign of peace. Three very poor specimens of that article had been tried, in the persons of Louis XVIII., Charles X., and Louis Philippe, and had proved miserable failures. They did no great harm, because they did nothing at all.

“Providence wrested the useless sceptre from the last, and bestowed it upon Napoleon III.”

Truly “there is nothing so successful as success,” and never has it been more clearly illustrated than in the history of Louis Napoleon. All writers who have narrated the events of his life, when in the full plentitude of his power he sat upon his throne at the Tuileries, have extolled him as a demi-god, and praised in most extravagant terms his wonderful abilities; but those who have written since the fall of the Empire denounce him as a cold and selfish conspirator and revolutionist, _roué_, and libertine; and declare “that among the rulers of Christendom in modern times there is not one whose record is so utterly devoid of any redeeming act, so entirely dictated by selfishness, lust, and sordid greed, as that of Charles Louis Napoleon.”

Between these two extremes lies the truth, and among the defeats and disasters of 1870 we must not forget the glories and triumphs of 1855. This much is certain, that from the time of his attainment of the supreme power, Louis Napoleon exhibited _administrative talent_ of the first order. France was governed with the regularity and system of a gigantic piece of machinery. More vigor, energy, and harmony had never before pervaded the administration. It was said of Augustus, that he found Rome brick and left it marble. That saying would not be exaggerated if applied to Louis Napoleon and Paris. The gay capital of the Empire was the special object of his care, and Paris seemed to have thrown off the dingy and faded habiliments of past ages, which still clung to her, and to have assumed the freshness, beauty, and energy of youth. Public monuments, palaces, temples, and boulevards were, by his orders, embellished, enlarged, renovated, and repaired. Old Paris disappeared, and new Paris started up in its place. Dark, dirty, ill-paved, and worse-drained streets were replaced by noble boulevards full of palaces. He completed the Louvre, reconstructed the Tuileries, regenerated the Palais Royal, and interminably prolonged the Rue de Rivoli.

“His acts and deeds speak for themselves, and they prove, on undeniable evidence, that France was never better governed than by him. A people as fickle as the wind, as restless as the sea; a people as whimsical as women, as fanciful as children; a people with whom novelty is a mania and faction a disease; a people brave, intelligent, and generous by fits, and treacherous, frivolous, and vindictive by starts,—such a people could have been governed at that crisis only by such a ruler. And single-handed, by the sheer force of his genius, and the moral power which is the body-guard of genius, he governed them wisely and well. In spite of almost invincible opposition, in the face of almost unsurmountable obstacles, he raised them, step by step, to be regarded as the most enlightened nation of Europe; he unsparingly promoted their national welfare, he perceptibly diminished their national evils; in short, for nearly twenty years he was the glory of France and the wonder of the world.”

The alliance between France and England having terminated so gloriously for the arms and diplomacy of both countries, the emperor and empress of the French, in 1855, visited Queen Victoria in her own dominions, probably the first instance on record in which a reigning French monarch set foot upon the soil of his hereditary foes. The rejoicings on this occasion were prodigious, and Louis Napoleon, who had once paced the streets of London a penniless wanderer, was received in the same capital with universal greetings, with flying banners, with military salutes, with the congratulations of the sovereign and nobility, and with the joyful acclamations of the millions. Albert and Victoria in a short time returned the compliment, and the scene was transferred from London to Paris. “On that memorable occasion France’s gay and brilliant capital, that great centre of the world’s civilization and luxury, assumed unwonted hues of splendor, exhibited scenes of unusual festivity and rejoicing, and exhausted her varied and infinite resources to impress, delight, and charm her august visitors.”

The felicity of Louis Napoleon was now about to receive a further augmentation, and his sudden and vigorous empire to be strengthened by an additional element of perpetuity and power. On the 16th of March, 1856, a son was born at the palace of the Tuileries. On that occasion, the emperor thus addressed the Senate: “The Senate has participated in my joy on hearing that Heaven has given me a son, and you have hailed as a happy event the birth of a child of France. I intentionally make use of that expression. In fact, the Emperor Napoleon, my uncle, who had applied to the new system created by the Revolution all that was great and elevated in the old _régime_, had resumed that ancient denomination of the children of France. The reason is, gentlemen, that when an heir is born who is destined to perpetuate a national system, that child is not only the scion of a family, but also in truth the son of the whole country, and that appellation points out to him his duties. If this were true under the old monarchy, which represented exclusively the privileged class, how much more so is it now, when the sovereign is the elect of the nation, the first citizen of the country, and the representative of the interests of all? I thank you for the kind wishes which you have expressed for this child of France and for the empress.”

The birth of the Prince Imperial realized national hopes long deferred. And never was title more perfectly representative of truth and fact, than that of “_Fils de France_.” The son of France,—the son of the nation,—the gift of Providence to the people. It was in this sense that the title was bestowed, and in this sense that it was interpreted by the country. Throughout France the joy manifested was excessive, and the municipal authorities and public bodies of all kinds came forward with affectionate eagerness to manifest their sympathy in the happiness of their sovereign. What prophet could then have foretold that Napoleon Eugène Louis Jean Joseph, Prince Imperial, and _Fils de France_, whose birth was now so proudly hailed, whose future seemed so brilliant, and who was heir to the grandest throne in Europe, would, in a few years, be an exile in a foreign land, and that ultimately, at the early age of twenty-three, the javelins of hostile savages would terminate his career amid the wilds of Africa?

It is a bright May afternoon in the year 1857, and every avenue leading to the vast area of the _Champ de Mars_ is crowded with endless masses of troops, marching with stately tread and martial music to the grand rendezvous. For his Majesty Napoleon III. is to hold, in honor of the Grand Duke Constantine of Russia, one of those public reviews by which he exhibits, to such great advantage, the strength and majesty of his army. As far as the eye can reach, along both banks of the Seine, and through the immense perspective of the adjacent boulevards, glittering arms of cavalry and infantry flash brightly in the rays of the refulgent sun. As the hour of two tolls from the lofty towers of the Invalides, seventy thousand men, disposed so as to produce the most sublime and impressive effect, stand motionless in military array, awaiting the approach of that single man who has so heroically grasped and maintained the sceptre of dominion in France.

The noble _façade_ of the _École Militaire_, the splendid dome of the _Hotel des Invalides_, the towering mass of the _Arc de Triomphe_, and a hundred other monuments of architectural beauty and historic celebrity, are within the view, combining, with the majesty of military power assembled in their centre, a _coup d’œil_ of unrivalled magnificence.

At length the graceful waving of red and white plumes, and the gleam of polished silver helmets on the _Pont de Jena_, the roll of a thousand drums and the music of a thousand trumpets indicate the approach of Louis Napoleon and his illustrious guest.

Surrounded by his magnificent _État Major_, composed of the chief officers of all the regiments, the emperor rides with military precision into the centre of the gorgeous array. The _Champ de Mars_, familiar as it has been with the glories of the First Empire, has never seen the conqueror of Marengo and Austerlitz surrounded with a halo of greater martial grandeur than this which now encompasses this man who has never seen a solitary conflict of arms or commanded a single battalion in the field.

On the right of the emperor, in the costume of a Russian admiral, rides the Grand Duke Constantine, and on his left the Prince Napoleon and the Duke of Nassau, while behind them, in a sumptuous carriage, arrayed in the most gorgeous and elegant of _toilettes_, the very picture of loveliness and beauty, comes the Empress Eugénie.

Three times the splendid _cortège_ passes through the field; after which the emperor, the empress, and the grand duke take up their positions under the central pavilion of the _École Militaire_, and the _defile_ begins. During three hours seventy thousand men, composed of seventy-four battalions of foot, sixty squadrons of cavalry, and a hundred and fifty pieces of artillery, all arrayed in new uniforms, with untarnished arms and accoutrements, march by to the inspiring notes of martial melody, and beneath a bright and propitious sky. “Many of the regiments bear immortal names upon their banners, which must forcibly remind the Grand Duke Constantine of those far-famed and bloody struggles in which the colossal power of the First Empire strove with desperate energy and effort to crush forever the throne of the Muscovite kings. Nevertheless, the grand duke looks on complacently, and utters nothing but polite phrases of praise and commendation.”

With such pageantries Louis Napoleon regaled and impressed the splendor-loving Parisians. All the _pacific_ splendors of the First Empire were restored, and he neglected no means of impressing upon his subjects and upon the world the greatness of his power and the security with which he sat upon his throne.

In the early part of the month of January, 1858, as the carriage of the emperor and empress was approaching the Italian Opera House, three bombs were aimed at their persons, and exploded beneath the wheels. Many persons were wounded, and some of those forming the imperial escort were killed; but Napoleon and Eugénie escaped unharmed.

The chief conspirators were Italian refugees, some of whom suffered the well-merited penalty of death for their sanguinary but unsuccessful purpose.

In an address, soon after, to the legislature, the emperor mentioned the event. “I thank Heaven,” he said, “for the visible protection which it has granted to the empress and myself; and I deeply deplore that a plan for destroying one life should have ended in the loss of so many. Yet this thwarted scheme can teach us some useful lessons. The recourse to such desperate means is but a proof of the feebleness and impotence of the conspirators.

“And again, there never was an assassination which served the interests of the men who armed the murderer. Neither the party who struck Cæsar, nor that which slew Henry IV., profited by their overthrow. God sometimes permits the death of the just, but he never allows the triumph of the evil agent. Thus these attempts neither disturb my security in the present nor my trust in the future. If I live, the Empire lives with me; if I fall, the Empire will be strengthened by my death, for the indignation of the people and of the army will be a new support for the throne of my son. Let us, then, face the future with confidence, and calmly devote ourselves to the welfare and to the honor of our country. _Dieu protege la France!_”

Alas! that Louis Napoleon, the prudent and sagacious administrator of 1858, and the wise and powerful monarch of 1867, should have become the short-sighted and inefficient general of 1870.

And when, upon the ensanguined field of Sedan, the star of the Second Empire fell to rise no more, and the bloody demons of the Commune were carrying destruction and death through the streets of beautiful Paris, Europe and America—in short, the civilized world—re-echoed the sentiment, exclaiming in the fulness of their anxious minds, “_Dieu protege la France!_”

The year 1867 was a memorable one in the annals of the Second Empire, for in it was held the Exposition Universelle, in which the arts, the sciences, and industries of the whole world were displayed with unequalled magnificence.

France on that occasion fraternized with all nations, and her resplendent capital was the admiration of eyes of the universe. Here was the culmination of the happy reign of Louis Napoleon and Eugénie. “The Empire was peace,” and nations of every clime beheld the marvellous progress of France under the administration of her sagacious rulers. Unclouded happiness pervaded the land, and untarnished glory shed a lustre over the Empire.

The first of July, 1867, a lovely day. The sun shone brightly in a clear sky, and beautiful Paris never looked so fair. The Exposition was at its height, and the gay capital was crowded with distinguished visitors. On this day Napoleon III. was to distribute prizes to the successful competitors.

In the most gorgeous of state carriages, blazing with red and gold, drawn by eight horses splendidly caparisoned, and preceded and followed by Cent Gardes, squadrons of Lancers, and officers and servants of the imperial household, the emperor and empress left the Tuileries, and at precisely two o’clock arrived at the _Palais de l’Industrie_, in the _Champs Élysées_. The interior of the edifice had been magnificently decorated for the occasion. The semicircular glass roof was lined with a thin white drapery dotted over with golden stars and bordered with a band of pale green.

The galleries were hung with elegantly arranged crimson velvet draperies trimmed with gold lace; while on the fronts of the columns that supported the roof were displayed the armorial bearings of the different nations that had taken part in the Exhibition. All around the floor of the vast hall were ranged, tier upon tier, rows of crimson-colored benches, enough to seat twenty thousand people. In the centre of one side of the hall, and interrupting the terraces of encircling benches, was the imperial throne, gorgeous in crimson and gold, and whose velvet and golden, bee-spotted canopy, surmounted by a massive crown, towered to the very roof. In great folds of velvet of the richest hue,—darker than crimson, and lighter than purple,—and relieved with embroidery of gold, the curtains sloped gracefully to the crimson and black moquette carpet of the _dais_, filling the eye with a splendid blaze of color.

Here the Emperor Napoleon sat enthroned in the midst of his guests and of his court. On his right was the Sultan of Turkey, in a blue and gold uniform, and wearing upon his breast the ribbon of the Legion of Honor and a diamond star. On his left sat the Empress Eugénie dressed in white, spotted with gold, with a mauve satin train. On her head she wore a green wreath surmounted by diamonds; diamonds in her ears, a diamond necklace which fell in long pendants upon her breast, and a diamond stomacher. This glittering attire, in contrast with the dark draperies of the throne, was very effective.

Next to the sultan sat the Prince of Wales. Then came the Prince of Orange, the Prince of Saxony, and the Prince Imperial; and next to him, the Grand Duchess Marie, the Duke of Aosta, the Duke of Cambridge, and the Princess Mathilde, by the side of whom, in a crimson and gold brocaded petticoat and a black tunic bordered with gold lace, sat the brother of the Japanese Tycoon. On the left of the empress were the Prince Royal of Prussia, the Princess of Saxony, Prince Humbert of Italy, Prince Napoleon, and Abdul Hamed, son of the sultan.

In the second row were the members of the Murat and Bonaparte families, and behind all were the marshals of France, the ministers of state, the officers of the imperial household, and the Turkish beys and pachas in attendance upon the sultan.

Between twenty and thirty thousand people were present at the ceremony, the ladies attired in splendid toilets of the lightest and brightest tints, while the gentlemen were either in evening dress, in some picturesque national costume, or in uniform. Nothing could be more striking than the immense variety of the latter.