The Court of the Empress Josephine by Imbert de Saint-Amand (page 2)

“The Emperor’s court,” we read in the _Memorial_, “was in every respect much more magnificent than anything that had been seen up to that time, and cost infinitely less. The suppression of abuses, order and regularity in the accounts, made the great difference. His hunting, with the exception of a few useless or absurd particulars, such as the use of falcons, was as splendid and as crowded as that of Louis XIV., and it cost only four hundred thousand francs a year, while the King’s cost seven millions. It was the same way with the table; Duroc’s order and severity wrought wonders. Under the kings, the palaces were not permanently furnished; the same furniture was transported from one palace to another; there were no accommodations for the people of the court; every one had to provide for himself. Under him, however, there was no one in attendance, who, in the room allotted him, was not as comfortable as at home, or even more comfortable, so far as what was essential and proper was concerned.”

The court moved as smoothly as a well-drilled regiment. Napoleon would have shown no mercy to the slightest disregard of the rules he had himself drawn up after long meditation. The courtiers were expected to be as familiar with the code of etiquette as were the officers with the manual of arms. The Emperor noticed the minutest details, busied himself with everything, saw everything. There had been much more latitude at court under the old monarchy, and those of the old régime who entered the Emperor’s court were soon wearied by the inflexible severity of its discipline. The court, moreover, was very splendid. The Faubourg Saint Germain brought to it its politeness and conversational charm. For his part, Napoleon speedily assumed the manners of a European sovereign, while preserving his martial character. He was at the same time Emperor and commander-in-chief. Yet the military element did not control his court; the civil element was more powerful there than in other European courts, the Russian, for example. Napoleon would never have suffered in his presence the faintest sign of the familiarity of the camp; every one who crossed the threshold of the Tuileries was compelled to preserve the manners, the bearing, the language of a courtier.

The levees and couchees of the sovereign were restored as in the time of the Bourbons; though under the monarchy they were real things, and a mere imitation under the Empire. These moments were not devoted to the petty details of toilette, but rather to receiving, morning and evening, those members of the civil and military household who had to receive his direct orders or enjoyed the right of “paying their court at these privileged hours.” At Saint Helena, Napoleon boasted that at the Tuileries he had suppressed in the matter of etiquette “all that was real and commonplace, and had substituted what was merely nominal and decorative.” “A king,” he said, “is not a natural product; he is a result of civilization. He does not exist nakedly, but only when dressed.”

Let us try to retrace the lines of etiquette as they existed in 1805, at the same time indicating the principal members of the Emperor’s household and the nature of their duties. There were many separate duties, each under the control of a high officer of the Crown, with their provinces carefully defined and sedulously distinguished from one another. There were six high officers of the Crown; the Grand Almoner (Cardinal Fesch); the Grand Marshal of the Palace (General Duroc); the Grand Equerry (General de Caulaincourt); the Grand Chamberlain (M. de Talleyrand); the Grand Master of Ceremonies (M. de Ségur).

The colonels-general were: Marshal Davout, commanding the foot grenadiers; Marshal Soult, commanding the chasseurs-à-pieds; Marshal Bessières, commanding the cavalry; Marshal Mortier, commanding the artillery and sailors. These colonels-general of the Imperial Guard formed part of the Emperor’s household, and enjoyed the prerogatives as the high officers of the Crown.

The Grand Almoner was the bishop of the court, wherever that might be. He gave the Emperor and his court a dispensation from fasting. He accompanied him to church ceremonies and gave him his prayer-book. At grand dinners he said grace. He set free the prisoners whom the Emperor pardoned on certain holy days.

The Grand Marshal of the palace had charge of the military command in the Imperial residences; of their maintenance, decoration, and furnishing; of the assignment of rooms, the supply of food, the heating, lights, silver, and livery. He commanded the detachments of the Imperial Guard on duty in the Imperial palaces. He gave orders to beat the reveillé and the tattoo, to open and shut the palace gates. When the Emperor was with the army, or travelling, he had to find him quarters. In 1805 the Grand Marshal’s budget amounted to 2,338,167 francs. In 1806 it reached the sum of 2,770,841 francs. There were four tables in the palace,–that of the officers and ladies-in-waiting, that of the officers of the guard and the pages, that of the ladies who read to the Empress and introduced visitors.

The Grand Marshal had under his orders the prefects of the palace: M. de Luçay, M. de Bausset, and M. de Saint Didier. They had charge of the provisions, lighting, heating, the silver, and the liveries. They inspected the kitchens, pantries, cellars, and linen-closet to see that everything was in order. There was always one prefect of the palace on duty for a week at a time. He also carried word to the Emperor and the Empress when a meal was ready, conducted them to the table, and back to their rooms afterwards.

The Grand Marshal had also under his orders the governor of the palaces and the marshals; these last were charged with choosing apartments for the Emperor and the Empress, and quarters for their suite in the Imperial residences and on journeys. They had for assistants the quartermasters of the palace.

The Master of the Hounds had charge of all the coursing and hunting in the woods and forests belonging to the Crown.

The Grand Equerry looked after the stables, the pages, the couriers, and the Emperor’s arms; he also had the supervision of the horses at Saint Cloud. He walked just before the Emperor when he came forth from his rooms to ride, gave him his whip, held his reins and the left stirrup. He was responsible for the good condition of the carriages, the intelligence and skill of the huntsmen, coachman, and the postilions, the safety and the training of the horses. In a procession, or on a journey, he was in the carriage just before the Emperor’s. He accompanied the Emperor to the army, if the sovereign’s horse was killed or disabled, it was his duty to pick the Emperor up and to offer him his own horse.

The Grand Equerry had four equerries under his orders: Colonels Durosnel, Defrance, Lefebvre, Vatier, and two equerries in ordinary, M. de Canisy and M. de Villoutrey. An equerry on duty always accompanied the Emperor, whether he was driving or riding. If the Emperor drove, the equerry on duty rode by the right-hand door of the carriage, unless the colonel- general on duty happened to be on horseback, in which case the equerry rode on the other side. The equerry on duty walked before the Emperor when he left or returned to his apartment; he never left the waiting-room during the day, and slept in the palace.

The pages, whose governor was General Gardane, were also under the orders of the Grand Equerry. They were appointed when between fourteen and sixteen, and held the position until they were eighteen. At grand dinners and in the apartments of honor, they waited on the Emperor and Empress, and on the Princes and Princesses. When the Emperor rode out, one followed on horseback; if he drove, the page got up behind the carriage. When the sovereign went forth in his state-coach, as many pages as possible clambered up behind it and upon the box by the side of the coachman. At receptions, and on days when mass was said, there were eight pages on duty. They stood in a row when the Emperor returned to his apartment, and walked before him when he left it. If the Emperor had not returned to the palace by nightfall, the pages would wait at the entrance-door to walk before him, carrying lights. The pages, too, served as messengers, and when they carried letters of the Emperor, the doors were thrown wide open before them.

The impression produced by the pages, when they were first on duty at the Tuileries in 1804, is thus described by a contemporary: “They have been much noticed, especially in the evening, by the ladies. The fact is, they are all good-looking boys, particularly the oldest; they have good figures and wear a new and becoming uniform, and since they are in the service of a severe master, and of a most kind and indulgent mistress, they have to be very attentive and considerate. Their full dress differs from livery only by the lace of their coat which imitates embroidery, by the knot on their left shoulder, and by the lace frill above their waistcoat, Besides, in full dress they wear, like footmen, a green coat with all the seams laced with gold, gold shoe-buckles, a hat with a white feather, but they have no sword. Perhaps this is well, for they would be playing with it. They have all been chosen among the sons of generals of divisions and of high dignitaries of the Empire.”

At Saint Helena Napoleon said, speaking of the pages and the Imperial stables: “The Emperor’s stables cost him three million francs; the horses cost three thousand francs apiece per year. A page, from six to eight thousand francs; this last was perhaps the heaviest expense of the palace; but there was every reason to be satisfied with the education they received, and with the care taken with them. All the first families of the Empire sought to get the places for their sons; and they were right.”

The Grand Chamberlain had charge of all the honors of the palace, the regular audiences, the oaths taken in the Emperor’s study, the admissions, the levees and couchees, the festivities, receptions, theatrical performances, the music, the boxes of the Emperor and Empress at the different theatres, the Emperor’s wardrobe, his library; he also looked after the ushers and valets de chambre.

The Grand Chamberlain had under his orders (this refers to 1805), a First Chamberlain, M. de Rémusat, and thirteen chamberlains: MM. d’Arberg, A. de Talleyrand, de Laturbie, de Brigode, de Viry, de Thiard, Garnier de Lariboisière, d’Hédouville, de Croy, de Mercy-Argenteau, de Zuidwyck, de Tournon, de Bondy. In the Imperial Almanack of 1805, these men are not named with their titles, even the _de_ is in all cases omitted or joined with the name, thus: M. Rémusat, M. Darberg, A. Talleyrand, Laturbie, Tournon, Dethiard, Deviry, Hédouville, etc., etc.

The chamberlain on duty was called the chamberlain of the day. At the palace there were always two chamberlains of the day, one for the grand apartment, the other for the Emperor’s apartment of honor. They were relieved every week. The principal duties of the chamberlains were to have charge of introductions to the Emperor, to give orders to the ushers and valets de chambre, to see that the orders about the receptions were carried out, and to attend upon the sovereign’s levees and couchees.

Either a chamberlain or one of the Emperor’s aides-de-camp served as Master of the Wardrobe. He had charge of the clothes, the linen, the lace, the boots and shoes, and of the ribbons of the Legion of Honor. If he assisted at the Emperor’s toilet, he had to hand him his coat, fasten his ribbon or collar, give him his sword, hat, and gloves, in the Grand Chamberlain’s absence.

The Grand Master of Ceremonies determined questions of rank and precedence, drew up and enforced the rules for public, formal ceremonies, for the reception of sovereigns and hereditary princes, and, foreign ambassadors and ministers.

The colonels-general of the Imperial Guard and the Emperor’s aides also made part of the household.

At ceremonies when the Emperor was in his state-coach, there were two colonels-general of the Guard at the left door. When he rode, all four followed close behind. The Grand Equerry, or his substitute, had a place among them.

The colonel-general on duty received directly the Emperor’s orders relative to the different requirements of the Imperial Guard, and transmitted them directly to the other colonels-general. He was quartered in the palace, in preference to any other officer of the Crown, and as near as possible to the Emperor’s apartment, whether at the residence or when travelling. In the field he slept in the Emperor’s tent.

Napoleon had twelve aides-de-camp. The one on duty was called the aide-de- camp of the day, He always had a horse saddled or a carriage harnessed ready in the stable, to carry any messages the Emperor might give. As soon as the Emperor had gone to bed, the aide-de-camp on duty was especially entrusted with guarding him, and he slept in an adjoining room. In the field the Emperor’s aides served as chamberlains.

There were two distinct elements in the Emperor’s household: the military, and the aristocratic. Some men owed their position entirely to their merit; others entirely to their birth; these were both patriots of 1792 and émigrés, but it must be confessed the Imperial Almanack shows that the aristocratic element was the more prominent. Napoleon, though certain writers persist in representing him as the crowned champion of democracy and the emperor of the lower classes, had a more aristocratic court than Louis XVIII. He was more impressed by great manners than were the old kings. Even after he had been betrayed, abandoned, denied, insulted by the aristocracy, he had a weakness for it. In 1816 he said: “The democracy may become furious; it has a heart; it can be moved. The aristocracy always remains cold and never pardons.” Yet even after this, he blamed himself for not having done enough for the French nobility. “I see clearly,” he went on, “that I did either too much or too little for the Faubourg Saint Germain. I did enough to make the opposition dissatisfied, and not enough to win it to my side. I ought to have secured the émigrés when they returned. The aristocracy would have soon adored me; and I needed it; it is the true, the only support of a monarchy, its moderator, its lever, its resisting point; without it, the state is like a ship without a rudder, a balloon in mid-air. Now, the strength, the charm of the aristocracy lies in its antiquity, the only thing I could not create.” It must be confessed that from an old Republican general, for the man who had sent Augereau to execute the coup d’état of the 18th Fructidor, and who the 13th Vendémiaire, from the steps of the Church of Saint Roch had crushed the Paris conservatives, this was a very aristocratic way of talking, reminding one of the old régime. In 1816 Napoleon said again: “Old and corrupt nations cannot be governed like the virtuous peoples of antiquity. For one man nowadays who would sacrifice everything for the public welfare, there are thousands who take no thought of anything except their own interests, pleasures, and vanity. Now to pretend to regenerate a people off-hand would be madness. The workman’s genius is shown by his knowing how to make use of the materials under his hand, and that is the secret of the restoration of all the forms of the monarchy, of the return of titles, crosses, and ribbons.”

The old Republicans of 1796, who used to denounce kings, “drunk with blood and pride,” would not have readily recognized their old general under the golden canopies of the Tuileries, where he dined in state. His table stood on a platform, beneath a canopy, and there were two chairs, one for himself, the other for the Empress. As he entered the banquet-hall, he was preceded by a swarm of pages, masters-of-ceremonies, and prefects of the palace; he was followed by the colonel-general on duty, the Grand Chamberlain, the Grand Equerry, and the Grand Almoner. The Grand Almoner advanced to the table and blessed the dinner. A general of division, the Grand Equerry Caulaincourt, offered a chair to Bonaparte. Another general of division, Duroc, the Grand Marshal of the Palace, handed him his napkin and poured out his wine. Not merely high dignitaries, but the Princes of the Empire themselves, deemed it an honor to wait upon him as servants. If a Prince of the Imperial family happened to be in the Emperor’s room, any article of dress that he asked for was given by the chamberlain-in-waiting to the Prince, and by the Prince to the Emperor. The time of the Sun King seemed to have returned.

The Imperial apartment at the Tuileries consisted of two distinct parts, the grand state apartments and the Emperor’s private apartment. The state apartment contained the following rooms: 1, a concert hall (the Hall of the Marshals); 2, a first drawing-room (under Napoleon III. called the Drawing-room of the First Consul); 3, a second drawing-room (that of Apollo); 4, a throne room; 5, a drawing-room of the Emperor (afterwards called that of Louis XIV.); 6, a gallery (of Diana). The private apartment was itself composed of the apartment of honor, containing a hall of the guards and a first and second drawing-room, and an interior apartment containing a bedroom, a study, an office, and topographic bureau. The ushers had charge of the apartment of honor; the valets de chambre of the other. A rigid etiquette determined the right of entrance into the different rooms composing the state apartment, according to a carefully studied system. The pages were authorized to enter the Hall of the Marshals; members of the household of the Emperor and Empress could enter the first and second drawing-rooms; the Princes and Princesses of the Imperial family, the high officers of the Crown, the presidents of the great bodies of the state, had admission to the throne room. Men and women had to bow to the throne whenever they passed it. The Emperor and the Empress alone had the right of entering the Emperor’s drawing-room. No one else could go in except by the Emperor’s summons.

An absurd importance was attached to these trivialities, to these empty nothings, to the right of entering this room or that, of walking before this or that person, of handing the Emperor this or that article of dress. “An honest, reasonable man,” said Madame de Rémusat, “is often overcome with shame at the pleasures and pains of a courtier’s life, and yet it is hard to escape from them. A ribbon, a slight difference of dress, the right of way through a door, the entrance into such and such a drawing- room, are the occasion, contemptible in appearance, of a host of ever new emotions. Vain is the struggle to acquire indifference to them…. In vain, do the mind and the reason revolt against such an employment of human faculties; however dissatisfied one is with one’s self, it is necessary to humiliate one’s self before every one and to desert the court, or else to consent to take seriously all the nonsense that fills the air and breathes there.”

Vanity of human events! What has become of these drawing-rooms of the Tuileries, which it was such an honor to enter, which were trod with such respectful awe? Look at the lamentable ruins of this ill-fated palace. There may still be seen, blackened with petroleum and stained by the rain, some of those drawing-rooms, once so brilliant, once thronged with an eager and showy crowd. What an instructive spectacle! When is one more urgently reminded of the emptiness of human glory and greatness? This nothingness fills the soul with melancholy when one thinks that soon these crumbling fragments will be razed and that soon one can say with the poet: The ruins themselves have perished, _Etiam periere ruinae_! [Footnote: The ruins have since been removed.–TR.]

IX.

HOUSEHOLD OP THE EMPRESS.

We have just studied the civil and the military household of the Emperor in 1805; let us now study the Empress’s household at the same period.

The Empress’s First Almoner was a bishop, a great lord, Ferdinand de Rohan. Her Maid of Honor was a relative of her first husband, the Duchess de La Rochefoucauld, called in the Imperial Almanack of 1805 simply Madame Chastulé de La Rochefoucauld. She was short and deformed, but distinguished, for her intelligence, tact, and wit, void of ambition, with no taste for intrigue, who only reluctantly accepted the position of Maid of Honor, and often wanted to hand in her resignation. The Lady of the Bedchamber was Madame de Lavalette, a Beauharnais, an able and affectionate woman, who immortalized herself, in the early days of the Restoration, by saving her husband’s life by her heroism.

To the four Ladies of the Palace at the beginning of the Empire, Madame de Luçay, Madame de Rémusat, Madame de Talhouët, Madame de Lauriston, were added thirteen other ladies: Madame Duchâtel, Madame de Séran, Madame de Colbert, Madame Savary, Madame Octave de Ségur, Madame de Turenne, Madame de Montalivet, Madame de Bouillé, Madame de Vaux, Madame de Marescot.

The Maid of Honor was for the Empress what the Grand Chamberlain was for the Emperor. The Lady of the Bedchamber’s duties corresponded to those of the Keeper of the Wardrobe. The Ladies of the Palace were, so to speak, female chamberlains.

“We were all,” said the Duchess of Abrantès, “at that time radiant with a sort of glory which women seek as eagerly as men do theirs, that of elegance and beauty. Among the young women composing the court of the Empress and that of the Princesses it would have been hard to find a single ill-favored woman, and there were very many whose beauty made, with no exaggeration, the greatest ornament of the festivities held every day in that fairy-like time.”

All the Ladies of the Palace were young, and almost all were remarkable for their beauty. Among the most conspicuous was Madame Ney, a niece of Madame Campan; Madame Lannes, whose face recalled the most charming pictures of Raphael, and above all, the wife of an already aged Councillor of State, Madame Duchâtel (whose son was Minister of the Interior in the reign of Louis Philippe, and whose grandson was Ambassador of the Republic at Vienna). The Duchess of Abrantès thus describes this famous beauty: “There is one woman in the Imperial court who made her appearance in society shortly before the coronation, whose portrait is drawn in all the contemporary memoirs, especially in those written by a woman, and that is Madame Duchâtel. Madame Duchâtel would not serve as a model for a sculptor, because her features lack the regularity which his art requires. The indefinable charm of her face, a charm which words are unable to convey, lay in dark blue eyes, with long, silken, lashes, in a delicate, gracious, refined smile, which, disclosed teeth of ivory whiteness, and, moreover, beautiful light hair, small hands and feet, a general elegance which matched a really remarkable mind. All these things formed a combination which first attracted and then attached every one to her.”

Josephine’s First Chamberlain, in 1805, was the General of Division Nansouty; the chamberlain who introduced the ambassadors was M. de Beaumont; there were four ordinary chamberlains, MM. d’Aubusson- Lafeuillade, de Galard-Béarn. de Coutomer; de Gavre; a First Equerry, Senator de Harville; two equerries, Colonel Fowler and General Bonardy de Saint Sulpice; a private secretary, M. Deschamps. The Council of the Empress’s household was composed of the Maid of Honor, the Lady of the Bedchamber, the First Chamberlain, and the First Equerry. The private secretary was also the secretary of the Council. The Chief Steward of the household was also a member.

The Lady of the Bedchamber had under her orders a first woman of the bedchamber, Madame Aubert, who had whole charge of the wardrobe. Madame Saint-Hilaire held this place under Josephine, as Madame Campan had done under Marie Antoinette. Madame Saint-Hilaire’s duties consisted in supervising the chamberwork, in receiving the Empress’s orders about the hours of her rising, and of her morning and evening toilet. The first woman of the Bedchamber had what were called the honors of the service when the Maid of Honor and the Lady of the Bedchamber were absent. The Empress had also ushers and women who discharged the same duties, six ordinary chambermaids, a reader, the beautiful Madame Gazani; four ordinary valets de chambre, and two footmen, trusted men always in the ante-chamber. The ushers, who remained without the drawing-room where the Empress was, never opened both the doors to their full width except for the Princes and Princesses of the Imperial family; and they could not leave their posts except to ask the Maid of Honor the names of those who were waiting to be presented. There were two pages in the Empress’s service; the older carried the train of her dress when she left her apartments, and got in or out of a carriage; the other walked before her.

The Empress’s apartment consisted of an apartment of honor and an inner apartment. The first consisted of an ante-chamber, the first drawing-room, the second drawing-room, the dining-room, the music-room, the other, of the bedroom, the library, dressing-room, boudoir, bath-room. The entrance to the Empress’s apartment was controlled by etiquette like that to the Emperor’s.

Josephine played her part as sovereign as easily as if she had been born on the steps of the throne. “One of her charms,” says the Duchess of Abrantès, “was not merely her graceful figure, but the way she held her head, and the gracious dignity with which she walked and turned. I have had the honor of being presented to many real princesses, as they are called, in the Faubourg Saint Germain, and I can truly say that I have never seen one more imposing than Josephine. She combined elegance and majesty. Never did any queen so grace a throne without having been trained to it.”

Josephine had all the qualities that are attractive in a sovereign: affability, gentleness, kindliness, generosity. She had a way of convincing every one of her personal interest. She had an excellent memory, and surprised those with whom she talked by the exactness with which she recalled the past, even to details they had themselves nearly forgotten. The sound of her gentle, penetrating, and sympathetic voice added to the courtesy and charm of her words. Every one listened to her with pleasure; she spoke with grace and listened courteously. She wanted no one to go away from her annoyed. She always appeared to be doing a kindness, and thus inspired affection and gratitude. Her courtiers and her suite were her friends. Madame de Rémusat, who was never too favorable, was forced to recognize the charm which Josephine exercised over the court by her tact, intelligence, and dignity. “The Empress,” she says, “is enchanted to be surrounded by a large suite, and it gratifies her vanity. Her success in attaching Madame de La Rochefoucauld to her person, her pleasure in counting MM. d’Aubusson, de Lafeuillade among her chamberlains, Madame d’Arbry, Madame de Ségur, and the wives of the marshals among the ladies of the palace, turned her head a little, but even this feminine joy did not lessen her usual graciousness; she always succeeded in maintaining her rank, even when most deferential to those men and women who lent it a new lustre by their brilliant names.” She was very kind, extremely soft-hearted, and always overwhelming her companions with attentions and regards. Mademoiselle Avrillon, her reader, says: “I do not believe that there ever lived a woman with a better character, or with a less changeable disposition.” She never dared to utter a word of blame or reproach. “If one of her ladies,” said Constant, the Emperor’s valet de chambre, “ever gave her cause for dissatisfaction, the only punishment she inflicted was to maintain absolute silence for one, two, three days, a week, more or less, according to the seriousness of the case. Well! this punishment, apparently so slight, was for most of them very severe. The Empress knew so well how to make herself beloved!”

Her only fault was extravagance. She had an unbounded love of luxury and dress. The jewel-case which had belonged to Marie Antoinette was too small for Josephine. One day when she wanted to show some ladies all her jewels, a great table had to be arranged to hold the cases, and, since that was not enough, much more of the furniture was covered by them. Josephine had the fault that accompanies this quality, for generous persons are commonly lavish. Her extravagant expenditures came from her kindliness. She had not the heart to dismiss a tradesman without buying something of him, and it never entered her head to try to beat him down. Often she bought for vast sums things she did not want, simply to oblige the dealers. There was no limit to her liberality. She would have liked to own all the treasures of the earth in order to give them all away. She sought for opportunities for alms-giving. Many of the émigrés lived entirely on her bounty. She was always in active correspondence with the sisters of charity. She was the Providence of the poor, and did good with delicacy, tact, and discretion. Giving is not all; the art lies in knowing how to give. She seemed to be the debtor of those to whom she made gifts. Naturally, with this disposition, she got into debt. But Napoleon was there to help her; and since he was economical by nature, he grew angry and scolded his extravagant wife, and ended by paying.

In fact, Napoleon could refuse Josephine nothing, and she was really the only woman who had any influence over him. If he opposed her, she had an infallible resource in her tears. She knew thoroughly her husband’s character. She knew how to speak to that mind and heart. She busied herself with seeking what could please, with divining his wishes, with anticipating his slightest desires. If he was the least ailing or annoyed she was literally at his feet, and then he could not live without her. He felt that when misfortune came Josephine alone would be able to console him. She had brought him happiness with her gentleness, her tenderness, her devotion; she had well deserved to receive the crown from his hands.

X.

NAPOLEON’S GALLANTRIES.

Josephine appeared to have every wish, satisfied; her good fortune exceeded her wildest dreams; never had a more wonderful romance actually happened, and yet the Empress of the French, the Queen of Italy, was not happy. A cruel passion which brings no pleasures, but only cruel sufferings, disturbed her happiness and tormented her heart. This passion, jealousy, which had tortured Napoleon in the early days of his wedded life, now Josephine in her turn had to endure with all its keen anguish. She felt that for her, a woman of forty-one, to hold fast the affections of a man of thirty-five, covered with glory and full of charm, was a difficult task; but this reflection, far from consoling her, only disturbed her the more, and she made desperate efforts to triumph in an almost hopeless contest. As was said by Mademoiselle Avrillon, her reader, she seemed not to understand that if the highest rank is a safeguard for a woman, because few men are bold enough to pursue her, the same is not true of a sovereign whose glory dazzles the inexperience of the young, and whose slightest attention arouses coquetry and flatters vanity.

Josephine had not a moment’s peace. In the hope of pleasing her, many women of the court, who were, so to speak, on the watch for the Emperor’s attentions, hastened to torture her with their interested revelations. For several years now her beauty had been fading. Napoleon, on the other hand, had never been better looking. His health, which formerly had been delicate, had much improved. He had grown stouter, and this was very becoming. His head was like that of a Caesar. Full of self-confidence, fortunate, flattered on every side, at the height of power, he imagined that in love, as in war, he had but to appear to say, _veni, vidi, vici_, “I came, I saw, I conquered.” Many of the beauties of the time did their best to confirm him in this good opinion of himself, and as Madame de Rémusat says of him, he in his court was not unlike the Grand Turk in his harem.

“The Emperor,” we read in Constant’s Memoirs, “used to say that a good man was to be known by the way he treated his wife, his children, and his servants. He added that immorality was the most dangerous vice a sovereign could have, because it established a precedent for his subjects. What he meant by immorality, was giving scandalous publicity to relations which should have been kept secret; these relations he was by no means disposed to refuse when they presented themselves before him.” The faithful valet de chambre goes on in an attempt to defend his master: “Others perhaps would have succumbed oftener. Heaven forbid that I should undertake to apologize for him; I will even acknowledge that he did not always practise what he preached, but it was none the less a good deal for a sovereign to hide his distractions from the public, to prevent scandal, and, what is worse imitation; and from his wife, to save her pain.”

Napoleon was by no means so indifferent to women as he professed to be. He was averse to being ruled by them, but he was far from being insensible to their charms. Opposition exasperated him; all his caprices found many obsequious allies ready to further his suit, and more than one woman made a deep, if brief, impression upon him. His disdain of woman has, we are sure, been much exaggerated. At Saint Helena he declaimed against women, but his remarks were mere paradoxes, not meant to be taken seriously.

Count Las Cases, in the _Memorial_, reports these remarks of the Emperor to the ladies who shared, his captivity. “We Occidentals,” he said, with a smile full of malice, “have spoiled women by treating them too well. We have made the mistake of raising them almost to an equality with ourselves. The Orientals showed more intelligence and justice: they declared they were men’s property; and, in fact, nature has made them our slaves, and it is only by our whimsicalness that they presume to be our sovereigns; they abuse their advantages to mislead and control us. For one who inspires us to our good there are a hundred who make us do stupid things.” Then he went on to praise polygamy in a very unchivalrous and unsentimental way, saying ironically: “What cause of complaint do you have, after all? Have we not acknowledged that you have a soul? You know that there are philosophers who have weighed it. Do you claim equality? But that is absurd; women are our property, we are not theirs; for she gives us children, men give them none. So she is his property, as a fruit- tree is a gardener’s property. Nothing but a lack of judgment, of common sense, and a defective education, can make a woman think that she is her husband’s equal. And there is nothing degrading in the difference; each sex has its qualities and its duties: your qualities are beauty, grace, charm; your duties are dependence and submission.”

Napoleon was often malicious with women; often he teased them; but at heart he honored faithful wives and good mothers. His ideas were far more moral than those of the men of the Directory, and his court was far purer than that of the kings of France. We will add that Josephine was the only woman he ever loved for a long time and seriously. The others appealed to his senses, not to his heart.

Fortunately for herself, Josephine had a shallow character; her impressions were keen, but evanescent. The pleasures of sovereignty outweighed the griefs. She felt that the crown was heavy at times, but it adorned her and kept her young; and in spite of the jealousy it gave rise to, the court satisfied her vanity and brought her sufficient consolation. To the satisfaction of her pride she found another purer and more lasting emotion, which she valued more, in the opportunity of doing good. She had, besides, passed through so many vicissitudes in her life that nothing could surprise her, and her soul, accustomed to suffering, was prepared for the most violent emotions, the most terrible anguish. She wept readily, but her tears were soon dried; the rainbow followed close upon the storm, and Josephine would smile through her tears.

XI.

THE POPE AT THE TUILERIES.

While Napoleon, proud in the possession of his new empire, was exhibiting at the Tuileries his vast power and grandeur, the same palace was inhabited by a holy old man, whose humility presented a marked contrast with the conqueror’s haughty spirit. Pius VII., who was quartered in the Pavilion of Flora, led the life of an anchorite, with all the modesty and piety of an old monk, fasting every day as in his convent, and edifying even the impious by the nimbus that shone around his pale and mystic face. It was impossible to approach this worthy Vicar of Christ without a filial feeling of tenderness. The crimes of the French Revolution–the massacre or the execution of the priests, the profanation of the altars, the persecutions and blasphemies–had imprinted the stamp of melancholy on his face. It was easy to see that he lamented the barbarities of the times, and that his life had been full of anguish. He embodied all the sufferings of the Church. With his ascetic air, his deep-set eye, his complexion as pallid as ivory, his white robes tinged with red, the Sovereign Pontiff had in his whole person something strange and imposing. He occupied the apartment on the first floor of the Pavilion of Flora, where Madame Elisabeth had lived from October, 1789, to August 10, 1792. The Abbé Proyart, the author of the letter to the prisoner of the Temple, came to offer the Pope a copy of this same life of Madame Louise of France, which he had long since offered to the sister of Louis XVI.

“I am living here,” said Pius VII., “in the apartments of another saint.” What singular vicissitudes! The same place occupied in turn by Madame Elisabeth, the members of the Committee of Public Safety, and by the Vicar of Christ!

The Pope had been very anxious before he started for Paris. His fears were so great that just as he was leaving Rome, with a presentiment of the captivity that awaited him, he had left his abdication in the hands of Cardinal Consalvi, in case he should suffer any violence during his journey. It was only with trembling and prayer that he had set foot on the volcanic soil of France, which, from a distance, seemed alive with impiety and terror. The unfailing respect with which he had been treated had comforted him somewhat. Whenever he visited a church, the Parisians followed him with mingled curiosity, sympathy, and veneration: they knelt to him as he passed them, and received with all decorum his apostolic benediction. Every day a large crowd gathered under his windows. He had found his rooms arranged and furnished like those he occupied at the Vatican, and he had been very grateful for this, which he called a really filial attention.

General de Ségur, at that time captain and aide of the Grand Marshal of the Palace, was entrusted with guarding the Pope’s person. He says in his Memoirs: “The same attention and respect was shown to the Pope as to the Emperor himself. His rooms had been so arranged and furnished as to recall Rome so far as possible, and to suit his tastes. As for Napoleon, we all noticed his ever gentle and grateful gaiety, and his filial and affectionate deference to his guest. When the Holy Father gave his blessing from his window, and more especially at his audiences in the gallery of the Louvre, which were always crowded, precautions were taken against any outbreak of the indiscretion or levity to which the French are prone. We saw the atheist Lalande himself fall at the Pontiff’s feet and kiss his slipper. In the public buildings which the Pope honored with his presence he was received as a sovereign. No one dared to betray more curiosity than piety; and it often happened to me to see this real saint, the successor of the Apostles, whose venerable face bore the stamp of the serenest gentleness, so frugal, simple, and austere for himself alone, and so kindly indulgent to others, deeply moved by the intense and holy impression he made.”

Every day the long gallery of the Louvre was filled with two rows of men and women who had come to ask his blessing. Preceded by the governor of the Louvre, and followed by the Italian cardinals and nobles of his household, Pius VII. advanced slowly between the two lines of the faithful, often stopping to place his hand on some child’s head, to say some kind words to its mother, and to offer his ring to be kissed. One day, when he was surrounded by a crowd of prostrate and respectful people, he saw a man whose worn face bore traces of irreligious passion, who was moving away as if to escape the apostolic benediction. The Holy Father approached him, and said gently, “Do not run away; an old man’s blessing has never done any one any harm.” This remark spread through Paris and made a most favorable impression. Pius VII. was not only respected, but, if we may use the worldly phrase, he became the fashion. Dealers in rosaries and chaplets made much money all that winter. In January alone a shopkeeper in the rue Saint Denis who sold those articles is said to have cleared forty thousand francs. All who approached the Pope had chaplets blessed for themselves, their relatives, and friends in Paris and the provinces. “The prolonged stay of the Holy Father,” says Bourrienne, “was not without influence in the return to religious ideas, so great was the respect inspired by the Pope’s gentle appearance and kindly manners. When, the time came for him to be persecuted, it would have been desirable that Pius VII. had never come to Paris, for it was impossible to look upon him otherwise than as a man whose holy gentleness was a matter of notoriety.”

At Saint Helena, Napoleon spoke thus of this venerable Pope: “He was really a lamb, a thoroughly good and upright man, whom I greatly esteem and love, and who, I am sure, does not wholly hate me.”

It has been asserted that the Pope made such an impression in Paris that the Emperor felt for the august old man a sort of secret jealousy. But even granting, what is by no means certain, that he suffered from this, he had at least skill to conceal it. Always the Pope was overwhelmed with flattering attentions. The President of the Legislative Body, M. de Fontanes, said to him November 30, 1804: “Everything else has changed; religion alone knows no change. It sees the families of kings, and those of subjects, perish; but resting on the ruins of thrones, it ever admires the successive manifestations of the eternal designs and obeys them with confidence. Never has the universe beheld a more imposing sight, never have its people received more important lessons. This is no longer the time of rivalry between the priesthood and the Empire. They have joined hands to repel the fatal doctrines which threatened Europe with total overthrow. May they yield forever to the double influence of politics and religion combined! Doubtless this wish will not be disappointed; never in France has there been so great a genius to control its policy, and never has the pontifical throne presented to the Christian world a more worthy and more touching model.” The _Moniteur_, in its report of the coronation, spoke with the same official enthusiasm “of the most venerable apostolic virtues and of the most astounding political genius crowned by the highest destinies.” David, the artist, once a member of the Convention and a regicide, then an Imperialist, painted the portrait of Pius VII., and the _Moniteur_ in the number of March 30, 1805, thus praised the picture and the sitter. “A large crowd gathered in the gallery of the Senate, to see the portrait of His Holiness by M. David, member of the Institute and first painter to the Emperor. This portrait is in every way worthy of the master’s reputation. If the first essential in a portrait is an exact likeness, this one possesses it to a very high degree. The head, which is admirably painted, expresses the indulgent and wise character, the gentleness and reasonableness, that are so conspicuous in the model; the eyes an expression, affectionate and paternal; the expression of the mouth is most striking; one feels that it can utter only words of peace, consolation, and truth.”

Josephine had for Pius VII. a feeling of veneration full of gratitude. She was most grateful to him for having persuaded Napoleon, to have the religious marriage for which she had long yearned. She, who had preserved her faith, in the midst of an irreligious society, was happy to inhabit the same palace, to live under the same roof, with the Vicar of Christ, and firmly hoped thereby to secure good fortune for herself and her husband. For his part, Pius VII. appreciated Josephine’s good qualities, especially her charity: he treated her as an indulgent father treats his child.

The second son of Louis Bonaparte and Hortense de Beauharnais was baptized by the Pope himself at Saint Cloud, March 27, 1805. The ceremony was most impressive. Eight Imperial carriages conveyed thither Pius VII. and his suite. The gallery of the palace had been turned into a chapel. In one of the Empress’s drawing-rooms had been placed, on a platform, beneath a canopy, a bed without posts. On the foot of the bed had been spread a large cloak lined with ermine, to cover the child. In the same room were two tables on which were placed what were called the child’s _honors_; that is to say, the candle, the chrisom-cap, and the salt-cellar, and the _honors_ of the godfather and godmother,–the basin, the ewer, and the napkin. The towel was placed on a square of golden brocade, and all the other things, except the candle, on a gold tray. Preceded by the Grand Master of Ceremonies, and followed by a colonel-general of the Guard, by the Grand Almoner, the Grand Chamberlain, and the Master of the Hounds, the Emperor, who was godfather, and the godmother, Madame Bonaparte, his mother, went to the room where the ceremony was to be performed. The child was uncovered by Madame de Villeneuve, Maid of Honor to Princess Louis Bonaparte, and by Madame de Boubers, who was serving as governess. The first one lifted up the baby and handed him to the godfather, who gave him to Madame de Boubers to carry to the font. The Grand Master of Ceremonies handed the salt-cellar to Madame de Bouillé, the chrisom-cap to Madame de Montalivet, the candle to Madame Lannes, the towel to Madame de Sérant, the ewer to Madame Savary, the basin to Madame de Talhouët. Then, they went to the gallery, which had been turned into a chapel. Mesdames Bernadotte, Bessières, Davout, and Mortier held the corners of the Empress’s cloak. The godmother was at the Emperor’s left. After the baptism the child was carried back to his room with the same procession.

That evening _Athalie_ was given, with choruses, at the court theatre. The company on their way thither passed through the orange house, which was aglow with colored lanterns.

All day the park of Saint Cloud had been open to the public; the fountains had been playing; shows of all sorts amused the crowd; the road to Paris was crowded with carriages and foot-passengers. In the evening there were fireworks: the palace and gardens were illuminated; there were bands playing, and rustic balls.

The Pope, who had reached Paris November 28, 1804, left April 4, 1805, just when the Emperor was starting for Italy, there to be crowned at Milan. Pius VII. had received some magnificent presents from the Emperor: a gold altar with chandeliers, and the sacred vessels of rich workmanship, a superb tiara, some gobelin tapestries, carpets from the Savonnerie, and a statue of Napoleon in Sèvres ware. The Empress had given him a valuable vase decorated by the best artists. The _Moniteur_ thus announced the Pope’s departure: “To-day, April 4, at half-past twelve, His Holiness left Paris with the prelates and others of his suite. A crowd of both sexes and all ages assembled on the way he was to pass through, and received the Sovereign Pontiff’s blessing; once more he was the object of expressions of the deepest veneration, and plainly manifested the emotions which these expressions called forth.”

Yet Pius VII. was not wholly satisfied with his journey. He had received much homage, but he had not secured any real political concessions of any importance. He had been unable to settle the important matter of the organic statutes, and nothing had been done about the restoration of the legation on which he was so warmly set. Besides, he was much annoyed that he had not himself crowned Napoleon, as the Popes, his predecessors, had crowned emperors and kings. He, who later was to be a prisoner at Fontainebleau, went away distressed about the present, anxious for the future, and wondering whether his host might not say, with Voltaire, “It is all very well to kiss the Popes’ feet, but it is better to have their hands tied first.”

XII.

THE JOURNEY IN ITALY.

The Pope had left Paris to return to Rome April 4, 1805. At almost the same time the Emperor and Empress had started from Fontainebleau to go to Milan, where Napoleon was to be crowned King of Italy. The code of etiquette that prevailed at the Tuileries was observed on journeys. The house in which the Emperor lodged at any stopping-place was the place where all who accompanied him were to meet. A great placard on which were written all the names, and where they were to be quartered, was pasted on the front door. In the villages where Napoleon spent but one night he received the local authorities, either before or after dinner. In the towns where he spent more than one day, after he had eaten his breakfast and held his receptions, he rode out to visit the fortifications and monuments. The evenings were generally taken up by the entertainments offered him.

The Emperor and Empress reached Troyes April 2. A letter dated the 3d was printed in the _Moniteur_. It said: “Everywhere the presence of the Emperor has evoked the liveliest applause; the people seem astonished to see him wearing such a modest uniform, and conspicuous, in the midst of his court, by the plainness of his dress. The people of this department exhibit this joy all the more because it is here that was brought up the man who was destined to raise France to the highest glory and prosperity. It is at Brienne that the Emperor received his earliest instruction. His Majesty, being anxious to revisit the places that recall these agreeable memories, started at two o’clock to-day for Brienne.”

On the steps of the castle in this town Napoleon found Madame de Brienne and Madame de Loménie, who had been the guardians of his childhood. He treated them with the greatest respect, and took pleasure in recalling happy and touching memories of the past. He recalled many anecdotes, and told them in his usual vivid, picturesque way. He accepted their invitation to dinner, played cards with them, and having found out their usual time of going to bed, asked to be shown at that hour to the room which had been prepared for him at his request. At dawn the next morning he went alone, without escort, to see some of his old walks in the neighborhood. He remembered a hut where he and his companions used to lunch, and recognizing the wood in which it was, he rode through the shady path that led to it.

It belonged to a woman who in old times used to serve nuts, cheese, and brown bread to the schoolboy of Brienne, the future Emperor. He was delighted to see her once more, and asked her for the same repast which had formerly been his delight. At first the poor woman did not recognize the stranger; but gradually he refreshed her memory by recalling many incidents of the past. Then she understood that she was in the presence of the all-powerful Emperor, and flung herself at his feet. Napoleon lifted her, and left her a purse of gold, promising as he left to provide for her old age.

The Emperor and Empress arrived at Lyons April 10. A quarter of a league from the city, on the Boucle road, stood a triumphal arch, on the top of which, as in the reign of Augustus, was perched an eagle supporting the conqueror’s bust. On the two side doors were two bas-reliefs, one representing the union of the Empire and Liberty; the other, Wisdom, in the figure of Minerva distributing crosses of honor to soldiers, artists, and scholars. On these two bas-reliefs were statues of the Rhone and the Seine. At the top of the arch was a flattering inscription in verse.

April 12, the Empress held a reception. The _Bulletin of Lyons_ thus described it: “The assembly was most brilliant. As our sovereign has exhibited in his audiences profundity, affability, exact and varied learning, and true greatness, so his august wife has shone with grace, courtesy, and gentleness. Thus we witness a revival of that old French urbanity and politeness of manners which have always distinguished our court, and have made it an example and an object of admiration for all foreign courts.”

The city offered Napoleon and Josephine an entertainment at the Grand Theatre. The back-scene represented the Emperor, seated, clad in a long triumphal robe. Two allegoric figures, representing, one, France, the other, Italy, with their feet resting on clouds, held in their hands a roll bearing this inscription: _Sublimi feriam sidera vertice_, “I shall strike the stars with my lofty head”; with the other, they each offered a crown to Napoleon. Thus did flattery renew the apotheoses of the Caesars of ancient Rome.

There was sung a cantata entitled _Ossian’s Dream_. The young men of the National Guard of Lyons and the leading ladies of the city waltzed before the throne. Two young girls held each a basket into which the dancers threw flowers as they passed by; out of these flowers the girls wove two crowns which, after the dance, they presented to the Emperor and Empress.

April 29, Napoleon and Josephine were present at a grand performance at the Grand Theatre in Turin. They stayed at the castle of Stupinizi, just outside of the city, where they bade farewell to Pius VII., who had celebrated the Easter festival at Lyons, and was on his way to Rome.

The Emperor and the Empress reached Alessandria May 2, at ten in the morning, amid the roar of cannon and the ringing of church-bells. Napoleon spent the day in revisiting the battle-field of Marengo, where he gave the Empress a mimic representation of the battle he had won five years before. From a throne he watched the manoeuvres executed under the command of Murat, Lannes, and Bessières. He had had the coat and hat he wore on the day of the battle brought from Paris. The coat was somewhat moth-eaten, and the odd hat would have seemed very much out of date if it had not recalled such precious memories. But Napoleon liked to recall that eventful day when he had managed to grasp victory when apparently beaten. After the manoeuvres he solemnly laid the corner-stone of a monument to the memory of Desaix and the other brave men who fell at Marengo.

At Alessandria, the next day, he had an interview with his brother Jerome, which in fact was a reconciliation. In 1808, after the breaking of the Peace of Amiens, Jerome Bonaparte, who then, a young man of twenty, was in the naval service, happened to be forced by an English cruiser to land in the United States. There he had fallen in love with the young and charming daughter of a rich merchant of Baltimore, Miss Elisabeth Paterson, and he married her. Napoleon was unwilling to recognize this marriage. No sooner had he ascended the throne than he at once exhibited all the feeling and prejudices of a monarch who belonged to a dynasty of the most venerable antiquity. He really believed that his brothers could marry only princesses, and that any other marriage was an unpardonable mésalliance.

If, possibly, Napoleon was able to condemn Lucien’s wife for her past conduct, no such criticism could apply to the wife of Jerome, who was a young woman of conspicuous morality, intelligence, and amiability. But she was the daughter of a ship-owner, a merchant, and thus was not a proper match, he thought, for the brother of the powerful monarch who was already dreaming of restoring the vassal kingdoms and the whole vast imperial edifice of Charlemagne. He, the Emperor of the French, the King of Italy, did not like to remember that he had wedded a simple subject, and that he had been very proud of his marriage. He could not pardon his brother Jerome for making a love-match. He would not even listen to his defence of his young wife, soon to be a mother, and who deserved only respect and pity, and who, humiliated, abandoned, and brokenhearted, was about to be treated as a concubine, and driven away forever. Ambition had destroyed Napoleon’s natural kindliness. Yet, if he had seen Jerome’s wife, a devoted and interesting woman, warmly attached to her husband, and alive to her duties, probably he would have taken pity on her. Possibly he was himself aware of this, for he forbade the unhappy young woman to enter any part of the Empire, and compelled this innocent victim of political considerations to take refuge in England, as if she were a criminal.

February 22, 1805, Napoleon had compelled his mother, Madame Letitia, to place in the hands of a notary, Raguideau, a protest against Jerome’s marriage, on the pretext that he, having been born November 15, 1784, was not yet twenty at the date of his marriage, and according to the law of September 20, 1792, a marriage contracted by any one under twenty without the consent of his father and mother was null and void. The _Moniteur_ of the 13th Ventôse, Year XIII. (March 4, 1805), had contained the following lines: “11th Ventôse. By an act dated to-day, all the civil officers of the Empire are forbidden to receive on their registers a copy of the certificate of an alleged marriage contracted by M. Jerome Bonaparte in a foreign country, when under age, and without his mother’s consent, and without previous publication in the place where he is domiciled.” A few days later this appeared in the _Moniteur_: “M. Jerome Bonaparte has arrived at Lisbon in an American ship; in the passenger list were the names of Mr. and Miss Paterson, M. Jerome at once took port for Madrid, Mr. and Miss Paterson have re-embarked. They are supposed to be returning to America.”

Jerome, in obedience to the Emperor’s orders, started from Portugal for Italy, posting day and night at full speed, through Badajoz, Madrid, Perpignan, and Grenoble, He says in his Memoirs: “Amid the mountains of Estremadura, his modest carriage encountered the almost royal train of the French Ambassador to Portugal. It was Junot whom he had left a simple aide-de-camp of the First Consul, and saw again one of the first personages of the Empire. Madame Junot, an old friend from childhood of Jerome, was with her husband. This interview was a most interesting one, partly from the deserted spot where they met, and partly from the great events that had occurred since their separation.”

Junot and his wife found Jerome much improved. He had become more serious; a certain gravity had taken the place of his youthful bubbling high spirits. He spoke with emotion, respect, and affection of his young wife whose pathetic situation was made even more disturbing by the state of her health. He proposed to throw himself at his brother’s feet, and by prayers and supplications to wring from him the consent he desired. “No one can doubt,” he says in his Memoirs, “that his heart was torn by the keenest agitations, to say nothing of the anxiety about his wife; the mortification at two years of inactivity, during which his comrades, friends, and relatives had worked, fought, and become great; the regret for the lofty position he had lost; the hope of regaining it; his fear of his brother’s wrath which he had ventured to arouse, and which made kings tremble on their thrones.”

Napoleon was to be inflexible; he refused to admit that his brothers could be anything but members of the dynasty, future sovereigns. It was then that according to Miot de Mélito, he said: “What I have accomplished so far is nothing. There will be no peace in Europe until it is under a single head, an Emperor, who shall have his officers for kings and divide the kingdoms among his lieutenants; who shall make one King of Italy, another King of Bavaria, one Landemann of Switzerland, another Stadtholder of Holland, and all with high positions in the Imperial household, with titles as Grand Cupbearer, Grand Master of the Pantry, Grand Equerry, Grand Master of the Hounds, etc. It will be said that this plan is only an imitation of that on which the German Empire is established, and that these ideas are not new; but nothing is absolutely new; political institutions only revolve in a circle, and what has happened necessarily recurs.” A man with such aspirations and so near to realizing them, could not endure the idea of being the brother-in-law of a simple ship-owner.

Jerome arrived at Turin, April 24, 1805. Napoleon was then at Alessandria. Eleven days passed before the brothers met. The Emperor had announced his decision. He was absolutely determined not to meet Jerome until he had made perfect submission. The unhappy youth still ventured to hope against hope, but soon he had to recognize his mistake. Then his heart and soul were torn by a hot conflict: on one side were his love for his wife, family feeling, the thought of the child that was soon to be born, his respect for marriage and for his vows; on the other, ambition, love of power, the visions of the kingdoms that he might rule; on one side, the smiles and tears of the woman he loved; on the other, the influence and glory of the genius who filled the earth with his fame, and always exercised a powerful fascination. Jerome, who was less sentimental and less proud than Lucien, at last yielded to his terrible brother, and condemned himself out of ambition never to see again the woman whom he loved and cherished. May 6th he went to Alessandria, having first sent a letter of submission to the Emperor. Napoleon before receiving him, replied to it in these terms:–

“Alessandria, May 6, 1805. MY BROTHER: Your letter of this morning informs me of your arrival at Alessandria. There is no fault which cannot be effaced in my eyes by repentance. Your marriage with Miss Paterson is null in the eyes of both religion and law. Write to Miss Paterson to return to America. I will grant her a pension of sixty thousand francs for life, on condition that she shall never bear my name, a right which does not belong to her in the non-existence of the marriage. You must tell her that you could not and cannot change the nature of things. When your marriage is thus annulled by your own will, I will restore to you my friendship, and resume the feelings I have had for you since your infancy, hoping that you will show yourself worthy of them by the efforts you will make to win my gratitude and to acquire distinction in the army.”

A few days later Napoleon wrote to the Minister of the Navy: “M. Décrès, M. Jerome has arrived. He has confessed his errors and disavows this person as his wife. He promises to do wonders. Meanwhile I have sent him to Genoa for some time.”

After his reconciliation with Jerome, Napoleon went to Pavia, where the magistrates presented to him the homage of his new capital, and he entered that city, with the Empress, May 8, amid the roar of cannon and the ringing of bells.

XIII.

THE CORONATION AT MILAN.

By descent, by his physical, moral, and intellectual nature, by his imagination and genius, Napoleon was much more an Italian than a Frenchman. His father and mother were Italians, his ancestors were Italian, and Italian was his mother-tongue. His family and Christian names were Italian. His mother spoke French with the strongest Italian accent. He had loved Corsica before he loved France. As a child, he had felt the greatest enthusiasm for Paoli, the Corsican patriot, and had then looked upon the French as foreigners and oppressors. His face not only resembled that of an Italian, but that of an ancient Roman. By a singular coincidence, he had the head of a Caesar. Italy was not only the home of his family, it was there that he laid the foundations of his glory. That unrivalled country, as one of our poets calls it, had brought him good fortune. There he wrote the famous bulletins of his first victories; there he began to impress the popular imagination; and it was through Italy that he subjugated France. There he felt at home. The people of that peninsula greeted him as a fellow-countryman. He liked to speak their language to them, charmed by its harmony and sincerity. His Southern genius rejoiced in its bright skies which lent everything such lustre, and well suited the conqueror’s thoughts. He perhaps preferred Milan to Paris as a place to live in.

His formal entrance into the capital of his kingdom of Italy had been skilfully arranged. Cardinal Caprara, the Archbishop of that city, had great influence there, and he was never tired of speaking to his flock about the services Napoleon had rendered to the Catholic religion. The Grand Master of Ceremonies, M. de Ségur, who reached Milan a few days before the Emperor, charmed the best society of Lombardy by his pleasant wit and delightful manners, and induced the most illustrious families to solicit the honor of figuring among the ladies and officers in waiting at the palace of the King and Queen of Italy, as Napoleon and Josephine were called at Milan.

The first visit which the King and Queen made in this capital was to the famous Cathedral. There they fell on their knees, and the Milanese were much touched by the spectacle. The _Italian Journal_, in its official account of Napoleon’s entrance into Milan, uttered these dithyrambics: “It is impossible to imagine a more brilliant day than that which yesterday adorned our capital, when Bonaparte, the hero of the age, our adored monarch, entered within our walls. This day will be forever memorable in the chronicles of our history. Milan saw entering its gates, bearing the proud name of King, the same hero who had already been proclaimed conqueror, liberator, peace-maker, and legislator, and who to-day, under his august Empire, assures that greatness to which his victories and his genius permit us to aspire. The Emperor entered by the gate named after his most glorious triumph, the Marengo Gate.”

On reaching Milan, Napoleon exchanged the decorations of the Legion of Honor for the oldest orders of chivalry in Europe. He received from the Minister of Prussia the Black and the Red Eagle; from the Spanish Ambassador, the Golden Fleece; from the Ministers of Bavaria and Portugal, the Orders of Saint Hubert and Christ respectively; and he gave them the broad ribbon of the Legion of Honor. When he had received besides foreign decorations for the principal men of the Empire, he granted an equal number of his own. May 12, wearing the broad ribbon of the Black Eagle, he went with the Empress to the theatre of La Scala and saw the opera of _Castor and Pollux_. The theatre, which was brilliantly lit, was crowded with the fair ladies of Milan, resplendent in full dress and jewels. The elegance and splendor of these deservedly famous beauties, the brilliant diversity of the uniforms, the sumptuousness of the Imperial box, and on the stage the magnificence of the dresses and the scenery, the skill of the singers, all combined to make the performance most memorable. That day, after mass, Napoleon had ridden out, and had inspected the troops who paraded on the Place of the Cathedral.

The Empress’s grace and affability aroused general admiration. At the reception of the upper clergy of Italy, May 25, she was thus complimented by the Archbishop of Bergamo: “Madame, If charity were to descend from heaven to relieve the woes of humanity, it would seek no other asylum than the heart of a Queen, adored by her subjects. The feelings of love, gratitude, and respect which animate all your subjects are the same that lead to your feet all the bishops of the kingdom of Italy. Happy to find in your august spouse sublimity, glory, and genius, and in you all the charm of kindness, nothing is left for them but to pray for the happiness of your reign, and to offer thanks to heaven for having united in the souls of their sovereigns everything which can make supreme power loved and respected.” This speech will suffice to show to what pitch the official flatteries were tuned.

The coronation took place May 26, in the Milan. Cathedral, which is the largest church in Italy, with the single exception of Saint Peter’s in Rome. The weather was magnificent. From early morning a numberless throng crowded the Place of the Cathedral, the court-yards of the palace, and the adjacent streets. Just as in Paris at the coronation, a wooden gallery had been built, connecting the Archbishop’s Palace with Notre Dame, so here at Milan, a similar gallery led from the palace to the Cathedral. The interior of the church was decorated with crimson silk stuffs. As at Notre Dame, a large throne had been built at the entrance to the nave, approached by twenty-five steps. Four gilded statues, representing victories, upheld like caryatides the canopy above the throne. The four figures held in one hand palms; in the other, the green velvet mantle falling from the royal crown above the canopy. The Cathedral was brilliantly lit by forty chandeliers hanging from the roof, and as many candelabra fastened on the columns.

Josephine, who had been crowned as Empress in Paris, was not to be crowned at Milan, although she bore the title of Queen of Italy. She watched the ceremony from a gallery. At half-past eleven she went to the Cathedral, preceded by her sister-in-law, the Princess Bacciocchi, and was conducted beneath a canopy to her gallery, amid loud applause. At noon the Emperor and King left his palace, and reached the Cathedral through the wooden gallery. On his arrival there incense was burned, and he was welcomed by an address from Cardinal Caprara, Archbishop of Milan, at the head of all his clergy. Preceded by the ushers, the heralds-at-arms, the pages, the Grand Master and the masters of ceremonies, by the seven ladies carrying offerings, and by the honors of Charlemagne, of the Empire, and of Italy, he appeared in most impressive pomp. On his head he wore the crown; he carried in his hands the sceptre, and the hand of justice of the kingdom; on his back he wore the royal cloak, the skirts of which were carried by the two First Equerries of France and Italy. As he entered the Cathedral a march of triumph was played. He took his seat on the small throne in the choir, having on his right the honors of Italy, on his left, those of France. The Archbishop of Bologna, who held a place at the coronation of the King very like that of the Pope at the crowning of the Emperor, carried to the altar the iron crown of the old Lombard kings, and began the mass. After the gradual, he blessed the royal ornaments in the following order: the sword, the cloak, the ring, the crown. Napoleon received from the Archbishop’s hands the sword, the cloak, and the ring, but he took himself the iron crown from the altar, and proudly placing it on his head, exclaimed, in a voice that thrilled all present: “_Dio me la diede, guai a chi la tocca!_”–“God has given it to me; woe to him who touches it!” Then, having replaced the iron crown on the altar, he took the crown of Italy and placed it on his head, amid unanimous applause. Preceded by the same officials who had conducted him to the chair, he walked down the nave and took his place on the great throne at the other end by the entrance. The first herald-at-arms shouted, “Napoleon, Emperor of the French and King of Italy, is crowned and enthroned. Long live the Emperor and King.”

The same day, at half-past four in the afternoon, the King and the Queen drove in a state carriage, with a brilliant escort, to the church of Saint Ambrose, one of the most revered sanctuaries of Italy, and there they heard a _Te Deum_ of thanksgiving.

Mademoiselle Avrillon, Josephine’s reader, tells us that Napoleon, when he had returned to the palace, was full of the wildest gaiety. He rubbed his hands, and in his good humor said to the reader: “Well! Did you see the ceremony? Did you hear what I said when I placed the crown on my head?” Then he repeated, almost in the same tone that he had used in the Cathedral: “God has given it to me! Woe to him that touches it!” “I told him,” says Mademoiselle Avrillon, “that nothing that had happened had escaped me. He was very kind to me, and I often noticed that when there was nothing to annoy the Emperor, he talked cheerfully and freely with us, as if we were his equals; but whenever he spoke to us he used to ask questions, and in order to avoid displeasing him, it was necessary to answer him without showing too much embarrassment. Sometimes he gave us a pat on the cheek, or pinched our ears; these were favors not accorded every one, and we could judge of his good humor by the way they hurt us…. Often he treated the Empress in the same way, with little pats preferably on the shoulders; it was no use her saying: ‘Come, stop, Bonaparte!’ he went on as long as he pleased.”

The Emperor greatly enjoyed his stay in Milan, and breathed with rapture the incense burned in abundance before him. The _Italian Journal_ in its account of the coronation reached lyric heights:

“The most brilliant day has lit up Milan; it has had no equal in the past, and it offers the happiest auguries for the future…. Old men themselves, accustomed as they are to praise the past, have exhibited the liveliest enthusiasm. It was in vain that night struggled to draw its veil over our city, it had to yield before the general and magnificent illumination which brought out in lines of fire the shape and admirable form of the Duomo. Most of the palaces and private houses were covered with devices and inscriptions. The first one of the days consecrated to the liveliest national rejoicing was ended by a vast exhibition of fireworks, which were set off on the spot where so many have perished at the stake.”

The next day games were celebrated, in the manner of the ancients, in a circus rivalling the Roman amphitheatres in size. This was the occasion of a dithyrambic outburst inserted in the _Moniteur_: “The Italians have just offered Napoleon the same spectacle that their ancestors offered Marcus Aurelius and Trajan; but the presence of Napoleon has called forth more joy and admiration, because it has aroused greater admiration and higher hopes. They were but the preservers of Italian greatness; he is its creator and its father. In the pomp of the games, amid the tumultuous applause, the immense mass of people were to be seen turning their eyes towards him alone, as if they were saying to him: ‘These festivities are but feeble expressions of the gratitude that all Italy vows to you for all the good you have done her; and since you deign to accept it, since you like to sit among us as our Prince and our father, these festivities become an augury to us of still greater benefit. The day will perhaps come when Italy, restored to this new life, may be able to adorn its circus with the monuments of its own bravery which will also be the monuments of your glory; and Italy, being never doomed to perish, whatever great deeds may be wrought by Italians in the course of centuries will be due to the hero who has recalled them to life.'” After the races there was a balloon ascension. The courageous wife of the aeronaut Garnerin accompanied him and threw down flowers to Napoleon and Josephine. “Thus,” the _Moniteur_ goes on, “in a single day, at one show, the Italians have combined the proudest pomp of the ancients and the boldest invention of modern science, together with the presence of a hero who excels both ancients and moderns.”

The 29th of May was devoted to popular festivities. All the afternoon the public gardens were crowded with musicians, singers, mountebanks, and pedlars. In the evening the via della Riconoscenza, as far as the East Gate, was lit by lampstands, and at the end of a long row there was an eagle of fire holding on his breast an iron crown.

Nothing was neglected to touch the national pride of Italy. An article in the _Moniteur_, speaking of a poem of Vincenzo Monti’s, said: “What interest the poet has aroused, in recalling the glorious titles of ancient Italy, the disasters and degradation which followed this period of glory, in evoking the shades of those remote days, and after them, the shade of Dante who, by the wisdom of his maxims, is superior to the poets of other nations; of Dante, the most enthusiastic admirer of the former glory of the Italians, the severest censor of the corruption into which Italy had fallen in his time; of Dante, whose sole ambition was to prepare the new birth of Italy! And how did he prepare it? By preaching union to the inhabitants of the different countries of Italy, and to the public authorities the consecration of power modified by the laws.”

June 3 Napoleon and Josephine went to visit an industrial and artistic exhibition at the Brera. There they saw Canova’s Hebe, and his colossal statue of Clement XIII. “The desire of seeing and approaching the sovereign,” says the _Moniteur_, “had made the crowd larger. An octogenarian who had in vain struggled to get to a staircase before him, was hustled and knocked down on the steps by the eager multitude. The Empress, who was following, ran to his aid. The Emperor turned back, questioned the old man, who was more disturbed by his joy than by his fall, asked him his name and a memorandum, and promised to look out for him. This scene produced a deep impression, and Their Majesties were led back amid universal applause and thanksgivings.”

At Milan, Josephine, who had become Queen of Italy, inhabited, with the Emperor, the magnificent Monza Palace. But, perhaps, in all the splendor of the highest point of her good fortune, she regretted the Serbelloni Palace, where, nine years before, she exercised so beneficent an influence on her husband’s destiny, and had protected him with her affection, as with a talisman. Doubtless the Empress and Queen would have returned gladly to the time when she was called simply Citizeness Bonaparte. Then, instead of the imperial and royal diadem, she possessed youth, which is better than any crown, and her husband gave her something preferable to any throne–his love! There the generals used to wear less showy uniforms, more moderate salaries, but they were more enthusiastic, and unselfish. Then Bonaparte’s glory was less famous, but purer. When she saw Milan again, after many years’ absence, Josephine recalled all the happiness and all the misery that had occurred meanwhile, all the grandeur and the tragedy that had filled this period so brief, but so crowded with marvellous events.

There were many happy memories, but also many shadows! This look backward was not without melancholy. When she saw the approach of the autumn of her amazing career, Josephine could not think without secret sadness of the splendor of its summer. While her husband proudly enjoyed his satisfied ambition, she dreamed and pondered seriously. She desired once more to see the places which recalled the pleasantest memories of her first journey: the lake of Como, with the Villa Julia and Pliny’s house; the Lago Maggiore and Borromean Islands; the palaces of the Isola Bella and the Isola Madre; all the enchanting spots which recalled the gracious memories of youth and love.

June 7 Napoleon appointed Eugene de Beauharnais Viceroy of the Kingdom of Italy, and three days later left Milan with Josephine. In all the principal cities of the Empire his coronation had been celebrated by public rejoicings. Murat had given a ball at his castle of Neuilly, about which the _Journal des Débats_ had said: “At the same moment when the arts of ingenious Italy were displaying all their marvels under the eyes of Their Majesties, French gallantry and gaiety were rendering similar homage to the happy reign which had recalled them from a long exile.” Aix-la-Chapelle inaugurated the statue of the great Carlovingian Emperor amid salvos of artillery and the applause of the Germanic populace, who saluted at the same time the names of Charlemagne and of Napoleon.

XIV.

THE FESTIVITIES AT GENOA.

The Italian journey closed as brilliantly as it began. After leaving Milan, Napoleon approached the frontiers of Austria, against which he was to fight before the end of the year, visiting the celebrated quadrilateral, consisting of the four fortified towns: Mantua, Peschiera, Verona, and Legnago. He was present at a mimic representation of the battle of Castiglione, in which twenty-five thousand men took part on the field upon which that battle had been fought; then he went to Bologna, where the charms of his conversation were highly appreciated by the learned professors of its university. While he was there a deputation from Lucca visited him, asking him to take that little country under his protection. He gave it for Prince and Princess, his brother-in-law, Felix Bacciocchi, and his sister Elisa, to whom he had already entrusted the Duchy of Piombino. Lucca was thus elevated to a hereditary principality, a dependent of the French Empire, which should revert to the French crown in case the male line of the Bacciocchi should become extinct. It was a sort of revival of the old Germanic fiefs. Evidently the memory of Charlemagne continually filled Napoleon’s thoughts. Elisa thenceforth bore the title of Princess of Lucca and of Piombino. She was a well educated and able woman, of marked intelligence and strong will. M. de Talleyrand used to call her “the Semiramis of Lucca.” After Bologna, Napoleon visited Modena, Parma, and Piacenza. The cities he passed through rivalled one another in flattery. They voted him medals, statues, and even a temple, which, however, the demi-god declined.

June 30 Napoleon and Josephine arrived at Genoa, where they were to stay till July 7, amid unprecedented festivities celebrating the incorporation of the old Republic with the French Empire. It was a singular sight, this enthusiastic reception of a Corsican by the Genoese. While at Milan, the Emperor had received M. Durazzo, the last Doge of Genoa, who had come to beg him to permit the illustrious Republic, famous for its historical splendor, to exchange its independence for the honor of becoming a plain French department. The offer was accepted. The home of Andrea Doria, the city of marble palaces, that municipality once called “the superb” had begged as a favor to be stricken from the list of independent states. It contented itself with being the principal town in the twenty-seventh military division, and its doge, dispossessed by his own desire, went to swell the number of the Senators of the Empire. Napoleon took formal possession of his peaceful conquest, and slept in the palace, and in the bed of Charles V.

The night festivity, given in the harbor, July 2, was, in the way of picturesqueness, one of the most original and most beautiful ever seen. The sky was clear, the sea calm, the crowd of spectators enormous. Napoleon and Josephine, going down from the terrace in the garden of the Palazzo Doria, entered a large round temple, magnificently decorated, which was at once set in motion as if by magic, and transported by many oars to the middle of the harbor. Four rafts, covered with shrubbery, resembling floating islands, then drew up to the temple. The sovereigns were thus, in open sea, enclosed in a vast garden with trees, flowers, statues, and fountains. About this garden of Armida, thus radiant upon the waves, were a multitude of boats, under sail or propelled by oars, moving about, and their lights resembled the swarms of fireflies that in summer flutter above the fields of Lombardy. The mild temperature favored this joyous festival. The whole city, all the buildings, every vessel, were ablaze with a thousand lights, and the glassy sea reflected numberless flames. The darkness of night gave the signal for the illuminations. Magnificent fireworks were set off from the mole, the jetty, and the ships lining the entrance of the harbor. Music mingled with the joyous cries of the multitude. The temple in which were Napoleon and Josephine was rowed back to the terrace of the Palazzo Doria amid the applause of the crowd lining the shore.

The next day the Emperor and Empress were at a ball given in the old Ducal Palace. “The presence of Their Majesties in this superb building,” says the _Moniteur_, “the kindness with which they deigned to speak to every one, gave this festivity a touching character. All who saw and heard our sovereigns, rejoiced in their new destinies. The concert was followed by a ball, and Their Majesties stayed through the several dances, leaving about midnight. Their path was lit by numberless candles. On their way they met a multitude, delighted even at that hour, to be able to discern some of our monarch’s features.”

In spite of all these splendid ceremonies Josephine, though idolized, was not happy. “In general,” Mademoiselle Avrillon says with justice, “the public has a very faint knowledge of the real feelings of those in the highest station. Being often on show, they are obliged to assume a fictitious character, just as they dress themselves for great ceremonies. I have seen the Empress’s sufferings, whom nothing could console for her separation from her children, whom she loved above everything. Ambitions were less to her than maternal love, her strongest feeling. The thought of leaving her son in Italy, the fear of never seeing him again, or the certainty of seeing him seldom, made her shed tears.” One day when she was in more distress than usual, Napoleon said to her: “You are crying, Josephine; that’s absurd; you are crying because you are going to be separated from your son. If the absence of your children gives you so much pain, judge what I must suffer. The affection you show them makes me feel most acutely my unhappiness in having none.” These words sounded in Josephine’s ears like a funeral knell. She saw the spectre of divorce rising before her, and turned pale. From Genoa they went to Turin. Napoleon heard there of the coalition preparing against him, and left suddenly for France with Josephine. Non-commissioned officers of the Grenadiers and the Chasseurs of the Guard served as escort, but they were unable to keep up with the carriages, so the Emperor thanked them for their zeal and pushed on without them. He did not stop once for twenty- four hours. Josephine, who never tormented her husband by complaining, did not say a word about the fatigues of this quick journey. After an absence of a hundred days, they reached Fontainebleau, July 11. No one expected them and no preparations had been made for their reception. Their departure from Turin had been so recent, and it resembled a flight. The Emperor did not wish to be recognized on the way, and burst into Fontainebleau like a bombshell. The palace porter was an old servant, named Guillot, who had been Napoleon’s cook in Egypt. “Well,” the Emperor said to him, “you must go back to your old business and cook us some supper.” Fortunately the porter had in his sideboard some mutton-chops and eggs. He set to work, and Napoleon ate this improvised meal with great relish. Josephine borrowed some linen from one of her old chambermaids. The Emperor asked for a full account of everything that had happened in Paris during his absence, and began to draw up the plans which were to be accomplished at Austerlitz before the end of the year. July 18, at one in the afternoon, he arrived at Saint Cloud, accompanied by the Empress, amid the roar of the cannon at the Invalides. That evening they went into the city, called on Napoleon’s mother, and went to the opera, where the _Prétendus_ was given; the audience greeted them most warmly. After all the splendor of the Italian festivities the time had come for military preparations and warlike thoughts.

XV.

DURING THE CAMPAIGN OF AUSTERLITZ.

Austerlitz was to be for the Empire what Marengo had been for the Consulate: a consolidation. In spite of the pomps of the double coronation, Napoleon did not feel firmly established on his Imperial and Royal throne. Opinions varied with regard to the stability of the new regime. The Liberals missed the Republic, and the Royalists the Bourbons. If the army and the people showed confidence in the Emperor’s star, the Parisian middle class was always cool, and business men observed with anxiety the hostility of England, Austria, Russia, and possibly Prussia. Paris was gloomy; business was dull; the absence of the court depressed the shop-keepers; the theatres were empty; in short, the winter was infinitely less gay than the one before. There was general uneasiness; wives feared for their husbands; mothers for their sons. Every one had become used to the peace which had lasted five years, and the renewal of war inspired the greatest anxiety.

As for Napoleon, he felt the need of some great stroke that should astonish and fascinate the world. He understood that to maintain his fame he was condemned to work miracles. September 23, 1805, he had exposed to the Senate the hostile conduct of Austria, and had announced his speedy departure to carry aid to the Elector of Bavaria, the ally of France, whom the Austrians had just driven from Munich. Five days later he had started, confident of success, and certain that he would find his people at his feet on his return. The Empress accompanied him as far as Strassburg, and established herself there to be near the scene of war and to receive earlier news than was possible at Paris.

Napoleon’s letters to Josephine during the Austerlitz campaign have been preserved; unfortunately, we have not hers to him. The Emperor writes very differently from General Bonaparte. His letters are not the ardent, passionate, romantic epistles recalling the fervid style and thought of the _Nouvelle Héloïse_. They are substantial letters, concise and interesting, such as a good husband might write after ten years of marriage, but not at all a lover’s letters. Josephine, who was quite observant, must have noticed the difference, but she had enough tact and prudence to avoid complaint. 1805 was not 1796; Napoleon still loved Josephine, but from habit, gratitude, and a sense of duty, not with mad passion. He paid her much attention, held her in high regard, felt sympathy with her, deference, and friendship, but scarcely love. Beneath the vaulted roof of Notre Dame Napoleon had given to Josephine the Imperial diadem, but he had not given her the true crown,–love.

October 1 the Emperor took command of his army, which had assembled with wonderful promptness on the Rhine. The next day he wrote to the Empress from Marenheims: “I am still very well, and leaving for Strassburg, where I shall arrive this evening. The advance has begun. The armies of Würtemberg and of Baden are joining mine. I have a good position and love you.” October 4 he wrote to her: “I am at Ludwigsberg, and leave to-night. There is no news. All the Bavarians have joined me. I am well. I hope in a few days to have something interesting to tell you. Keep well and believe that I love you. There is a very fine court here, a pretty bride, and the people are pleasant, even the Elector’s wife, who seems very good, although she is a daughter of the King of England.”

October 5 Napoleon sent another letter to Josephine from Ludwigsberg: “I have at once to continue my march. You will be five or six days without news of me; don’t be anxious; it is on account of the operations we undertake. Are you as well as I could hope? Yesterday I was at the wedding of the son of the Elector of Würtemberg with a niece of the King of Prussia. I want to give her a present of from thirty-six to forty thousand francs. Have it made and send it by one of my chamberlains to the bride when the chamberlains are coming to me. Do this at once. Good by; I love and kiss you.”

These five or six days of silence were taken up by the opening of hostilities on the road from Stuttgart to Ulm, the crossing of the Danube, and the occupation of Augsburg. From this city Napoleon wrote to Josephine October 10: “I spent last night with the former Elector of Trèves, who has comfortable quarters. I have been on the move for a week. The campaign opens with noteworthy successes. I am very well though it rains nearly every day. Things have moved very quickly. I have sent to France four thousand prisoners, eight flags, and have captured fourteen cannon. Good by, my dear; I kiss you.” Two days later the French army entered Munich in triumph, the Austrians having been driven out of Bavaria. The Emperor wrote to the Empress, October 12: “My army has entered Munich. The enemy is partly on the other side of the Inn; the other army of sixty thousand men I have blockaded on the Iller between Ulm and Memmingen. The enemy is lost, has completely lost its head, and everything promises the luckiest, shortest, and most brilliant campaign ever known. I leave in an hour for Burgau on the Iller. I am well: the weather is frightful. It rains so that I have to change my clothes twice a day. I love you.”

The first successes of the campaign caused great excitement in Paris, as is shown by the letters of Madame de Rémusat, no great lover of military glory, to her husband, who had accompanied the Empress to Strassburg; every day this lady would jot down what had happened, and her interesting correspondence brings the period vividly before us. October 12, she wrote, the absence of the Empress leaving her time heavy on her hands: “How gloomy and ill we are in this odious Paris! Please tell M. de Talleyrand that it is really something pitiable. Not even a word of gossip! In short, we are as bored as we are virtuous. I don’t know which is the cause and which the effect, but I do know that I am horribly bored. The solitude of this great city is really remarkable; the theatres are empty; I hardly ever go to them.”

In two days there was a complete change. Paris woke up as if to a joyous trumpet-call, and Madame de Rémusat was full of happiness: “My dear, what good news!” she wrote October 14, “… This morning the cannon announced the victory to the city of Paris; it produced a great effect. Every one was inquiring about it in the street, and congratulating himself; in short, I send the Empress word, the Parisians were French. I have already written twenty notes, and received all the visits of congratulation…. But what a great victory! How proud I am of being a Frenchwoman! I couldn’t sleep for joy. Perhaps by this time you have heard of others, and when we are rejoicing over the first victory, you have forgotten it with another. May Heaven continue to protect this noble army and its glorious leader!” This enthusiastic letter ends with these somewhat harsh criticising of the Parisians: “This victory was necessary, for these sad Parisians had begun to complain. The emptiness of Paris, its quiet, the lack of money which continues to make itself felt, gave to the malevolent a good opportunity to excite dissatisfaction, and they did their best to spread it. I was wondering this very morning why in a nation so devoid of national feeling there should be in the army such unity of action and thought. It seems to me that honor has a good deal to do with this difference, and that it takes the place of public spirit in many who in ordinary times are too happy, too rich, and too careless to care for anything beyond their own belongings.”

Napoleon went from one victory to another, October 18, just before the capitulation of Ulm, he wrote to Josephine from Elchingen: “I have been more tired than I should have been; for a week getting wet through every day, and cold feet, have done me a little harm, but staying in to-day has rested me. I have carried out my plan and have destroyed the Austrian army by simple marches. I have taken sixty thousand prisoners, one hundred and twenty cannon, more than ninety flags, and more than thirty generals. I am going to attack the Russians; they are lost. I am satisfied with my army. I have lost only fifteen hundred men, and two-thirds of these are but slightly wounded. Good by. Remember me to every one. Prince Charles is coming to cover Vienna. I think Masséna ought to be at Vienna at this time. As soon as I am easy about Italy I shall make Eugene fight. My love to Hortense.”

The capitulation of Ulm was arranged by Napoleon with Prince Lichtenstein, Major-General of the Austrian army. A heavy rain fell without cessation, and the prisoners were amazed to see the Emperor, who had not taken off his boots for a week, wet through, covered with mud, and more tired than the humblest drummer. When some one spoke of it, he said to Prince Lichtenstein: “Your Emperor wanted to remind me that I was a soldier. I hope he will acknowledge that the throne and the Imperial purple have not made me forget my old trade.” October 21, the day after the capitulation, Napoleon wrote to Josephine: “I am very well, my dear. I leave at once for Augsburg. I have made an army of thirty-three thousand men surrender. I have taken from sixty to seventy thousand prisoners, more than ninety flags, and more than two hundred cannon. In the military annals there is no such defeat. Keep well. I am a little worried. For three days the weather has been pleasant. The first column of prisoners starts for France to-day. Each column contains six thousand men.” Never had war been fought with such art. An army of eighty-five thousand men had been destroyed almost without firing a gun; its adversaries had lost only three thousand men. After this great victory Napoleon’s soldiers said, “The Emperor beat the enemy with our legs, not with our bayonets.”

These chronicles of war have a sad side even when they commemorate the most brilliant victories. Even while he counts the trophies the historian cannot avoid melancholy reflections. What capitulations awaited France sixty-five years after this capitulation of Ulm! But in this intoxication of victory, people have eyes only for their success. Were they reasonable, they would then reflect on the calamities of war. Hortense, who was as kind as her mother, Josephine, had this wisdom and pity. She said, “When I read these accounts I am surprised to find myself ready to weep even when I am happy at the victories.” At the time Madame de Rémusat wrote to her husband: “Poor creatures that we are, how restless we are on this sandhill, and too often only to hasten our end! A good subject for the philosopher is this glory, with which we adorn our eagerness in killing one another.” The triumphal music should not drown the sobs and cries of the mothers; we should think of the dead and wounded. But nations are like individuals: they never reflect.

Napoleon pushed on the war with real delight. He felt about war as a good workman feels about his work, as a great artist about his art. To war it was that he owed his power and glory. Without it, he said, he would have been nothing; by it, he was everything. Hence he felt for it not merely love, but gratitude; loving it both by instinct and calculation. He preferred the bivouac to the Tuileries. Just as the snipe-shooter prefers a marsh to a drawing-room, he was more at home under a tent than in a palace. To men who like the battle-field, war is the most intense of pleasures. They love it as the gamester loves play, with a real frenzy. They defeat the enemy, not merely without feeling, but with a fierce joy, as if it were their prey. They feel the same emotions as the Romans in a circus, or the Spaniards at a bull-fight. The rattle of drums, the blare of trumpets, shouts of soldiers, are what they hear; their ears are deaf to the cries of the wounded and dying. The varying chances of the combat, the uncertainties of fear and hope produce in them emotions that they prefer to all others, however poetic and charming. It is with a sort of intoxication that they inhale the smell of gunpowder, perhaps even that of blood. A hotly contested victory is more agreeable to them than one too easily gained. Fortune is, in their eyes, a difficult mistress, whose favors seem the dearer, the harder they are of attainment. What a satisfaction for a proud man to be absolute commander of an army which, before the fight, shouts like the ancient gladiators: _Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant!_ “Hail, Caesar, those about to die salute you!” an army in which even dying men shout applause, with their last breath, to their sovereign, their idol! And yet how petty is all this glory! Bossuet was right when he said: “What could you find on earth strong and dignified enough to bear the name of power? Open your eyes, pierce the dusk. All the power in the world can but take a man’s life: is it then such a great thing to shorten by a few moments a life which is already hastening to its end?”

Josephine did not in the least share her husband’s warlike tastes. Gentle, kindly, affectionate, full of pity for human woes, she would have liked to reconcile all parties, all nations,–to have universal peace. This woman, who had all the graces and charms of her sex, never inspired Napoleon with ambitious or haughty thoughts. While the war lasted, she was anxious, unhappy; waiting anxiously with bated breath for news, scarcely living.

Napoleon, wrote to her from Augsburg, October 28: “The last two nights have rested me completely, and I leave for Munich to-morrow; I am summoning to me M. de Talleyrand and M. Maret; I shall see them for a short time, and then leave for the Inn, where I mean to attack Austria in its hereditary states. I should have been glad to see you, but don’t expect me to summon you unless there should be an armistice, or we should go into winter quarters. Good by, my dear; a thousand kisses. Remember me to all the ladies.” From Munich the Emperor wrote the following letter, dated October 27; “I have received your letter from Lamarois. I am sorry to see that you have been over-anxious. I have heard many details of your affection for me, but you should have more strength, and confidence. Besides, I had told you I should not write for six days. To-morrow I expect the Elector. At noon I start to strengthen my movement on the Inn. My health is very fair. You mustn’t think of crossing the Rhine in less than two or three weeks. You must be cheerful, and amuse yourself in the hope of our meeting before the end of the month (Brumaire). I am advancing on the Russian army. In a few days I shall have crossed the Inn. Good by, my dear; much love to Hortense, to Eugene, and to the two Napoleons. Keep the wedding present for some time yet. Yesterday I gave a concert to the ladies of this court. The leader is a worthy man. I have shot pheasants with the Elector; you see I am not worn out. M. de Talleyrand has come.” Again, from Haag, November 3, 1805: “I am advancing rapidly; the weather is very cold; the snow is a foot deep. This is not pleasant. Fortunately, we have an abundance of wood; we are continually in the forests. I am fairly well. Everything goes on satisfactorily; the enemy has more cause for anxiety than I. I am eager to hear from you, and to know that your mind is easy. Good by, my dear; I am going to bed.”

Napoleon continued his operations with startling rapidity. He wrote to Josephine November 5: “I am at Linz. The weather is fine. We are within twenty-eight leagues of Vienna. The Russians are retreating without making a stand. The house of Austria is much embarrassed; all the belongings of the court have been removed from Vienna. You will probably have some news in five or six days. I am very anxious to see you. My health is good.” The Emperor of Austria, compelled to leave Vienna, had sought refuge at Brunn, where he joined the Czar and the second Russian army; and Napoleon entered the capital whence the Emperor Francis had fled. He wrote to Josephine November 15: “I have been for two days in Vienna, a little tired. I have not yet seen the city by daylight, but have only passed through it by night. To-morrow I receive the authorities. Almost all my troops are beyond the Danube in pursuit of the Russians. Good by, dear Josephine; as soon as possible I shall arrange for you to come. I send much love.” The next day he wrote again to the Empress from Vienna: “I am writing to M. de Narville to arrange for you to go to Baden, thence to Stuttgart, and thence to Munich. At Stuttgart you will give the present to the Princess Paul. Fifteen or twenty thousand francs will be enough for it; the rest will be enough for a present to the daughter of the Elector of Bavaria at Munich. All that you heard from Madame de Sérent is definitely arranged. Bring presents for the ladies and officers in waiting on you. Be pleasant, but receive all their homages; they owe you everything, and you owe them nothing, except in the way of politeness. The Electress of Würtemberg is a daughter of the King of England; you should treat her well, and especially without affectation. I shall be glad to see you as soon as business will permit. I am leaving for the front. The weather is admirable; there is much snow, but everything is in good condition. Good by, my dear one.” On the receipt of this letter, Josephine, who was most anxious to see her husband, hastened away from Strassburg to go to Munich through Baden and Würtemberg. At the same time Napoleon set off to meet the Austrian and Russian armies, commanded by their respective Emperors, in Moravia.

We have in the Memoirs of General de Ségur, an eye-witness, an interesting account of the eve of Austerlitz. Late in the afternoon Napoleon entered a hut, and took his place at table in the best of spirits, along with Murat, Caulaincourt, Junot, Ségur, Rapp, and a few other guests. They thought that he would talk about the next day’s battle. Not at all: he discussed literature with Junot, who was familiar with all the new tragedies; he had a good deal to say about Raynouard’s _Templars_, about Racine, Corneille, and the fate of the ancient drama. Then, by a singular transition, he began to talk about his Egyptian campaign. “If I had captured Acre,” he said, “I should have put my army into long trousers, and have made it my sacred battalion, my Immortals, and have finished my war against the Turks with Arabians, Greeks, and Armenians. Instead of fighting here in Moravia, I should be winning a battle of Issus, and be making myself Emperor of the West, returning to Paris through Constantinople.”

After dinner Napoleon wished to make a final reconnoissance of the enemy’s position by their bivouac fires; he mounted his horse and rode out between the lines. One moment he came near paying dear for his imprudence; he went too far forward and suddenly fell on a post of Cossacks, and had it not been for the devotion of the chasseurs who escorted him, he would have been killed or captured, and he was scarcely able to escape at full gallop. After crossing the stream which covered the front of the French army, he dismounted and returned to his bivouac, from one watch-fire to another, on foot. On his way he stumbled over the stump of a tree and fell to the ground. Then a grenadier took some straw, rolled it up to something like a torch, and lit it; other soldiers did the same thing; the camp was illuminated, and the face of the great conqueror was plainly to be seen. The next day was December 2, the anniversary of his coronation. “Emperor,” shouted an old soldier, “I promise you in the name of the grenadiers of the army that you will have to fight only with your eyes, and that to- morrow we shall bring you the flags and artillery of the Russian army to celebrate the anniversary of your coronation.” Every one shouted applause. Napoleon in vain tried to stop them. “Silence,” he commanded, “until to- morrow! think of nothing but sharpening your bayonets!” Shouts of “Long live the Emperor!” were repeated. Along a line of two leagues blazed thousands of fires and flames. The Russians wondered what was the cause of this unusual brilliancy, and thought the French were retreating. Napoleon was at first annoyed by this rapturous demonstration, but at last he was touched by it, and passing through a number of bivouacs, all brightly lit, he expressed his gratitude to his soldiers, saying it was the happiest evening of his life. Then he went to his tent, snatched a little sleep, and when he rose in the morning, said, “Now, gentlemen, we are beginning a great day.”

A moment later, the commanders of the different army corps, Murat, Lannes, Bernadotte, Soult, Davout, came galloping up the little mound which the soldiers called the Emperor’s hill, to receive his final orders. It was a solemn, impressive moment. “If I were to live,” says General de Ségur, “as long as the world shall last, I shall never forget that scene…. Times have changed quickly since then. Heavens! how great everything was then, how brave the men, how glorious the time, how imposing the appearance of fate!” Never was there a more brilliant triumph. “I have fought thirty battles like that,” said the conqueror, “but I have never seen so decisive a victory, or one where the chances were so unevenly balanced.” And then full of admiration for his soldiers, he exclaimed; “I am satisfied with you; you have covered your eagles with undying glory.”

From a military point of view Austerlitz was Napoleon’s greatest triumph. War, which he loved with all its risks and emotions, then showed him its most tempting side. He was always tempting fate, and fate had always favored him. The hour had not yet struck when he was to ask more of fortune than it could give. As Sainte-Beuve truly says, it was not till in the icy plain of Eylau, from the cemetery covered with blood-stained snow, that receiving the first warning of Providence, he had a sort of terrible vision of what the future held in store for him. Then he had before his eyes a sort of rehearsal of the horrors awaiting him in Russia, and at the sight of so many corpses, and the awful scene, he said with deep melancholy, “This sight is one to fill kings with love of peace and horror of war.” But at Austerlitz it was very different. The shrieks of the Russians sinking through the holes torn in the ice by cannon-balls were drowned in the shouts of the victors. The bright sunlight of that day of triumph dispelled, all traces of gloom in the conqueror’s heart.

December 3. Napoleon wrote thus to Josephine about his victory: “I despatched Lebrun to you from the battle-field. I have beaten the Russian and Austrian armies commanded by the two Emperors. I am a little tired. I have bivouacked for a week in the open air, and the nights have been cool. To-night I am going to sleep in the castle of Prince Kaunitz, where I shall get two or three hours’ rest. The Russian army is not merely defeated, but destroyed. Much love.” December 3, he had an interview in his bivouac with the Emperor of Austria; and as if to apologize for the wretched quarters in which he received him, he said, “This is the palace which Your Majesty has compelled me to inhabit these three months.” The Emperor of Austria replied, “You make such good use of it, that you certainly can’t blame me on that account.” And then the two Emperors embraced.

The day Napoleon wrote to Josephine: “I have made a truce. The Russians withdraw. The battle of Austerlitz is the greatest I have won: forty-five flags, more than one hundred and fifty cannon, the standards of the Russian guards, twenty generals, more than twenty thousand killed,–a horrid sight! The Emperor Alexander is in despair, and is leaving for Russia. Yesterday I saw the Emperor of Germany in my bivouac; we talked for two hours, and agreed on a speedy peace. The weather is not yet very bad. Now that the continent is at peace, we may hope for it everywhere; the English will be unable to face us. I shall see with pleasure the time that will restore me to you. For two days a little trouble with the eyes has been prevalent in the army. I have not yet been attacked. Good by, my dear. I am fairly well, and very anxious to see you.” December 3, there was another letter, also from Austerlitz: “I have concluded an armistice, and peace will be made within a week. I am anxious to hear that you have reached Munich in good health. The Russians are going back after suffering immense losses: more than twenty thousand killed and thirty thousand captured; they have lost three-quarters of their army. Buxhövden, their commander-in-chief, is killed. I have three thousand wounded and seven or eight hundred killed. I have a little trouble with my eyes: an epidemic; it amounts to nothing. Good by; I am anxious to see you once more. To- night I sleep in Vienna.”

Cambacérès said that the news of the victory of Austerlitz filled the populace with the wildest joy, which expressed itself in the most extravagant flattery. The Emperor was treated like a god, and naturally a sovereign so flattered did not control his love of war. It was only on his deathbed that Louis XIV. said, “I have been overfond of war!” He said nothing of the sort when the gates of Saint Martin and of Saint Denis were built in his honor, when his statue was put up in the Place des Victoires, when Lebrun painted the proud frescoes in the gallery at Versailles. Like Louis XIV., Napoleon reproached himself with excessive love of war; but it was not after Austerlitz, but after Waterloo. No man is worthy of adoration; it belongs to God alone. Woe to the princes who are fed on flattery! Extravagant laudation brings its punishment; even in this world pride has its fall.

The enthusiasm was universal; the victorious French could not contain themselves for joy, and wholly lost their heads. Thus even Madame de Rémusat, who, after the defeat, had shown herself so severe, one might almost say so cruel, towards Napoleon, wrote thus to her husband, December 18, 1805, after the news of Austerlitz: “You cannot imagine how excited every one is. Praise of the Emperor is on every one’s lips; the most recalcitrant are obliged to lay down their arms, and to say with the Emperor of Russia, ‘He is the man of destiny!’ Day before yesterday I went to the theatre with Princess Louis to hear the different bulletins read. The crowd was enormous because the cannon in the morning had announced the arrival of news; every thing was listened to, and then applauded with cries such as I had never imagined. I wept copiously all the time. I was so moved that I believe if the Emperor had been present, I should have flung my arms about his neck, to beg for pardon afterwards at his feet. After this I supped out: every one plied me with questions. I knew the whole bulletin by heart, and kept repeating it; and was glad to be able to tell the news to so many people, to repeat those simple impressive words, with a feeling of owning them, which you can understand better than I can define. I missed you much in all my joy, which I should have gladly shared with you; but in your absence I tried to communicate my admiration to our son. Instead of making him finish the life of Alexander, which he has been reading for two days, it occurred to me to have him read aloud the _Moniteur_, and he was so much pleased that he said he thought it all much greater than Alexander.”

Alas! thoughtful people should never forget how much greater is virtue than success. In this low world no one takes a lofty enough view of things. Not after defeat, but after victory, is the time to speak of war seriously and sadly. If Napoleon in the hour of triumph had not been flattered to excess, if at the proper moment the lessons of history, philosophy, and religion had been enforced upon him, he would not have rushed blindly into the gulf that finally swallowed him. Nothing is less humane, less Christian, than the extravagant praise lavished on the conquerors of the earth. Laymen and priests are equally to blame, for the flatterers of conquerors bear perhaps a heavier responsibility than the conquerors themselves. In the ancient triumphs, at least there was a slave charged with reminding the hero that he was but a man; in modern times, there is nothing of the sort; the hero can imagine himself more than mortal. Why does not the clergy, instead of intoning a _Te Deum_, take the part of that slave? Is it well to forget that those nations who are most modest in success are bravest and most resigned in misfortune? Those whose heads are turned by prosperity cannot endure reverses. For society, as for individuals, nothing is more baneful than outbursts of joy and pride. The vaster a monarch’s power, the greater his need to meditate on the fickleness of fate; but the lessons of wisdom are never recalled till they are useless; they are whispered into his ears only when they can but add a sting to defeat.

XVI.

THE MARRIAGE OF PRINCE EUGENE.

Both before and after the battle of Austerlitz a great part of Germany was at Napoleon’s feet. The Electors of Baden, Würtemberg, and Bavaria the last two of whom were to become kings by the consent of the new Charlemagne, testified an enthusiastic admiration for him, and were all to profit by his victory. The petty princes who were about to enter the Confederation of the Rhine were his humble vassals, and paid obsequious court to his Minister of Foreign Affairs, M. de Talleyrand. The archives of our Ministry of Foreign Affairs would have to be consulted for an exact understanding of their servility and flattery. Moreover, the populace itself shared the feelings of their princes. The Bavarians regarded Napoleon as their liberator. French manners and ideas were more than ever prevalent on the banks of the Rhine, and Germanic patriotism pardoned France the possession of the left bank of this river. If Napoleon had not abused fortune, what grand and pacific things might he not have accomplished in concert with Germany, and what progress might not have been made for the harmony of nations, for civilization and humanity!

We quote a letter written before the battle of Austerlitz, November 26, 1805, by the Elector of Bavaria to M. de Talleyrand, then in Vienna: “You are the most amiable of men, my dear Talleyrand. Your two letters which I received last evening have given me the greatest pleasure. How grateful I am that you should have thought of me and of Munich when you are in the most beautiful city in Germany, and hearing every day the famous Crescentini! I do as much for you, Your Excellency, but the merit is not the same. Every evening I express my regret that you are not here. M. de Canisy has announced the arrival of the Emperor in a week. Six days have passed, and I am hoping to see him in three days at the outside, and the Empress, Saturday next. My wife arrived day before yesterday, very anxious, as is her chaste spouse, to pay our court to Their Imperial Majesties, and to offer them all the honors of Munich. Lay me before the feet of the hero to whom I owe my present and future existence, and speak to him often of my respect, of my enthusiasm for his virtues, and of my heartiest and incessant gratitude. I hope that the coalition will soon grow tired of war; in any event, the lessons the Emperor has given it the last two months are of a nature to inspire disgust with it.”

November 10, 1805, Napoleon had written to Josephine to leave Strassburg for Munich, stopping at Carlsruhe and Stuttgart. In this letter he had said:

“Be pleasant, but receive all their homages; they owe you everything, and you owe them nothing, except in the way of politeness.” He was not mistaken. This trip of the Empress’s through Germany was to be one series of festivities and ovations. Before she left Strassburg she received a visit from the Elector of Baden, whose grandson, the hereditary prince, was, the next year, to marry Mademoiselle Stéphanie de Beauharnais, in spite of the opposition of his mother, the Margravine. M. Massias, chargé d’affaires of France at Baden, wrote to M. de Talleyrand, November 13: “My Lord, His Most Serene Highness the Elector, has returned with his family from Strassburg, where he was most kindly received by Her Majesty the Empress and Queen. He invited her to honor Carlsruhe with her presence, and to accept quarters in his castle when she should go to join His Majesty the Emperor and King. Her Majesty the Empress seemed pleased with the invitation and promised to accept it if circumstances should permit. Before his departure, the Elector sent the Prince Electoral to the Margravine his mother, to beg her to come to Strassburg to pay her respects to Her Majesty the Empress. She replied that when the Empress of Austria was at Frankfort and the Queen of Prussia at Darmstadt, she had not left Carlsruhe to visit them, and that if the Empress of the French should pass through that town, she should gladly pay her all the respect and honor due her rank and character.”

Charles Frederick, Elector of Baden, was then seventy-seven years old. He had lost his son, and his heir was his grandson, Charles Frederick Louis, Prince Electoral, then twenty years old. The mother of this young Prince, the Margravine of Baden, entertained no friendly feelings towards France; and he was the brother-in-law of the Emperor of Russia, who had married his sister, and was at war with Napoleon. His other sister, Frederica Caroline, had married the Elector of Bavaria, and he was betrothed to the step-daughter of this Electress, the young Princess Augusta. They were said to be much attached to each other, but their plans of happiness were destined to be sacrificed to Napoleon’s imperious will, for he proposed to arrange the matches of the German Princes as he did those of his own brothers. The Electoral Prince of Baden and the old Elector, his grandfather, far from complaining, only showed to the Emperor most unbounded devotion.

We may judge of their attitude and their respect by this despatch of M. Massias, chargé d’affaires at Carlsruhe, addressed to Talleyrand, under date of November 23, 1805: “My Lord M. de Canisy reached here from headquarters at four o’clock this morning, and asked me to inform His Most Serene Highness the Elector that he had been sent by Her Majesty the Empress, who meant to come to Carlsruhe within two or three days. I promised to do this as soon as possible, and told him that great preparations had been made to receive Her Majesty in a suitable manner. The Elector, to whom I communicated this news at seven in the morning, expressed the greatest satisfaction, and he has sent me word that in order to carry out his desire to give Her Majesty a proper reception, he wishes me to send a message to Strassburg to find out, 1, the exact day when she will arrive; 2, the number of persons in her suite, and how many horses she will need; 3, whether she desires to eat alone or with the principal persons of her own and the Electoral court; 4, to ask to have at once sent an official of the court to arrange the quarters and the ceremonies according to the Empress’s wishes. At Kehl, Her Majesty will find a carriage and eight horses from the Elector’s stables. Similar relays will be placed as far as the frontiers of Würtemberg. Her Majesty will be escorted by the Electoral cavalry. She herself will determine the etiquette to be observed at the court of Carlsruhe during her entire stay.

“His Most Serene Highness, the Prince Electoral, will go as far as Rastadt to meet Her Majesty. The Margrave Louis will meet her outside of Carlsruhe at the head of his body-guard. Bells will be rung wherever Her Majesty passes. The city will be brilliantly illuminated.”

November 28, at six in the evening, the Empress formally entered Carlsruhe, which was amid a general illumination. At the Mühburger gate stood an arch of triumph under which she passed. In front of the arch was this inscription: _Pro Imperatrice Josephina_; on the other, _Votiva lumina ardent_. At the entrance of the castle gate stood a little temple bearing this inscription: _Salve_. In the middle of the garden was a larger temple, in which was to be seen on a pedestal the Emperor’s bust, crowned with laurels and surrounded with palms. The inscription ran: _Maximis triumphis sacrum_,–“Consecrated to the greatest triumphs.” On two pyramids was to be read this motto: “Love leads to glory.” November 29, there was a grand reception and concert in her honor at the court, At nine o’clock in the morning of the 30th, she left Carlsruhe for Stuttgart,