The Court of the Empress Josephine by Imbert de Saint-Amand (page 3)

after an affectionate farewell to the Electoral family.

At seven that evening she made a similar formal entrance into the capital of Würtemberg, passing under an arch of triumph bearing her name surmounted by an Imperial crown. Soldiers lined the way from the gate to the Elector’s castle. The main street was decorated with Egyptian altars, and was brilliantly illuminated, as was the castle also. The Elector, his wife, a daughter of the King of England, and all the court received the Empress at the castle door and escorted her to her rooms, where she supped. The next day she sat on a platform at a state dinner in the white hall. Afterwards the company went to the Opera House, where _Achilles_ was given. After they had returned to the castle there were some fine fireworks. These festivities continued until December 2, when _Romeo and Juliet_ was given for the first time, and the 3d, at seven in the morning, Josephine, after bidding the family farewell, pushed on towards Munich, while the troops presented arms and cannon were fired.

The Empress was not to stop between Stuttgart and Munich, but on her way she saw many places that had just become famous in the war. As she drew near them she looked at the plain where, a few days before, the enemy’s army had marched out before Napoleon and laid down its arms. From Augsburg to Munich, everything made her journey most brilliant; arches of triumph, bands of music so numerous that often their notes mingled with one another, wreaths of leaves, successive guards of honor who joined her, composed of the Royal Guard of Italy, at nearly every parting station. As a letter in the _Moniteur_ says, “Enthusiasm succeeded to fear, the whirl of festivities to the lamentation of battle; all that had been said of the Empress’s benevolence seemed still to make part of her suite, and it was as if the Angel of Peace had come to visit these countries.”

The Empress reached Munich December 5, eight days after leaving Strassburg. A salute of a hundred guns welcomed her. In almost every street even houses were draped, windows adorned with transparent and complimentary figures; the illuminations of private houses rivalled in expense and splendor those of the public buildings. State carriages were sent out to the city gates for the Empress and her suite, but Josephine did not get into any of them; she kept on her travelling dress. This did not mar the brilliancy of the entrance, which was conspicuous for universal joy. December 7, she went to the theatre, where Mozart’s _Don Juan_ was given, and she was greeted with sound of trumpets and the applause of the audience.

The Empress had scarcely reached Munich before people began to talk about an early marriage between her son, Eugene de Beauharnais, and the Princess Augusta, the daughter of the Elector, but it was still merely a faint rumor. The French minister, M. Otto, wrote December 16, 1805, the following despatch on the subject to M. de Talleyrand: “My Lord,– Immediately after the arrival of Her Majesty the Empress, the rumor spread that His Most Serene Highness Prince Eugene was likewise on his way to Munich, there to conclude a marriage with Princess Augusta of Bavaria. The rumor has taken such shape in the last few days that a foreign lady, who has been most kindly received by the Electoral family, ventured to ask the Elector if she might congratulate him on so desirable a marriage. This Prince replied that he knew nothing about it; that his daughter was promised to the Prince of Baden; that the two young people had the strongest attachment for each other; and that only day before yesterday the Electress had received from Baden a most affectionate letter on the subject; and that he loved his daughter too much to wish to oppose her inclinations. This is the first time that mention has been made at court of a matter which the public supposed settled quite differently. The Electress was present at this conversation, and corroborated everything that was said concerning her brother’s attachment to the Princess. This anecdote, which comes to me straight from the castle, proves that the Baden marriage is not broken, as has been said at Carlsruhe, unless the Elector wished to conceal the truth from the lady who questioned him on this subject. Inquisitive people have tried to make out the true state of things by watching the conduct of Her Majesty the Empress and the persons of her suite. The relations of the two courts are confined to politeness on each side, to social attentions, in which Her Majesty exhibits all her natural amiability, which wins every heart. Beyond that, there prevails the greatest reserve.”

Maximilian Joseph, Elector of Bavaria, was born in 1756, and was then fifty years old. He had lost his first wife, who had borne him one daughter, the Princess Augusta Louisa, who was born in 1788. His second wife, Caroline, a Princess of Baden, sister of the hereditary Prince of Baden, to whom the Princess Augusta was betrothed, was then thirty years old. Though not handsome, she was not devoid of charm, her figure was good, her manners were amiable and dignified. The young Princess Augusta was the ornament of the Munich court. She had all the freshness, brilliancy, and charm of a young German girl of eighteen. As for the Elector, he was an attractive, sympathetic man, who combined frank joviality with tact, wit, and delicacy. He was tall; his face was noble and regular. He liked the French, and they liked him; it was in France that he had spent many years of his youth. As a younger prince of the house of Deux Ponts he became Elector only by the extinction of the branch of his family that reigned in Bavaria, In his early life he had no fortune. In the reign of Louis XVI. he served in the French armies, commanding the regiment of Alsace. At the court of Versailles, as in the garrison at Strassburg, he had left behind him a reputation of good manners and chivalrous gallantry. His soldiers, who adored him, called him Prince Max. At that time he might have married a daughter of the Prince of Condé, but his father and his uncle objected to this match, because, since he was not rich, he would doubtless have been compelled to make some of his daughters canonesses, and certain chapters would have been unwilling to receive them on account of their illegitimate descent from Louis XIV. and Madame de Montespan. He was fond of recalling the last years of the old régime in France, and spoke most affectionately of that country, in which he had been very happy. He was worshipped by his family, his servants, and his subjects. There was never a kinder, more amiable prince. Often he would stroll unaccompanied through the streets of Munich, going to the markets, bargain over grain, enter the shops, talking to every one, especially to the children, whom he urged to go to their schools. He was at once familiar and full of dignity, and he was as much respected as loved. There were many points of resemblance between his character and that of the Empress Josephine, and they had a very strong sympathy for each other.

The Empress was ailing during a good part of her stay in Munich, and whether for this reason or because Napoleon, who was always moving from place to place, did not get his letters regularly, he was for some time without news from his wife. He wrote to her from Brunn, December 10, 1805: “It is a long time since I have heard from you. Have the grand festivities of Baden, Stuttgart, and Munich made you forget the poor soldier who lives covered with mud, rain, and blood? I am going to leave soon for Vienna. They are trying to make peace. The Russians have left and are fleeing far from here, going back to Russia badly beaten and sorely humiliated. I am anxious to be with you once more. Good by, my dear; my eyes are well again.”

Napoleon wrote again December 19, renewing his complaint: “Great Empress, not a letter from you since I left Strassburg. You have passed through Baden, Stuttgart, Munich, without writing us a word. That is not very kind or very affectionate! I am still at Brunn. The Russians are gone; we have a truce. In a few days I shall see what is to become of me. Deign from the giddy height of your grandeur to interest yourself a little in your slaves.”

From Schönbrunn he wrote to Josephine, December 20, 1805 (29th Frimaire, Year XIV.): “I have your letter of the 25th [Frimaire]. I am sorry to hear that you are not well; that is not a good preparation for a journey of a hundred leagues at this time of year. I don’t know what I shall do; that depends on what happens. I have no will of my own; I am waiting to see how matters settle themselves. Stay at Munich, amuse yourself; that is not hard, amid so many pleasant people, in such a charming country. I am tolerably busy. In a few days I shall have made up my mind. Good by, my dear.”

December 26, peace was signed at Pressburg between France and Austria. The treaty gave to the Kingdom of Italy, Istria, Dalmatia, and Friuli; to the Elector of Würtemberg, the title of King and the Suabian territory; to the Elector of Baden, the Breisgau, Ortenau, and the town of Constanz; to the Elector of Bavaria, the title of King, the Vorarlburg, and the Tyrol. But Napoleon had determined that these indemnifications should be paid for by three marriages,–that of his step-son, Prince Eugene, with the daughter of the King of Bavaria; that of a relative of his wife, Mademoiselle Stéphanie de Beauharnais, with the hereditary Prince of Baden; that of his brother Jerome with the daughter of the King of Würtemberg.

Napoleon, accompanied by Murat, entered Munich beneath an arch of triumph, December 31, 1805, at a quarter to two in the morning. This entrance in the night, lit up by torches, was very impressive. The next day, January 1, 1806, a herald-at-arms, escorted by numerous horsemen, passed through the different quarters of the city, and read the following proclamation, after a flourish of drums and trumpets, while an immense crowd gathering in every street and crossway loudly applauded: “By the grace of God, the dignity of the sovereign of Bavaria having recovered its old-time splendor, and this State having resumed the rank it formerly held for the happiness of its subjects and the glory of the country, be it known that His Most Serene Highness the powerful Prince and Lord Maximilian Joseph is, by these presents, solemnly proclaimed King of Bavaria and of all the countries on it dependent. Long live and happily Maximilian Joseph, our very gracious King! Long live, and happily, Caroline, our very gracious Queen!” That evening the whole city was full of joy, and the next day was celebrated as a national festivity.

Napoleon, having recaptured the twenty-nine cannon and the twenty-one Bavarian flags that had fallen into the hands of the Austrians by the chances of war and the occupation of the country, had decided to restore to his faithful allies the trophies which they had valiantly defended and whose loss they mourned. In the morning of January 2, all citizen soldiery was under arms, lining the streets through which was to pass the procession and their precious burden. The cannon were placed on carts adorned with festoons and garlands, each cart was drawn by two horses belonging to the citizens; the houses were also decorated with different colored ribbons. All the young people in the city accompanied these carts. The students of the Royal College of Cadets carried the flags. When the procession reached the grand square, a large chorus, accompanied by a large band, sang a song of thanksgiving and victory. The populace and the soldiers mingled their cheers with this song. The procession then made its way to the Church of Our Lady, where a _Te Deum_ was sung with great solemnity.

January 4, Napoleon wrote to Prince Eugene: “My Cousin,–Within twelve hours at the most, after the receipt of this letter, you will start with all speed for Munich. Try to get here as soon as possible, so that you may be sure to see me. Leave your command in the hands of the general of division whom you judge to be most capable and upright. You need not bring a large suite. Start at once, and _incognito_, and so avoid both dangers and delays. Send me a messenger to give me twenty-four hours’ notice of your arrival.” The Emperor had decreed the marriage of his step-son with Princess Augusta of Bavaria, but he had to go through certain formalities to overcome the objections of the Queen of Bavaria, who wanted her brother, the hereditary Prince of Baden, to marry the young Princess. Her family pride and her inmost feelings revolted against the admission into her family of a young man whom she looked on as an upstart. She sought for pretexts and devices to delay, if not to prevent, this alliance. No one would have dared to say at Munich that the Emperor’s step-son was not great enough to marry a king’s daughter, but she found fictitious excuses: it was said that the young Princess was ailing, and at another time that she was suffering from a sprain. Napoleon, who sometimes played the diplomatist, feigned to believe in these alleged ailments, and said that he would send his own surgeon to heal her. He would gladly have returned speedily to Paris, where he deemed that his presence was necessary, but his Chamberlain, M. de Thiard, whom his previous negotiations had made familiar with the secrets of the Bavarian court, advised him to stay in Munich until the marriage was absolutely settled. “Very well,” said the Emperor; “but do you know that while I am here, your Faubourg Saint Germain is making a run on my bank, and that my stay in Munich costs me fifteen hundred thousand francs a day?” M. de Thiard insisted, and dared to show Napoleon the Queen of Bavaria’s ever-present recollection of the Duke of Enghien, which was the secret cause of her aversion to the projected alliance. But this opposition could hold out for only a few hours; no one then dared to brave the Imperial wrath. The Queen, fearing that Napoleon’s surgeon would discover that the Princess’s alleged sufferings were only an excuse, yielded to the wishes of the hero of Austerlitz. The marriage was announced even before the couple had met. Everything was done in military fashion. Orders were issued that they should love, and they loved.

There is this to be said in behalf of Napoleon; that in the whole matter he made no use of harsh words or rough manners. He appeared in an attractive, not in a threatening light, and by dint of appearing smitten with the Queen of Bavaria, even aroused Josephine’s jealousy.

Prince Eugene arrived, as commanded, January 10. He had the good fortune to please; but even if he had not pleased it would have made no difference. As soon as he reached Munich, after travelling day and night, the Emperor took possession of him and never left him. The Empress was still in bed when her son’s arrival was announced. She was much moved, and began to cry at the thought that his first visit was not to her. A moment later, while she was still agitated, she saw the Emperor burst into her room, holding the young Prince by the hand, and pushing him forward as he exclaimed: “Here, Madame, is your great booby of a son whom I’m bringing to you.” Josephine burst into tears, and pressed her son to her heart.

Eugene de Beauharnais, a French Prince, and Viceroy of Italy, was then twenty-four years old. Mademoiselle Avrillon, reader to the Empress, thus draws his portrait: “Prince Eugene’s face, although in no way remarkable, was rather well than ill favored; he was of medium height, well proportioned, and stoutly made. He excelled in all sorts of corporeal exercises, and was an accomplished dancer. Kind, frank, simple in his manners, without haughtiness or reserve, he was courteous to every one; and although he was not devoid of deep feelings, his most striking trait was persistent good spirits. He was very fond of music, and sang very well, especially Italian songs, which all his family preferred. As he was young, he naturally paid many women attention, as I have often seen, but he always treated them with great respect.” Napoleon was very fond of him, and looked upon him as his pupil, as his own child. He was delighted with the way Eugene discharged his duties as Viceroy, and when he received his despatches he exclaimed in the presence of several marshals, “I knew very well to whom I had entrusted my sword in Italy.” He often gratified Josephine by saying, “Eugene may serve as a model to all the young men of his age.”

The young Prince showed great tact and intelligence in his first meetings with his future wife. He sought every means of pleasing her, paid her assiduous court, as if their marriage was still undetermined. He was able to overcome the Princess’s prejudices, for she had given her consent only at the last moment, as a victim sacrificed for reasons of state. Her father, the King, dreading the excitement of an interview, had written to her a letter, in which he set out all the advantages of the match desired by the Emperor, vaunted the good qualities of the young and dashing Viceroy of Italy, an to prove that it was a brilliant match, revealed to her what was then unknown, that at Pressburg the Austrian Minister had offered to Napoleon for his step-son the hand of one of their Archduchesses. “Consider, dear Augusta, that a refusal would make the Emperor as much the enemy as he has been hitherto the friend of our house.” And he ended his letter with a last appeal to his daughter’s patriotic devotion. The young Princess replied by writing: “I place my fate in your hands; however cruel it may be, it will be softened by the knowledge that I am sacrificed for my father, my family, and my country. On her knees your daughter prays for your blessing; it will aid me to bear my sad lot with resignation.” The girl’s unhappiness soon gave way to joy. The Empress had spoken to her most warmly of Eugene’s qualities, his bravery, loyalty, and gallantry, and the Princess found out that Josephine was right. She forgot her cousin, the Prince of Baden, fell instantaneously in love with Eugene, and this marriage for reasons of state turned out to be a love match. It was celebrated with great pomp in the Royal Chapel, January 14, four days after the bridegroom’s arrival at Munich. The Emperor adopted Prince Eugene, and gave in the marriage contract the name of Napoleon Eugene of France. This adoption wrought a great change in their correspondence; previously the Emperor when he wrote to the Viceroy addressed him as, “My Cousin”; henceforth he always wrote, “My Son.” Madame Murat, who was then at Munich, was pained to see that the new Vice-Queen, as wife of the Emperor’s adopted son, took precedence of her at all ceremonies, and she feigned an illness to avoid what seemed to her an affront.

On her wedding day the Princess charmed every one by her grace. She was tall, well shaped, with the figure of a nymph, and a face in which sweetness was blended with dignity. Moreover, she was very well educated, was pious and modest, and the possessor of all the family virtues. In short, she was a model wife and mother. She wrote to the Emperor a letter of thanks that touched him. He answered it, January 27: “My Daughter,– Your letter is as amiable as you are yourself. My feelings for you will only grow from day to day; this I know from my pleasure in recalling your fine qualities, and from the need I feel for your frequent assurance that you are satisfied with every one and happy with your husband. Amid all I have to do, nothing will be dearer to me than the chance to assure my children’s happiness. Be sure, Augusta, that I love you like a father, and that I count on a daughter’s affection for me. Travel slowly, and be careful in the new climate when you get there, and take plenty of rest.”

January 21, Prince Eugene left Munich with his young wife for Milan. The next day M. Otto, the French Minister, wrote to M. de Talleyrand: “His Imperial Highness Prince Eugene left yesterday morning with his young wife. The King escorted them to their carriage with every indication of affection. It was noticed that in taking leave of the Prince he embraced him several times. The separation cost the Princess some tears. Their departure was announced by firing a hundred guns. The best wishes of all good Bavarians accompanied the pair. The stay of the French court at Munich has left the deepest and most lasting impression. The Emperor’s greatness and power were known, but the effect of his extreme kindness and magnificence had to be seen at a closer view to be appreciated. I feel able to assure His Majesty that the Bavarian nation will always be his faithful and devoted allies. So many happy memories are attached to this period of our history that His Majesty can flatter himself that he has accomplished the most difficult of all conquests,–that of the love of the people who have witnessed his successes.”

While the Viceroy and Vice-Queen of Italy were proceeding towards Milan, the Emperor and the Empress were on their way to France, stopping at Stuttgart and Carlsruhe, where they were warmly greeted. January 20, 1806, they found an arch of triumph built on a Roman model at Entzberg, in Baden. It bore this inscription: _Imperatori Napoleoni triumphatori augusto_. The bas-relief represented the capture of Ulm and the delivery of the keys of Vienna. Columns and obelisks had been erected at Carlsruhe with these inscriptions: _Hostium victori.–Patriam servavit.–Pacem restituit_. In front of the castle had been built a temple of Peace. At the French frontier stood an arch of triumph with this inscription: _Heroi reduci Galliae plaudunt_,–“Gaul applauds the returning hero.” The bas- reliefs represented the battle of Austerlitz and the interview between the two Emperors. In the night of January 26, Napoleon and Josephine were back at the Tuileries. Prince Eugene’s marriage put a happy ending to the campaign just finished. To create a king and to give to his step-son the hand of this king’s daughter was a stroke of imagination on Napoleon’s part that did honor to his omnipotence. The accounts of the triumphal festivities in Munich, Stuttgart, and Carlsruhe followed close upon the bulletins announcing the victories of the Grand Army, and produced a great impression in both Germany and France.

XVII.

PARIS IN THE BEGINNING OF 1806.

Napoleon arranged his return with the utmost skill. His prolonged stay at Munich kept alive the impatience of the Parisians for his return, and meanwhile there was a constant stream of flattery and enthusiasm. January 1, 1806, had just put an end to the Republican calendar, which had existed for thirteen years, three months, and a few days. The Year XIV. found itself suddenly interrupted by the return to the Gregorian calendar. Thus vanished the last trace of the Republic. The same day the new year was inaugurated with a patriotic ceremony. The Tribune carried with great solemnity to the Senate the forty-four Russian and Austrian flags which the hero of Austerlitz had entrusted to its care. All the houses in the streets through which the procession was to pass were decorated. In front of many of them were to be seen the Emperor’s bust crowned with laurels. The ever lyrical _Moniteur_ said: “At the sight of these noble spoils, these startling proofs of the heroism of the French army, all hearts seemed to meet in a common feeling of admiration and gratitude which was but faintly expressed by the shouts issuing from the crowd and from every window, of ‘Long live the Emperor!’ ‘Hurrah for the Grand Army!’ ‘Victory, victory!’ ‘Long live the Emperor!’ It was in this way that the people of Paris, of all classes, of both sexes, of all ages, manifested in the most vivid and unanimous way their devotion and gratitude to His Majesty and his victorious armies.”

One Tribune, M. Joubert, exclaimed: “Is not Napoleon the man of history, the man of all ages? May we not say that there is something supernatural in him, since it is true that God disposes of the fate of empires, and that Napoleon the Great gladly submits everything to Providence and ascribes everything to religion?” In their official enthusiasm the Tribunes, as accomplished courtiers, made one motion after another. One proposed that the Emperor on his return should receive triumphal honors, like those of ancient Rome, and the city of Paris should go to meet him. Another suggested that the sword which he wore at the battle of Austerlitz should be solemnly consecrated and placed in some public monument. Another expressed a desire that on one of the principal places in the city a column should be set up, bearing the Emperor’s statue, with this inscription: “To Napoleon the Great, the grateful country.” The Senate, with similar zeal, hastened to carry out the plan by a decree.

The Parisians, who always worship success of monarches, generals, or artists, then felt the wildest admiration for the victorious Napoleon. The _Moniteur_ was full of dithyrambic eulogies, in prose and verse. Flattery appeared as it had never appeared before. Bishops became conspicuous for their ardent praise; some phrases from their charges may be quoted. Thus the Bishop of Versailles said: “God says: ‘No one shall resist him, whom I have clothed with a special mission to re-establish my worship, to lead my chosen people; no one will resist him because I am with him, and he is with me. _Dem cum eo_.'”

The Bishop of Bayonne; “Behold our enemies ones more defeated. Let incredulity be silent and the atheist confounded. Our annals will be the story of the wonders of Providence… Widows, cease to bemoan the loss of a loved husband; you are not left alone; you belong to the country. Orphans, you have found another father; Napoleon has adopted you.”

The Bishop of Rennes: “Did not those kings know, or did they forget in their delirium, that the French nation is now the first nation in the world? Did they not know that the man who governs it is the most astounding man in the world, and the greatest warrior history has ever known?”

The Bishop of Coutances: “The Almighty wishes Napoleon to attain this new glory and hence impresses upon him a sort of divine character. He wishes him to attain it on the day and at the same hour that the Sovereign Pontiff, one year ago, poured on his brow the holy oil.”

The Bishop of Montpellier: “Let the earth be shaken, and the mountains cast into the bosom of the seas; our God blesses the views, the wisdom, the talents, and the courage of our august monarch.”

The Emperor, in dividing the flags which he had captured from Russia and Austria, had given fifty-four to the Senate, eight to the Tribunes, eight to the city of Paris, and fifty to the church of Notre Dame, which he wished to adorn with his trophies as the Marshal of Luxembourg had done in the reign of Louis XIV. The day when these fifty flags were given to the Cathedral the Cardinal Archbishop of France said, “O Posterity, when you read our history you will imagine that you are reading anew the fall of the walls of Jericho, and listening to the miraculous deeds of Joshua, David, and Judas Maccabaeus. _Benedictus Dominus qui facit mirabilia solus_…. God of Marengo, you declare yourself the God of Austerlitz; and the German eagle, the Russian eagle, abandoned by you, became the prey of the French eagle, which you never cease to protect.” A singular piece of flattery this, to call the Creator of the universe–of which this earth is not a millionth part–the God of a village, because near this village a man has wrought the death of many other men!

Paris seemed to have recovered its ardor of the first days of the Revolution in order to salute the triumphant hero. The day of his arrival, January 27, 1806, the managers of the bank, anxious that his presence should be the signal for public prosperity, ordered the resumption of specie payments. The Opera celebrated his return and that of the Empress by a grand performance which took place February 4. The bills announced the _Prétendus_ and a divertisement, The public knew that this divertisement was to be a sort of apotheosis in honor of the Imperial glories. The house was crowded, and the passages themselves were crammed by the enthusiastic crowd. During the second act of the _Prétendus_ there was great excitement over the arrival of Napoleon and Josephine. Applause resounded from every side. Ladies distributed laurel branches, which all the spectators waved, shouting, “Long live the Emperor!” Musicians played the chorus of the _Caravan_. Meanwhile, the scenery of the _Prétendus_ disappeared, and applause began over the magnificent decorations that took its place. It was a semicircular enclosure with trophies forming a colonnade showing the course of the Seine from the Pont Neuf to the western limit of Paris, showing the Louvre, which Napoleon had promised to complete, the Pont des Arts, the Palais de la Monnaie, the Tuileries, and in the misty distance the Champs Elysées overlooking this fine view. The interior of the enclosure was adorned with garlands and crowded with people, awaiting the return of the Grand Army. This appeared with a military march: the sappers in front with their axes and white aprons; the grenadiers of the Guard with their high fur caps; the artillerymen with their black caps; the dragoons with their double armor; the Mamelukes with their scimetars. Then came the Bavarians, worthy comrades of Napoleon’s soldiers. The people applauded their defenders. Pupils of the military schools sprang into the ranks to welcome their fathers, while old men embraced their children. A general chorus was heard. Then a warrior came to the front of the stage and celebrated in a hymn the marvels of the campaign of Austerlitz. This was followed by a ballet of foreign nations, in which joined French peasants and girls in the dress of their provinces, from Caux and Alsace, Provence, Béarn, Auvergne, and the Alps. After the dances came songs,–the words by Esménard, author of the _Navigation_, the music by Stobelt. The marches, evolutions, and ballet were arranged by Gardel. The principal stanzas were sung by the most distinguished artists, Lainez, Laïs, Madame Armand, Madame Branchu. When it was all over, the Emperor and the Empress withdrew amid applause, and there was sung the _Vivat_ of Abbé Rose which had made such a success at Notre Dame on Coronation Day, and was as warmly applauded at the Opera as it had been in the Cathedral.

XVIII.

THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCE OF BADEN.

If anything is capable of proving the admiration, terror, and fascination that the hero of Austerlitz exercised over Europe, and especially over Germany, in 1806, it is certainly the marriage of the hereditary Prince of Baden with Mademoiselle Stéphanie de Beauharnais. It was a curious sight! A Prince belonging to one of the oldest and most illustrious families in the world, whose three sisters had married, one, the Emperor of Russia; another, the King of Sweden; the third, the King of Bavaria; a Prince who might have allied himself with the oldest reigning houses had come to regard as an honor a marriage with, the plain daughter of a French senator,–a girl not united by any ties of blood with Napoleon, but only by adoption; that is to say, by a whim. One might have supposed that the Empire of the new Charlemagne was centuries old, and the German Princes bowed before it like devoted vassals before their suzerain. What a vast power he had attained, and how easily he could have kept it, if he had limited his ambition, and put bounds to his power, and had not asked of docile Germany more than it could give him!

The marriage of Mademoiselle Stéphanie de Beauharnais with the hereditary Prince of Baden was at first warmly opposed by the Margravine, this Prince’s mother. M. Massias, French chargé d’affaires at Baden, had written on this matter to M. de Talleyrand, Minister of Foreign Affairs, January 6, 1806: “My Lord,–For some days there has been a rumor quietly circulating among the principal persons of the court of Carlsruhe that the object of M. de Thiard’s last journey was to arrange the marriage of the Electoral Prince of Baden with the daughter of Senator Beauharnais. Last evening arrived a messenger from the Electress of Bavaria for the Margravine, the mother of this Prince. I have learned by chance the contents of this missive to his mother. She says substantially that she has had a talk of more than an hour with the Emperor Napoleon; that His Majesty promised that the marriage of the Electoral Prince of Baden with Mademoiselle Beauharnais should never take place without the consent of the Margravine; and in case of her refusal of this consent, he would only reserve to himself the right of being consulted on the choice of the wife to be given to this young Prince…. The Electoral Prince called on his mother after she had received this despatch, and was with her alone for two hours; he came away in great dejection. When he got to his grandfather’s, he exclaimed, involuntarily, ‘That woman is lost; she wants to ruin herself!'”

The chargé d’affaires ended his letter with this sketch of the Margravine: “I have known the Margravine for six years, and I think I can say that if she judges the match in question opposed to the pride inspired by the first ideas of her education, no persuasion can move her. She possesses to a very marked degree the confident obstinacy of feeble and timid spirits. She does not dare to dismiss an incompetent footman; and when she has once made up her mind, which is only possible in matters about which her opinions are rigidly formed, neither force nor persuasion can modify her. That is my reading of her character, and I think it the true one.”

The more the Margravine opposed this match which the Emperor had suggested, the more the young Prince of Baden and his grandfather, the Elector, desired it. M. Massias wrote again to M. de Talleyrand, January 9, 1806: “His Most Serene Highness, the Prince Electoral of Baden, is to leave tomorrow for Ulm and Augsburg, to invite, in his grandfather’s name, His Majesty the Emperor and King to honor Carlsruhe with his presence, and to stay at the castle on his way back to France. But, he tells me himself, the main object of his journey is to convince His Majesty that the marriage of which I had the honor to speak to Your Excellency in my last letter, is far from opposing his desires; and he hopes to dissipate without difficulty the doubts which it has been sought to raise regarding this in the mind of His Majesty, for whom he always manifested a profound devotion and a sincere attachment.”

What was the origin of this young girl whose hand was thus sought by the hereditary Prince of Baden? The Marquis of Beauharnais, the father of the Viscount of Beauharnais, the first husband of the Empress Josephine, had a brother, Count Claude de Beauharnais, who was a commodore, and married Mademoiselle Fanny Mouchard. Countess Fanny, a friend of Dorat and Cubières, took much interest in literature and wrote many novels. She was a blue-stocking, and it was about her that Lebrun wrote the malicious epigram:–

“Eglé, fair and a poetess, has then two slight faults: She makes her face and does not make her verses.”

By her marriage with Count Claude de Beauharnais, the Countess Fanny (born in 1738, died in 1813) had one son, named Claude after his father, who married the daughter of the Count of Lezay-Marnésia. They had a daughter, Stéphanie de Beauharnais, born August 28, 1789, who was adopted by Napoleon, married the hereditary Prince of Baden, became the grandduchess of this country, and died in 1860, much loved by her family and the people of Baden. Her father, Claude de Beauharnais, was a senator in the Empire, a peer of France at the Restoration, and died in 1819.

During the childhood of Mademoiselle Stéphanie de Beauharnais no one would have predicted the lofty destiny that awaited her. Her father, having lost his wife, entrusted her to a pious old aunt, who lived at Montauban, and there she remained in obscurity until it occurred to her uncle, M. de Lezay-Marnésia, to take her to Paris, and present her to the wife of the First Consul. Josephine, her cousin once removed, thought her pretty and bright, became very fond of her, and sent her to finish her education at Madame Campan’s boarding-school at Saint Germain. Madame Campan wrote to Madame Louis about her young pupil as follows: “I am certainly surprised at the way Mademoiselle Stéphanie has turned out since she returned from Saint Leu. She may become a very charming woman, but not if she stays at Saint Cloud. Royal palaces have never been good schools; pleasures, the taste for excitement and flattery, corrupt not merely those who are young, but even those who go there already matured, unless they are protected by the highest principles. If you have the power, do try to let me keep Stéphanie until she marries; you will thereby render her a great service, and to me, too; for the result will condemn me in the eyes of the Emperor, who will say, with a sharp glance, ‘That’s very bad’; and will not have time to ascertain the real reason. I can assure you that in a year she will be very charming, if I can only keep my hand on her.”

In the letter Madame Campan thus describes her pupil’s character: “It is a curious compound of ease at learning, self-love, emulation, idleness, amiability, clear-mindedness, levity, haughtiness, and piety. There are a good many qualities to dispose of, and on this proper arrangement depends her happiness or unhappiness, and my success or failure.” In personal appearance Mademoiselle de Beauharnais was very charming; she had a good figure, an expressive countenance, a brilliant complexion, bright blue eyes, light hair, and an agreeable voice. Moreover, her manners were good, she had keen mother wit, much gaiety and enthusiasm, and was, in short, a very attractive young person.

The Emperor had a sort of infatuation for her, and treated her with exceptional kindness that did not fail to excite comment. Although her father was still living, he decided to adopt her, and this was thought a singular thing to do. The young Stéphanie became an Imperial Highness and took precedence of the Emperor’s sisters, while her father was merely one of the herd of senators. In the decree of March 3, 1806, it was said: “Our intention being that our daughter the Princess Stéphanie Napoleon, shall enjoy all the prerogatives due to her rank; at receptions, festivities, and at table she shall sit at our side, and in our absence she shall take her place at the right of Her Majesty the Empress.” Josephine possibly thought that her young relative was a little too well treated by the Emperor, and that his feelings for her were not wholly paternal. Evil tongues asserted that Napoleon was in love with his adopted daughter, but in spite of those malicious insinuations, no serious charge can be brought against her innocence. Her betrothed, the Prince of Baden, was madly in love with her, and showed by his conduct that it was he who was making a fine marriage. Mademoiselle de Beauharnais from the moment that she assumed the name of Napoleon imagined that nothing was too good for her. It was only by condescension that she married the son of an elector, for she was never tired of saying, to her adopted father’s great delight, that an emperor’s daughter could marry either a king or a king’s son.

The marriage was celebrated with great pomp in the chapel of the Palace of the Tuileries, April 8, 1806, at eight in the evening. The witnesses for the bridegroom were the Crown Prince of Bavaria, Baron de Gueusau, and M. de Dalberg; those of the bride were M. de Talleyrand, M. de Champagny, and M. de Ségur. The procession went from the grand apartments to the chapel in the following order: the Empress, preceded by the officers of the Princesses, accompanied by the Prince of Baden, the Princesses, and the Crown Prince of Bavaria, and followed by the ladies of her household and of those of the Princesses; the Emperor, conducting the bride, and preceded by the officers of the Princes, his own officers, the Grand Dignitaries of the Empire, the Ministers, the High Officers of the Crown, and followed by the colonel-general of the guard on duty. At the chapel door the clergy received Napoleon and Josephine beneath a canopy, and they took their places on two small thrones in front of the altar, while the Prince of Baden and the bride took their places on two stools at the foot of its steps. The ceremony began with the blessing of thirteen pieces of gold which the Cardinal Caprara, Legate _a latere_, gave to the Prince of Baden, who presented them to his bride. The Cardinal gave them the nuptial blessing. Meanwhile Monsignor Charier-Lavoche, Bishop of Versailles, the Emperor’s First Almoner, and Monsignor de Broglie, Bishop of Acqui, his Almoner in Ordinary, were holding a canopy of silver brocade over the head of the kneeling Prince and Princess. These two prelates wore a camail and rochet. Cardinal Caprara and his assistant, Monsignor de Rohan, the Empress’s Almoner, wore the golden cape.

During the ceremony, which lasted about an hour, the front of the Tuileries and the garden were illuminated. At nine o’clock there were fireworks on the Place de la Concorde, which the Emperor and Empress watched from the balcony of the Hall of the Marshals. As they appeared on the balcony with the young people, they were greeted with warm applause from the dense crowd in the garden. The Empress, who was clad in a dress embroidered with gold, wore on her head, besides the Imperial crown, a million francs’ worth of pearls. Princess Stéphanie was charming in her white tulle dress, with silver stars, trimmed with orange flowers, and her diamond frontlet. After the fireworks came a concert and ballet in the Hall of the Marshals. But little attention was paid to the concert, although silence prevailed; the ballet, which was rendered by the best dancers from the Opera, was very successful. Then the company went to the Gallery of Diana, where tables had been set for two hundred ladies, and a magnificent supper was served. The grace and distinction of the bride aroused general admiration. Her father, Senator Beauharnais, kept silence and wept for joy.

Never had the court been more dazzling with its glittering uniforms, gorgeous dresses, and sumptuous pomp. The Emperor in his gala dress, the Empress in her Imperial splendor, the Princesses vying in luxury, the new Queen of Naples staggering under her load of precious stones, the Princess Louis covered with turquoises set in diamonds. Princess Caroline Murat decked with a thousand rubies, Princess Pauline with all the Borghese diamonds besides her own, the ambassadors, grand dignitaries, marshals, generals, with their coats covered with gold and decorations, the chamberlains in red, the master of ceremonies in violet, the masters of the hounds in green, the equerries in blue, all the ladies in dresses with long trains; the two fashionable women, Madame Maret and Madame Savary, who each spent fifty thousand francs a year in dress; Madame de Canisy, tall, black-haired, bright-eyed, with her aquiline nose and her impressive air; Madame Lannes, with her gentle face like one of Raphael’s Madonnas; Madame Duchâtel, fair, with blue eyes; and that proud duchess of the Faubourg Saint Germain, a lady of the palace in spite of herself, the Duchess of Chevreuse, who, if not the most beautiful woman there, had perhaps the grandest air. It was a most animated festivity, with its flowers, lights, and splendor. The Hall of the Marshals was radiant with its military portraits, its chandeliers, and air of triumph…. Now consider the ruins of this palace of Caesar, this Olympus of Jupiter, this sanctuary of glory, majesty, and dominion. See and reflect! Nothing is left of all that pomp and grandeur! The proudest buildings have vanished! Such is the end of human splendor!

XIX.

THE NEW QUEEN OF HOLLAND.

At the beginning of 1804, Napoleon regarded himself the absolute master of fortune. His twofold title of Emperor of the French and King of Italy no longer sufficed him; he yearned for that of Emperor of the West. He created kings, grand dukes, sovereign princes. He made his brother Joseph King of the Two Sicilies; his brother-in-law Murat Grand Duke of Berg and Cleves; his sister Pauline Princess of Guastalla; he conferred the principality of Massa upon his sister Elisa, who was already in possession of the Duchy of Lucca; his Minister of Foreign Affairs, Talleyrand, became Prince of Benevento; his Major-General, Berthier, Prince of Neufchâtel; and his brother Joseph’s brother-in-law, Bernadotte, Prince of Ponte Corvo. He also elevated members of his wife’s family as well as of his own to high positions. Josephine’s son was Viceroy and son-in-law of a king. Josephine’s daughter was about to become a queen.

France, which, fourteen years before, had wanted to convert every monarchy into a republic, was now endeavoring to turn the oldest republics into monarchies. The illustrious republics of Genoa and Venice had become an integral part, the one of the French Empire, the other of the Kingdom of Italy. The Batavian Republic was about to be transformed into the Kingdom of Holland. When it became known in Paris that this new kingdom was to be created by the Emperor’s will, people wondered who was to fill the throne; some were betting on Louis Bonaparte; others on his brother Jerome; still others on Murat. The Emperor, however, had settled the question, and without even consulting him, had decided that Louis was to be King of Holland.

This new monarch, who was born September 2, 1778, was then twenty-seven years old. Four years before he had married Josephine’s daughter, Hortense de Beauharnais, but the marriage had been an unhappy one. As he himself wrote, his marriage was celebrated in sadness. The author of a very remarkable study, _Holland and King Louis_, M. Albert Réville, says with great truth: “Like Hortense, Louis had literary tastes; but there the resemblance ceases. It was not that there was nothing romantic in Hortense’s character; she was among the first to become interested in the Middle Ages, the Gothic revival, the imitation of the troubadours; but her romanticism was wholly different from that of her husband. Her ideal was, perhaps, a young and handsome soldier, pensive when away from the lady of his thoughts, but not when in her company.” M. Réville goes on: “Such a character could not understand the sensitiveness, the shrinking, morbid melancholy of the husband thrust upon her. Her gaiety, her devotion to pleasure, the frivolity of her talk, could only pain more and more a man of a gloomy temperament, who took the greatest care of his health, who fretted himself over the most trivial details, and whose distrust amounted to injustice.”

Hortense was expansive, merry, ardent, enthusiastic, young in heart and mind, a thoroughly open nature. Her husband, on the other hand, was of a morose, sombre, melancholy, reserved nature. In spite of her superior intelligence Hortense had a sort of childlike air; but Louis, though young in years, had the character and appearance of an old man. As much as Hortense loved liberty, her suspicious husband wished to hold firmly the reins of conjugal authority. He was prematurely afflicted with various infirmities, almost always morbidly nervous and impressionable, disposed to take a dark view of everything, and bore no resemblance to the type of hero which Hortense had imagined. Moreover, the unhappy husband endured a hidden anguish which he had to conceal from every one and which tortured his heart; he imagined that his rival with his wife was his own brother, Napoleon. Thiers says in discussing this delicate subject: “Louis, ill, puffed-up with pride, assuming virtue and really upright, pretended that he was sacrificed to the infamous necessity of covering, by his marriage, the weakness of Hortense de Beauharnais for Napoleon,–an odious calumny, invented by the émigrés, spread abroad in a thousand pamphlets, about which Louis did wrong to betray such anxiety that he seemed to believe it himself.”

In a word, there existed between husband and wife a real incompatibility of temper, and the constraint of their position only added to the mutual repulsion which they felt for each other in private, though they did not dare confess it through fear of Napoleon’s reproaches. They were married January 4, 1802, and had a son born the next October, whom their enemies asserted was the son of the Emperor, and the greater the interest and affection the Emperor showed to this child, the more freely were calumnies circulated. Louis Bonaparte imagined his honor tainted, and suffered tortures.

As for Hortense, she was unhappy, but she had consolations. Her mother’s love, the society of her old schoolmates, her interest in art, worldly successes, the distractions of Paris life, made her forget some of her domestic troubles. The thought of leaving that congenial spot to live alone with her husband in the cold dampness of Holland filled her with gloom. She did not care for a throne, for she felt that a royal palace would be for her nothing but a prison.

Louis, too, seemed devoid of ambition for the crown that was held before him. Annoyed at not being consulted in the negotiations on which depended his call to the throne, he maintained a passive attitude. But as he was accustomed to comply with every wish of a brother who had taken charge of his education, and thereby acquired special authority over him, he invariably obeyed his orders. The Batavian deputation, of which the most important member was Admiral Verhuel, had just arrived in Paris, and with it the Emperor was settling the fate of Holland. Baron Ducasse, in an interesting paper In the _Revue Historique_ for February, 1880, has recounted all the unfortunate Louis Bonaparte’s attempts to escape having royalty forced upon him. He gave as a pretext, for his reluctance, the rights of the old Stadtholder. The Batavian deputation in reply announced to him the death of that official, “The hereditary Prince,” they said, “has received in compensation Fulda; hence you can have no reasonable objection. We come, in accordance with the votes of nine-tenths of the nation, to beg of you to ally your fate with ours, and to prevent our falling into other hands.” Napoleon used even plainer language. He declared to his brother without beating the bush that he had accepted for him, and that, even if he had not consulted him, a subject could not refuse obedience.

A few days later, Talleyrand, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, went to Saint Cloud and read to Louis and Hortense the treaty with Holland, and the constitution of that country. It was of no use for the King to say that he could not judge such important documents from a simple reading, he was not granted a moment’s reflection. In vain he pleaded his health, which could not fail to suffer from the damp climate of Holland. Napoleon was inflexible, and said, “It is better to die on a throne than to live a French Prince.” There was nothing for him to do but to give his consent.

The new King’s proclamation was delivered at the Palace of the Tuileries in the Throne Room, June 5, 1806. Early in the same day, the Emperor had formally received Mahib Effendi, Ambassador of the Sultan Selim. The Oriental diplomatist had greeted him as “the first and greatest of Christian monarchs, the bright star of glory of the western nations, the one who held in a firm hand the sword of valor and the sceptre of justice.” Napoleon had replied: “Whatever good or bad fortune may befall the Ottomans will be fortunate or unfortunate for France. Report, I beg of you, my words to the Sultan Selim. Bid him never to forget that my enemies, who are also his, would like to get at him. He has nothing to fear from me; united with me, he need not fear the power of any of his enemies.” When the audience was over, the Ambassador made three deep bows and withdrew, but stopped in the next room, where the presents of the Grand Porte were set out on a table; they consisted of an aigret of diamonds, and a costly box set with gems and adorned with the monogram of the Sultan. Mahib Effendi, after offering the presents to the Emperor, showed him those sent to the Empress. They were a pearl necklace, perfumes, and Oriental stuffs. Napoleon examined them, and then went to the window to see some superbly harnessed Arabian horses, presented to him in the name of the Sultan.

The proclamation of the King of Holland was read a few moments later. Admiral Verhuel took the floor and began to speak of the happiness assured to his country when it should have made fast the ties that bound it to the “immense and immortal Empire.” The Emperor said to the Dutch representatives: “France has been so generous as to renounce all the rights over you which were given it by the events of the war, but I cannot confide the fortresses that guard my northern frontiers to any unfaithful or even uncertain hands. Representatives of the Batavian people, I grant the prayer you present to me, and proclaim Prince Louis King of Holland.” Then turning to his brother, he said: “You, Prince, reign over this people; their fathers acquired their independence only by the constant aid of France. Since then Holland was the ally of England; it was conquered; and still owes its existence to us. She will owe to us the kings who protect its laws, its liberties, its religion! But do not ever cease to be a Frenchman. The dignity of Constable of the Empire will ever belong to you and to your descendants; it will define for you your duties towards me and the importance I attach to the guard of the fortresses protecting the north of my states, which I confide to you. Prince, maintain among your troops that spirit which I have seen in them on the field of battle. Encourage in your new subjects the feelings of union and love which they ought always to have for France. Be the terror of evil-doers and the father of the upright; that is the character of a great king.”

The vassalage of the new monarch was thus definitely established; he remained Constable of the Empire; he was ordered to be French and not Dutch. His first duties were to the Emperor, his brother and suzerain. He respectfully approached the throne, and said with evident emotion: “Sire, I have made it my highest ambition to sacrifice my life to Your Majesty’s service. I have made my happiness consist in admiring all those qualities which make you so dear to those who, like me, have so often witnessed the power and the effects of your genius; I may then be permitted to express my regrets in leaving, but my life and my wishes belong to you. I shall go to reign over Holland, since that nation desires it and Your Majesty commands it. I shall be proud to reign over it; but, however glorious may be the career thus opened to me, the assurance of Your Majesty’s constant protection, the love and patriotism of my new subjects, can alone inspire me with the hope of healing the wounds of the many wars and events that have crowded into a few years.” After the royal speech the usher threw open the door, and as in the time of Louis XIV., at the acceptation of the Spanish accession, the new King was announced to the assembled crowd.

As M. Albert Réville says, no one in France regretted the Batavian Republic when it was stricken from the roll of history by the will of a despot; or, rather, the Parisians, in their occasionally exaggerated infatuation, fancied that the Dutch would be overjoyed to have a French court.

The next day, after breakfast, the Emperor was playing with the new King’s oldest son, the little Napoleon, who was only three years and a half old, but was very bright for his age, and already knew by heart La Fontaine’s fables. The Emperor made him recite the fable about the frogs who wanted a king, and listened to it, laughing loudly. He pinched the Queen’s ear, and asked her, “What do you say to that, Hortense?” The allusions to the poor king and to his poor people were only too clear. The melancholy monarch, or rather, the crowned monarch, was to be, according to the Emperor’s plan, a mere tool in the hands of his powerful brother. He was condemned to discharge the functions of receiver of dues and of recruiting officer in the Emperor’s service. He had a presentiment of this degraded position, and took his departure with much anxiety.

For Hortense, leaving was sadder. No exile ever turned towards foreign parts with heavier sorrow. Her diadem was a crown of thorns. Her mother’s grief augmented her own. Without her children, Josephine, naturally unambitious, found no consolation in the thought that her son was a Viceroy, her daughter a Queen. Before she left Paris Hortense, in terror before the thought that the Emperor would no longer be near to defend her, told her all her domestic unhappiness, and said that if her husband treated her too ill, she would abandon her throne for a convent.

Nevertheless she had to obey. June 15, 1806, Louis started from Saint Leu to go to his kingdom. He was accompanied by his wife and his two sons, the elder, Charles Napoleon, who died in Holland the 5th of the next May, and the other, Louis Napoleon, who died at Forte, in 1831, in the insurrection of the States of the Church against the Pope. His third son, later Napoleon III., was born in 1808. The new King entered The Hague June 23, 1806. He countermanded a body of French troops which the Emperor had designed for his escort at his entrance into the capital, being unwilling to appear before his subjects as a sovereign imposed upon them by actual force. “You may be sure,” he said to them, “that from the moment I set foot on the soil of this kingdom, I became a Dutchman.” The same day General Dupont Chaumont, French Minister at The Hague, wrote to Prince Talleyrand: “To-day, June 23, His Majesty made his formal entrance into his capital. He went to the Assembly where he received the oath of the representatives of the people and made a speech which was much applauded. The French camp obtained permission from the Governor of the Palace to surprise Their Majesties by fireworks and military music. These festivities naturally put a stop to all business, except for His Majesty, who finds time to examine and decide the most urgent matters, the ease with which he works greatly surprising a nation unaccustomed to such activity. Already the King and Queen are spoken of most enthusiastically by those who have had the honor to be presented to Their Majesties. The satisfaction will be general, when many shall have had the opportunity to approach the throne.”

In spite of the optimisms of this despatch, the new King was to have an unhappy reign. His loyal and upright intentions were to be shattered against the inflexible will of his formidable brother. Louis was a just man and sincerely devoted to his people. He was called, and is still called, “the good King Louis”: but the Emperor, who ironically reproached him with trying to win the affection of shopkeepers, was to write to him in 1807: “A monarch who is called a good king, is a king that’s ruined.” As for Queen Hortense, more and more tormented by her husband’s suspicions, with her health impaired by the moist climate, and her ever- growing melancholy, she was to feel like a condemned exile in her kingdom. No woman ever gave a complete lie to the expression, “As happy as a queen.”

XX.

THE EMPRESS AT MAYENCE.

In spite of all the honors that encompassed her, the Empress was ever more and more unhappy. The departure of her daughter Hortense left a void in her life that nothing could fill. She wrote to the new Queen from Saint Cloud, July 15, 1806: “Since you left I have been ill, sad, and unhappy; I have even been feverish and have had to keep my bed. I am now well again, but my sorrow remains. How could it be otherwise when I am separated from a daughter like you, loving, gentle, and amiable, who was the charm of my life?… How is your husband? Are my grandchildren well? Heavens, how sad it makes me not to see them! and how is your health, dear Hortense? If you are ever ill, let me know, and I will hasten to you at once…. Good by, my dear Hortense, think often of your mother, and be sure that never was a daughter more loved than you are. Many kind messages to your husband; kiss the children for me. It would be very kind of you to send me some of your songs.”

Josephine was about to have another cause for grief. A new war was imminent, but the Empress hid her uneasiness in order not to distance Hortense. “All your letters,” she wrote to her, “are charming, and you are kind to write so often. I have heard from Eugene and his wife; they are evidently very happy, and so am I, for I am going with the Emperor, and am already packing. I assure you, that even if this war breaks out, I have no fear; the nearer I am to the Emperor, the less I shall care, and I feel that I should die if I stayed here. Another joy to me is our meeting at Mayence. The Emperor has bidden me tell you that he has just given to the King of Holland an army of eighty thousand men, and his command will extend to Mayence. He thinks that you can come then and stay with me. Is not that an agreeable bit of news for a mother who loves you so dearly? Every day we shall have news of the Emperor and your husband; we will be happy together. The Grand Duke of Berg spoke to me about you and the children; kiss them for me till I can kiss them for myself, as well as my daughter; this will be soon, I hope. My best regards to the King.”

Napoleon was about to begin a gigantic war against Prussia and Russia. In spite of his confidence in his star, he was not without some apprehensions, and he left reluctantly. A cloud seemed to hang over Saint Cloud. “Why are you so gloomy?” the Emperor asked Madame de Rémusat, whose husband, the First Chamberlain, had just been sent to Mayence to prepare the Emperor’s quarters. “I am gloomy,” she replied, “because my husband has left me.” And as Napoleon sneered at her conjugal devotion, she added: “Sire, I take no part in heroic joys, and for my part, I had placed my glory in happiness.” Then the Emperor burst out laughing and said: “Happiness? Oh yes, happiness has a great deal to do with this century!”

The Empress hoped to accompany her husband as far as Mayence, and remain there during the war, with her daughter. At the last moment she came near missing even this. Napoleon wanted to go off alone, but she wept so much, besought him so earnestly, that he took pity on her and gave her leave to enter his carriage; she had but a single chambermaid with her. Her household was to join her some days later.

Napoleon and Josephine left Saint Cloud in the night of September 24, 1806. After stopping for some hours at Metz, they reached Mayence the 28th. The Emperor started again, October 2, at nine in the evening, for the head of the army. At this moment he had an access of affection and a revival of his old tenderness for the woman who long since had inspired him with much love. Seeing that she was weeping bitterly, he, too, shed tears, and was even attacked by convulsions. They made him sit down and gave him a few drops of orange-flower water. In a few moments he controlled his emotion, gave Josephine a farewell kiss, and said: “The carriages are ready, are they not? Tell those gentlemen and let us be off.”

The Empress remained at Mayence. Napoleon wrote to her October 5, 1806: “There is no reason why the Princess of Baden should not go to Mayence. I don’t know why you are so distressed; it is wrong of you to grieve so much. Hortense is inclined to pedantry; she is liberal with advice. She wrote to me, and I answered her. She should be happy and gay. Courage and gaiety, that is the recipe.” It is plain that the Emperor’s gloom had been of brief duration. When he was once more at war, in his element, he had quickly resumed his customary eagerness. He wrote to his wife from Bamberg, October 7: “I leave this evening for Kronach. The whole army is in motion. All goes on well; my health is perfect. I have not yet received any letters from you, but I have heard from Eugene and Hortense. Stephanie ought to be with you. Her husband [the Prince of Baden] wishes to take part in the war; he is with me. Good by. A thousand kisses and good health!” Again, October 18: “Today I am at Gera. Everything goes on as well as I could hope. With God’s aid, the poor King of Prussia will be in a lamentable state, I think. I am personally sorry for him, because he is a good man. The Queen is at Erfurt with the King. If she wants to see a battle, she will have that cruel pleasure. I am wonderfully well, and have gained flesh since I left; and yet I go twenty or twenty-five leagues every day, on horseback or in a carriage,–in every possible way. I go to bed at eight and get up at midnight, sometimes, I think, before you have gone to bed. Ever yours.”

In these campaigns Napoleon was not yet surrounded by the comforts which later made war less fatiguing for him, perhaps too easy. He endured all the toil and privation of a private soldier. In five minutes his table, his coffee, his bed were prepared. Often in less time than that the bodies of men and horses had to be removed to make room for his tent. His longest meal lasted no more than eight or ten minutes. The Emperor would then call for horses and leave in company with Berthier, one or two riders, and Roustan, his faithful Mameluke. At night, when lying on his little iron bed, he took but little rest. Hardly had he fallen asleep when he would call his valet de chambre who slept in the same tent: “Constant!” “Sire.” “See what aide-de-camp is on duty.” “Sire, it is so-and-so.” “Tell him to come and speak to me.” The aide-de-camp would arrive: “You must go to such a corps, commanded by Marshal so-and-so; you will tell him to place such a regiment in such a position; you will ascertain the position of the enemy, then you will report to me.” The Emperor seemed to fall asleep again, but in a few moments he was calling again: “Constant!” “Sire.” “Summon the Prince of Neufchâtel.” The Major-General would appear in a great hurry, and Napoleon would dictate some orders to him. That is the way his nights were passed.

The night before the battle of Jena was an exception, and the Emperor slept soundly, “Yet,” says General de Ségur, “our position was so perilous that some of us said the enemy could have thrown a bullet across all our lines with the hand. This was so true that the first cannon-ball fired the next day passed over our heads and killed a cook at his canteen far behind us.” At about five o’clock Napoleon asked of Marshal Soult: “Shall we beat them?” “Yes, if they are there.” answered the Marshal; “I am only afraid they have left.” At that moment, the first musketry fire was heard, “There they are!” said the Emperor, joyfully; “there they are! the business is beginning.” Then he went to address the infantry, encouraging them to crush the famous Prussian cavalry. “This cavalry,” he said, “must be destroyed here, before our squares, as we crushed the Russian infantry at Austerlitz.” The victory was overwhelming. Napoleon thus recounted it in a letter to the Empress, dated Jena, October 15, at three in the morning: “My dear, I have done some good manoeuvring against the Prussians. Yesterday I gained a great victory. They were one hundred and fifty thousand men; I have made twenty thousand prisoners, captured one hundred cannon and flags. I was facing the King of Prussia and very near him; I just missed capturing him and the Queen. I have been bivouacking for two days. I am wonderfully well. Good by, my dear, keep well and love me. If Hortense is at Mayence, give her a kiss as well as Napoleon and the little one.” And again from Weimar, October 16: “M. Talleyrand will have shown you the bulletin and you will have seen our success. Everything has turned out as I planned, and never was an army more thoroughly beaten and destroyed. I will only add that I am well; that fatigue, watching, and the bivouac have made me stouter. Good by, my dear, much love to Hortense and the great Napoleon.”

Hortense had joined her mother at Mayence with her two sons, meeting there her relative, Princess Stéphanie of Baden, the Princess of Nassau and her daughters, many generals’ wives, who had desired to be near the scene of war to get early news. With what impatience tidings were awaited! With what curiosity and respect were read and discussed the two or three words scrawled by the hand of the Emperor or of his lieutenants! A lookout had been placed a league away on the high-road, who announced the coming of a messenger by blowing on a horn. At the same time the files of prisoners were seen passing on their way to France. Josephine, ever kind and pitiful, tried to soften their lot and gave aid and comfort to officers and soldiers.

Meanwhile Napoleon continued his triumphal march. From Wittenberg he wrote to his wife, October 23: “I have received a number of letters from you. I write but a word: everything goes on well. To-morrow I shall be at Potsdam, the 25th at Berlin. I am perfectly well; fatigue agrees with me. I am glad to hear of you in company together with Hortense and Stéphanie. The weather has so far been very pleasant. Much love to Stéphanie and to every one, including M. Napoleon. Good by, my dear. Ever yours.”

At Potsdam the Emperor visited the celebrated palace of Sans Souci and found the room of Frederick the Great as it had been in his lifetime, and guarded by one of his old servants. He then went to the Protestant church which contained the hero’s tomb. “The door of the monument was open,” says General de Ségur. “Napoleon paused at the entrance, in a grave and respectful attitude. He gazed into the shadow enclosing the hero’s ashes, and stood thus for nearly ten minutes, motionless, silent, as if buried in deep thought. There were five or six of us with him: Duroc, Caulaincourt, an aide-de-camp, and I. We gazed at this solemn and extraordinary scene, imagining the two great men face to face, identifying ourselves with the thoughts we ascribed to our Emperor before that other genius whose glory survived the overthrow of his work, who was as great in extreme adversity as in success.” The eighteenth bulletin said of this tomb: “The great man’s remains are enclosed in a wooden coffin covered with copper, and are placed in a vault, with no ornaments, trophies, or other distinction recalling his great actions.” The Emperor presented to the Invalides in Paris Frederick’s sword, his ribbon of the Black Eagle, his general’s sash, as well as the flags carried by his guard in the Seven Years’ War. The old veterans of the army of Hanover received with religious respect everything which had belonged to one of the first captains whose memory is recorded in history. When he saw that the Prussian court had not thought of making those relics safe from invasion, the hero of Jena, who on this occasion abused his victory, exclaimed as he pointed to the famous sword: “I prefer that to twenty millions.” In his letters to Josephine, Napoleon made no mention of his impressions in the house of Frederick. He simply wrote, October 24: “I have been at Potsdam since yesterday, and shall spend to-day here. I continue to be satisfied with everything. My health is good; the weather is fine. I find Sans Souci very agreeable. Good by, my dear. Much love to Hortense and M. Napoleon.”

October 27, 1806, the Emperor made his formal entrance into Berlin, surrounded by his guard and followed by the cuirassiers of the divisions of Hautpoul and Nansouty. He proceeded in triumph from the Charlottenburger gate to the King’s Palace, of which he was to take possession. The populace crowded the streets, but uttered no cries of hate or flattery for the conqueror. “Prussia was happy,” says Thiers, “at not being divided, and at retaining its dignity in its disasters. The enemy’s entrance was not first the overthrow of one party and the triumph of another; it contained no unworthy faction, indulging in odious joy and applauding the presence of foreign soldiers! We Frenchmen, unhappier in our defeats, have known this abominable joy; for we have seen everything in this century: the extremes of victory and of defeat, of grandeur and of abasement, of the purest devotion and of the blackest treachery!” Alas! What Frenchman could have foretold in 1806 the disasters of 1814 and 1815? The army deemed itself invincible and was wild with joyful pride. Davout, whose men the Emperor had just congratulated, wrote to him in great enthusiasm: “Sire, we are your tenth legion. Everywhere and at all times the third corps will be for you what that legion was for Caesar.” Never did soldiers have greater enthusiasm or more confidence in their leader.

One might have said that Josephine, amid all these triumphs, had a presentiment of the future. Victories could not dispel her sadness. Her husband wrote to her November 1: “Talleyrand has come, and tells me that you do nothing but cry. But what do you want? You have your daughters, your grandchildren, and good news; certainly you have the materials for happiness and content. The weather here is superb; not a drop of rain has fallen in the whole campaign, I am in good health, and everything is progressing favorably. Good by. I have received a letter from M. Napoleon; I don’t think it is from him but from Hortense. Love to all.”

Napoleon was not modest in his triumph. He pursued with sarcasms the nobility of Prussia and Queen Louise who had warmly counselled war. This fair sovereign, the mother of the late Emperor William, was then thirty years old; she was the daughter of a Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz and of a Princess of Hesse-Darmstadt. She was a most thorough German, hated France, and especially the French Revolution. She was a fearless horsewoman, and had been seen facing great dangers at the battle of Jena. When she rode before her troops in her helmet of polished steel, shaded by a plume, in her glittering golden cuirass, her tunic of silver stuff, her red boots with gold spurs, she resembled Tasso’s heroines. The soldiers burst into cries of enthusiasm, as they saw their warlike Queen; before her were bowed the flags she had embroidered with her own hands, and the old, torn, and battle-stained standards of Frederick the Great. After the battle she was obliged to take flight, at full gallop, to avoid being captured by the French hussars.

In his bulletins the Emperor had made the serious blunder of speaking of Queen Louise in a manner wanting in proper respect for a woman, and especially for a woman in misfortune. Josephine, who was full of tact, was much pained by this lack of generosity, and reproached her husband for it. Napoleon sought to excuse himself, writing, November 6: “I have received your letter in which you seem pained by the evil I say of women. It is true that I hate, more than anything, intriguing women. I am used to kindly, gentle, conciliating women; those are the ones I love. If they have spoiled me, it is not my fault, but yours. Now I will show you that I have been very good for one who has shown herself sensible and kind, Madame Hatzfeld. When I showed her her husband’s letter, bursting into tears, she said to me with, great emotion, and simplicity: ‘It is certainly his hand-writing!’ As she read it, her accent touched my heart and gave me real distress, I said to her: ‘Well, Madame, throw that letter into the fire, I shall not be strong enough to punish your husband,’ She burned the letter and seemed to be very happy, Her husband has ever since been very calm; two hours more, and he would have been a ruined man. You see then that I love kind, simple, gentle women; but it’s because they are like you. Good by, my dear, I am well.”

The kingdom of Prussia was conquered, but the war was not over, After fighting the Prussians he had to fight the Russians; the war in Poland was beginning. Napoleon wrote to the King of Prussia: “Your Majesty has announced to me that you have thrown yourself into the arms of the Russians. The future will decide whether this is the best and wisest choice. You have taken the dice-box and thrown the dice; the dice will decide it.” At Paris, in spite of the splendors of the Imperial glory, there existed a vague uneasiness. Peace had been expected after Jena, and some apprehension was felt about the renewal of the struggle in the northern steppes. Madame de Rémusat wrote, November 9, to her husband, who was at Mayence with the Empress, “There is something in the Emperor’s career which confounds ordinary calculations, and, so to speak, goes beyond them. It is most impressive, and, I might say, alarming, and yet he seems so far above customary conditions that there is no need of fear about the points to which he exposes himself, and still less, draw the line at which he shall stop. But I shudder to think how far he is from us at this moment. May God be with him, I am ever praying, and preserve him! While this great part of the French nation which is under his orders, is marching to great victories, we are vegetating here in complete dulness. There is very little society, and no houses are open.”

Josephine was very anxious to join her husband who held it before her as a possibility, but never permitted it. He had written to her, November 16: “I am glad to see that my views please you. You were wrong to think I was flattering; I spoke of you as you seem to me. I am sorry to think that you are bored at Mayence. If the journey was not so long you might come here, for the enemy has left, and is beyond the Vistula; that is to say, one hundred and twenty leagues from here. I will await your decision. I shall be glad to see M. Napoleon. Good by, my dear. Ever yours.” And November 22: “Be satisfied and happy in my friendship, in all I feel for you. In a few days I shall decide to summon you or to send you to Paris. Good by. You may go now, if you wish, to Darmstadt and Frankfort; that will amuse you. Much love to Hortense.” After signing the decree establishing the continental blockade, Napoleon had left Berlin November 25. The next day he again held before Josephine the prospect of a speedy meeting. “I am at Custrin,” he said in his letter, “to make some reconnoissances; I shall see you in two days if you are to come. You can hold yourself in readiness. I shall be glad to have the Queen of Holland come too. The Grand Duchess of Baden must write to her husband about coming. It is two o’clock in the morning; I have just got up. That is the way at war. Much love to you and every one.” A letter from Meseritz, March 27, was still more explicit: “I am going to make a trip through Poland; this is the most important city here. I shall be at Posen this evening, after which I summon you to Berlin, that you may arrive there the same day. My health is good, the weather rather bad; it has been raining for three days. Matters are in a good condition. The Russians are in flight.” Josephine, who had trembled with joy at the thought of seeing her husband, fell into great gloom when she saw that she had been deceived by a vain hope. The tortures of, alas! too well-founded jealousy were to be added to her sufferings!

Napoleon reached Posen November 28, and wrote the next day to his wife: “I am at Posen, the capital of Great Poland, The cold is beginning; I am well. I am going to make a trip in Poland. My troops are at the gates of Warsaw. Good by, my dear, much love. I kiss you with all my heart. To-day is the anniversary of Austerlitz. I have been at a ball given by the city. It is raining. I am well. I love you and long for you. My troops are at Warsaw. It has not yet been cold. All the Polish women are Frenchwomen, but there is only one woman for me. Do you know her? I should draw her portrait for you; but I should have to flatter it too much for you to recognize it; nevertheless, to tell the truth, my heart would have only good things to tell you. I find the nights long in my solitude. Ever yours.” Perhaps Napoleon would not have been so amiable to Josephine had it not been that he was going to be very unfaithful to her in Poland, and in a movement of pity wanted to console her in advance. From there he sent her, December 3, two letters, one at noon, the other at six in the evening. This is the first: “I have your letter of November 26. I notice two things: you say, don’t read your letters; that is unjust. I am sorry for your bad opinion. You tell me you are not jealous. I have long observed that people who are angry always say that they are not angry, that people who are afraid say they are not afraid; so you are convicted of jealousy; I am delighted! Besides, you are mistaken, and in the deserts of fair Poland one thinks but little about pretty women. Yesterday I was at a ball of the nobility of the province; rather pretty women, rather rich, rather ill dressed, although in the Paris fashion.” Perhaps Napoleon said that to reassure the Empress; I imagine that the Polish women, with all their elegance and grace, were scarcely so ill-dressed as he pretended.

This is the second letter, dated December 3, 6 P.M.: “I have your letter of November 27, and I see that your little head is much excited. I remember the line: ‘A woman’s wish is a devouring flame,’ and I must calm you. I wrote to you that I was in Poland, that when we should have got into winter-quarters you might come; so you must wait a few days. The greater one becomes, the less will one must have; one depends on events and circumstances. You may go to Frankfort or Darmstadt, I hope to summon you in a few days, but events must decide. The warmth of your letter convinces me that you pretty women take no account of obstacles; what you want must be; but I must say that I am the greatest slave that lives; my master has no heart, and this master is the nature of things.” Napoleon should have said: Providence. Man proposes, but God disposes.

Napoleon again spoke a little of having Josephine come. He wrote to her December 10: “An officer has brought me a rug from you; it is a little short and narrow, but I am no less grateful to you for it. I am fairly well. The weather is very changeable. Everything is in good condition. I love you and am very anxious to see you. Good by, my dear: I shall write to you to come with more pleasure than you will come.”

December 12 he spoke once more of this projected journey which became ever more and more remote, like a mirage in the desert: “My health is good, the weather very mild; the bad season has not begun, but the roads are bad in a country where there are no highways. So Hortense will come with Napoleon; I am delighted. I am impatient to have things settle themselves so that you can come. I have made peace with Saxony. The Elector is King and belongs to the confederation. Good by, my dearest Josephine. Yours ever. A kiss to Hortense, to Napoleon, and to Stéphanie. Paër, the famous musician, his wife, whom you saw at Milan twelve years ago, and Brizzi, are here; they give me some music every evening.” Napoleon left Posen in the middle of December. The evening before his departure he wrote a letter to his wife which showed the unlikelihood of her joining him, as she hoped to do; “I am leaving for Warsaw, and shall be back in a fortnight. I hope then to have you here. Still, if that is too long I should be glad to have you return to Paris where you are needed. You know that I have to depend on events.” The unhappy Josephine already had a foreboding of his devotion to a great Polish lady.

Napoleon reached Warsaw December 18, 1806. He was to stay there till the 23d, return there January 2, 1807, and not to go away till the 31st of that month. He was greeted there with enthusiasm. He had said to his soldiers in his proclamation on entering Poland: “The French eagle is soaring above the Vistula. The brave and unfortunate Pole, when he sees you, imagines that he sees the legions of Sobieski returning from their memorable expedition.” No one understood better than the Emperor how to impress the imagination of a people. At sight of him the inhabitants of Warsaw were thrilled with patriotic joy. It seemed to them that their grand nation was rising from the tomb. The Polish women, with their lively, poetic, ardent nature, regarded Napoleon as a sort of Messiah. In the intoxication of their ecstatic admiration, the most beautiful of them–and Poland is the country of beauty–turned towards him, like sirens, their most seductive smiles. This coquetry they regarded as a patriotic duty. Josephine had good grounds for jealousy.

Napoleon was in the field during the last days of December. War at that time was particularly fatiguing. The dampness, worse than any cold, saddened the eyes and wearied the body. The temperature was forever changing between frost and thaw. Fighting took place in the most unfavorable conditions. But the Emperor, pitiless for himself and every one else, uttered no complaint. He wrote from Golimin to the Empress, December 29, at five in the morning: “I write but a word, from a wretched barn. I have beaten the Russians, captured thirty cannon, their baggage, and six thousand prisoners; but the weather is frightful; it pours, and we are knee deep in mud.” And from Pultusk, December 31: “I have laughed a good deal over your last two letters. You have formed a very inaccurate notion of the beautiful Polish women. Two or three days I have had great pleasure in hearing Paër and two women who have given me some very good music. I received your letter in a wretched barn, with mud, wind, and straw for my only bed.” In spite of what her husband said, Josephine was right about the charm of the Polish ladies, and Napoleon, on his return to Warsaw, January 2, 1807, was to become seriously interested in one of them.

Soon there was no question of sending for the Empress, who would only have been in the way. Napoleon wrote to her, January 3: “I have received your letter. Your regret touches me, but we must submit to events. It is too long a journey from Mayence to Warsaw; we must wait till events permit my going to Berlin before I can write for you to come. Meanwhile, the enemy is withdrawing, defeated, but I have a good many things to settle here. I should advise your returning to Paris, where you are needed. Send back those ladies who have anything to do there; you will be better for getting rid of people who tire you. I am well; the weather is bad. I love you much.” The Emperor, utterly taken up by his love for the Polish lady, was anxious that Josephine, instead of coming to him, should at once return promptly to France. “My dear,” he wrote to her, January 7, “I am touched by all you say, but the cold season, the bad, unsafe roads prevent my giving my consent to your facing so many fatigues. Return to Paris for the winter. Go to the Tuileries, hold your receptions, and live as you do when I am there: that is my wish. Perhaps I shall join you there without delay; but you must give up the plan of travelling three hundred leagues at this season, through hostile countries, in the rear of the army. Be sure that it is more painful to me than to you to postpone for a few weeks the pleasure of seeing you; but this is commanded by events and the state of affairs. Good by, my dear, be happy and brave.” The next day he wrote again on the same subject: “I have yours of the 27th, with those of Hortense and M. Napoleon enclosed. I have asked you to go back to Paris; the season is too bad, the roads too insecure and detestable, the distance too great for me to allow you to come so far to me when my affairs detain me. It would take you at least a month to get here. You. would be sick when you got here, and then, perhaps, you would have to start back; it would be madness. Your sojourn at Mayence is too dull. Paris calls for you; go there; that is my desire. I am more disappointed than you; but we must bow to circumstances.” In a letter of January 11, he says; “I see very few people here.” But he saw the Polish lady, and that was enough.

Josephine, who suspected a rival, was in despair. Her husband wrote to console her, January 16: “I have received yours of January 5. All that you say of your disappointment saddens me. Why these tears and lamentations? Have you not more courage? I shall soon see you; do not doubt my feelings, and if you wish to be still dearer to me, show character and strength of soul. I am humiliated to think that my wife can doubt my destinies. Good by, my dear, I love you and long to see you, and want to hear that you are contented and happy.” In another letter, January 18, Napoleon tried to cheer up Josephine, who was even more anxious and uneasy: “I fear you are unhappy about our separation which must last some weeks yet, and about returning to Paris. I beg of you to have more courage. I hear that you are always crying. Fie, that is very bad! Your letter of January 7 gives me much pain. Be worthy of me and show more character. Make a proper appearance at Paris, and above all, be contented. I am very well, and I love you much; but if you are always in tears, I shall think you have no courage and no character. I do not love cowards; an Empress ought to have some spirit.”

Napoleon’s will was not to be altered. Josephine was forced to leave her daughter and to return to Paris. Her husband wrote to her from Warsaw: “I have your letter of January 15. It is impossible for me to let women undertake such a journey: bad roads, unsafe, and a slough of mud. Go back to Paris; be happy and contented there; perhaps I shall be there soon. I laugh at what you say, that you married to be with your husband. I had thought in my ignorance that the wife was created for the husband, the husband for the country, the family, and glory. Forgive my ignorance. Good by, my dear, believe that I regret that I cannot have you come. Say to yourself, ‘It is a proof how dear I am to him.'” All these fine words could not console Josephine, who knew from experience that Napoleon, like many unfaithful husbands, had a smooth, tongue when he needed forgiveness. In vain she had waited four months at Mayence for permission to rejoin her husband. She at last, found herself obliged to leave this town where she had no other pleasure than the sight of her daughter and her grandchildren, from whom she parted with pain. January 27 she was at Strassburg, and the 31st. at Paris.

XXI.

THE RETURN OF THE EMPRESS TO PARIS.

The Empress Josephine was much loved in France, and especially in Paris, where her gentleness, amiability, and great kindliness had won for her all sympathies, even those of people who were hostile to the Emperor. Her return to the capital was greeted with pleasure, and her presence awakened it from its previous gloom. The _Moniteur_ thus describes her passage through the chief town of the department of the Lower Rhine. “Strassburg, January 23, 1807. Her Majesty the Empress and Queen arrived within our walls yesterday, the 27th, on her way from Mayence to Paris. Her Majesty having consented to notify the Counsellor of State, Prefect Shée, that she would accept a modest entertainment, this news spread lively joy throughout this city. This proof of the Empress’s kindness, accompanied by the gracious memory she wished to testify for the people of Strassburg, made the preparations for this impromptu event easy, and in spite of the brief time between the announcement and the arrival of Her Majesty, a numerous and brilliant company was soon assembled at the Prefecture. The hall was elegantly decorated; the emblems and mottoes recalled the object of the festivity. After a square dance and a waltz. Her Majesty passed through the company, addressing a kind word to every lady present.” The next day, January 28, at seven in the morning, the Empress started, amid cries of “Long live Josephine!” She reached the Tuileries January 31, at eight in the evening. The next day, at noon, guns were fired at the Invalides, to announce her return. The great bodies of the state solicited the honor of offering her their homages. She was a little tired by her journey, and was unable to receive them till February 5.

At this reception she was the object of almost as much flattery as was the Emperor. We quote a few of the phrases:–

_M. Monge, President of the Senate_: “Madame, the Senate lays at the feet of Your Imperial and Royal Majesty the tribute of its profound respect and the homage of the administration with which it is animated for all your virtues…. It congratulates itself on seeing again, in the capital, the august spouse to whom our adored ruler has given all his confidence and who deserves it in so many ways.”

_M. de Fontanes, President of the Legislative Body_: “Half of our wishes are granted. The presence of Your Majesty will make us attend less impatiently another return that the French desire with you. … Paris consoles itself for not seeing him who gives such glory to the throne, by finding in you her who has always lent to Sovereignty so much charm, so much gentleness and kindness.”

_M. Fabre, President of the Tribunal_: “Madame, your return has aroused the keenest joy. The memory of that delicate kindness which knew how to temper so many woes; of that active beneficence which repaired so many misfortunes, is imprinted on every heart. Every one says: ‘Providence in giving to us the hero, whose vast designs are crowned with the most constant and prompt success, desired to complete his kindness, by placing near him her to whom every stricken heart turns, who is the most agreeable object of gratitude, and who, moreover, throughout France is called the friend of misfortune.'”

_M. Lejean, First Vicar-General of the Chapter of Notre Dame_ (speaking in the place of the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris, who was ill): “Madame, His Eminence the Archbishop, our worthy prelate, has commanded me to convey to Your Imperial and Royal Majesty his regrets at not being able himself to present to you the chapter and clergy of Paris. ‘Go,’ that venerable old man said to me, ‘and assure the benevolent Empress from me that I thoroughly share the joy which every one feels at her return. Tell her that never a moment passes that I do not address to Heaven the most fervent prayers for the happiness of France and of our invincible Emperor, and for the success of his arms. The Lord has deigned to grant my prayers; in a very short time astounding prodigies have been wrought by Napoleon, and I offer my thanks.’ The chapter and the clergy of Paris pray for Your Majesty to be sure that their feelings for your sacred person and for that of your august husband are like those of His Eminence.”

_The Prefect of the Seine_: “You are far from the Emperor, Madame, but Paris, too, is far from him. Well, to mitigate this separation, equally painful for Paris and for Your Majesty, Paris and Your Majesty will talk to one another much about the Emperor. You will take pleasure in hearing that his subjects of the good city of Paris are ever faithful to him; that they are prepared for every act of devotion which may be demanded by his glory, the honor of the Empire, and the resolution he has formed of not laying down his arms until he has assured the peace of nations. You will take pleasure in seeing us follow in thought, even to the most distant climes, his ever victorious eagles. In short, Madame, at every exploit of the Grand Army, you will be glad to hear the loud applause which we have often wished could reach you, even in the camps of the founder of the Empire, and then touched by the sincerity of our prayers, you will deign to listen to them, and sometimes even to be their interpreter.”

In spite of these official flatteries, and more or less interested compliments, the Empress was far from happy. Possibly she imagined that soon, even in her lifetime, the same homage would be addressed by the same persons, in the same palace, to another woman. Besides this, however, she had many causes for distress. She suffered from the absence of her children, from her daughter’s domestic unhappiness, from the Emperor’s remoteness, his infidelities in Poland, from the dangers threatening him in this relentless and distant war. She wrote to her daughter February 3: “I got here, dear Hortense, the evening of the 31st, as I expected. My journey was pleasant, if I can call it so when it separated me further from the Emperor. I have received five letters from him since my departure. I need to hear from you now that you are no longer with me to console me. Tell me how you are; write to me about your husband and children. Although I see more people here than at Mayence, I am quite as lonely, and you will seem to be with me if you write. Good by, my dear, I love you tenderly.” Josephine yearned all the more eagerly for happiness as a mother, because as wife she suffered cruelly, and the torments of jealousy were added to her grief at the Emperor’s absence.

To one of the last letters his wife had written from Mayence Napoleon answered in an undated letter which she received in Paris: “My dear, your letter of January 20, has pained me much; it is too sad. That is the result of excessive piety! You tell me that your happiness makes your glory. That is ungenerous; you ought to say, the happiness of others makes my glory. It is not like a mother; you ought to say, the happiness of my children is my glory. It is not like a wife; you ought to say, my husband’s happiness makes my glory. Now, since the nation, your husband, your children cannot be happy without a little glory, you should not despise it. Josephine, you have a good heart, but a weak head; your feelings are most admirable; you reason less well. But that is enough squabbling; I want you to be merry, content with your lot, and to obey, not grumbling and crying, but cheerfully and happily. Good by, my dear. I’m off to-night, to inspect my outposts.” It must be confessed that to be as merry as the Emperor demanded, Josephine would have needed a very exceptional character. Her husband was at the other end of Europe, never interrupting the intense emotions and great risks of a colossal struggle except for brief distractions, which, however, could not be agreeable, so suspicious and jealous as she was.

Constant, the Emperor’s valet de chambre, has recounted in his Memoirs, the passion with which a beautiful Polish lady inspired his master, early in 1807. Napoleon spent the whole month of January at Warsaw in a great palace. The Polish nobility gave him magnificent balls, and at one of them he noticed a young woman of twenty-two, Madame V., who had recently married an old nobleman, a most worthy man of stern principles and severe nature. By the side of her aged husband, this young woman, whose sadness and melancholy only added to her beauty, was like a victim in waiting for a consoler. She was a charming person, with light hair, blue eyes, a brilliant complexion, a graceful figure, and dignified carriage. The Emperor went up to her, addressed her, and was soon delighted by her conversation. He imagined that she was unhappily married and he at once conceived a warm love for her, intenser and far more serious than any he had ever felt for one of his favorites. The next day he was noticeably restless. He would get up and walk about, then sit down only to get on his feet again. “I thought,” Constant goes on, “that I should never get him dressed that day. Immediately after breakfast he despatched a great personage, whose name I shall not give, to pay a visit to Madame V., and carry his regards and entreaties. She proudly refused to listen to his propositions, possibly on account of their suddenness, or, it may be, by natural coquetry. The hero had pleased her; the thought of having a lover resplendent with power and glory fascinated her, but she had no idea of yielding without a struggle. The grand personage returned in great surprise and compassion at the failure of his negotiation.”

Constant says that he found his master the next morning very busy. The Emperor had written many letters the previous evening to the Polish lady, who had made no reply. His pride was wounded by a resistance to which he had not been accustomed since he had become great. At last, however, he had written so many, and such ardent and touching letters, that she consented to visit him one evening between ten and eleven. The grand personage who had tried to make the negotiations, was ordered to go to a remote spot and receive the lady in a carriage. Napoleon paced the room while awaiting her, betraying emotion and impatience. “At last Madame V. arrived,” says Constant, whose master kept asking him what time it was. “She was in a most pitiable condition, pale, silent, her eyes full of tears. As soon as she appeared, I led her to the Emperor’s room. She could scarcely stand and she was trembling as she leaned on my arm. Then I withdrew with the great personage who had brought her. During her interview with the Emperor, Madame V. wept and sobbed so that I could overhear her even at a great distance. At about two in the morning, the Emperor called me. I went to him and saw Madame V. going away, with her handkerchief at her eyes, weeping freely. The same personage carried her away. I thought she would never come back.” But, contrary to his expectations, Madame V. came back two or three days later at about the same hour; she seemed calmer, her eyes were less red, her face not so pale, and she continued her visits during the Emperor’s stay. Evidently Josephine had good grounds for jealousy.

Napoleon interrupted these distractions by going forth to fight the battle of Eylau, one of the bloodiest and most obstinate combats known to history. He described it in two letters to the Empress, written in the same day. This is the first:–

“Eylau, February 9, 1803, 3 A.M. MY DEAR: We had a great battle yesterday. I was victorious, but our loss was heavy; that of the enemy, which was even greater, is no consolation for me. I write you these few lines myself, though I am very tired, to tell you that I am well and love you. Ever yours.”

This is the second:–

“Eylau, February 9, 6 P.M. I write a word lest you should be anxious. The evening lost the battle; forty cannon, ten flags, twelve thousand prisoners, suffering horribly. I lost sixteen hundred killed and three to four thousand wounded. Your cousin, Tascher, is unhurt. I have placed him on my staff as artillery officer. Corbineau was killed by a shell. I was exceedingly attached to him; he was an excellent officer, and I am deeply distressed. My Horse Guard covered itself with glory. D’Allemagne is dangerously wounded. Good by, my dear.”

The Emperor did not tell everything to Josephine; he said nothing about the terrible vicissitudes of the battle, a victory scarcely to be distinguished from a defeat; he kept silence about the cruel sufferings of his army which, without having eaten, had fought amid blinding snow beneath a leaden sky; he said no word about the regiments destroyed, one in particular, from colonel to drummers, all killed or wounded; he did not mention his own danger in the cemetery on the hill, where he had stood surrounded by his Guard, his last resource, anxiously watching the fight from its beginning, slashing the snow with his whip, and exclaiming at the approach of the Russian Grenadiers as they advanced towards him, “What audacity!” He did not say that after the terrible and fruitless bloodshed, which both armies claimed as a victory, he had been obliged to withdraw, and that Bennigsen had taken possession of the hotly disputed battle- field. He did not say what he was about to say in his bulletins: “Imagine, on a space a league square, nine or ten thousand corpses; four or five thousand dead horses; lines of Russian knapsacks; fragments of guns and sabres: the earth covered with bullets, shells, supplies; twenty-four cannon, surrounded by their artillery-men, slain just as they were trying to take their guns away; and all that in plainest relief on the stretch of snow.” He did not quote the words he uttered in the biting frost, in face of thousands of dead and dying, when the gloomy day was sinking into a night of anguish: “This sight is one to fill rulers with a love of peace and a horror of war.” No; the Emperor did not tell her everything.

In another letter, dated Eylau, February 11, 8 A.M., the Emperor tried to reassure the Empress: “I send you a line: you must have been very anxious, I fought the enemy on a memorable day which cost me many brave men. The bad weather drove me into winter quarters. Do not distress yourself, I beg of you; it will all be over soon, and my delight at seeing you once more will soon make me forget my fatigue. Besides, I have never been better. Little Tascher, of the fourth of the line, did well; and he had a hard experience. I have given him a place near me, in the artillery; so his troubles are over. The young man interests me. Good by, my dear; a thousand kisses.”

From this moment the Emperor’s letters to his wife became cold, short, dull, and utterly insignificant; speaking of nothing but the rain, or the good weather, and perpetually bidding her to be cheerful. A clear-witted person ought to see readily that Napoleon, who was otherwise occupied, wrote to the Empress only from a sense of duty. Here are four letters; the first from Landsberg, the other three from Liebstadt. February 18: “I write a line. I am well. I am busy putting the army into winter quarters. It is raining and thawing like April. We have not yet had a cold day. Good by, my dear. Yours ever.” February 20: “I write a line that you may not be anxious. My health is good, and everything is in good condition. I have put the army into winter quarters. It is a curious season, freezing and thawing, damp and changeable. Good by, my dear.” February 21: “I have yours of February 4, and am glad to hear that you are well. Paris will give you cheerfulness and rest; the return to your usual habits will restore your health. I am wonderfully well. The weather and the country are wretched. Everything is in good condition; it freezes and thaws every day; it is a most singular winter. Good by, my dear. I think of you, and am anxious to hear that you are contented, cheerful, and happy. Ever yours.” February 22: “I have your letter of the 8th. I am glad to hear that you have been to the Opera, and that you mean to receive every week. Go to the theatre occasionally, and always sit in the grand box. I am pleased with the festivities given to you. I am very well. The weather continues unsettled, freezing and thawing. I have put the army into winter quarters to rest it. Don’t be sad, and believe that I love you.”

Towards the end of February Napoleon had established his headquarters at Osterode, where he lived in a sort of barn, from which he governed his Empire and controlled Europe. He wrote to his brother Joseph, March 1, about the sufferings of this severe campaign in Poland. “The staff- officers have not taken off their clothes for two months, and some not for four, I have myself been a fortnight without taking off my boots…. We are deep in the snow and mud, without wine, brandy, or bread, living on meat and potatoes, making long marches and counter-marches, without any comforts, and generally fighting with the bayonets under grape-shot; the wounded have to be carried in open sleighs for fifty leagues…. We are making war in all its excitement and horror.” It is easy to see that Josephine, who knew all this, had good grounds for anxiety. Paris was empty and gloomy; every face was sad. France is easily tired of everything, even of glory. The auditors of the Council of State, who were sent to Osterode to carry to the Emperor the reports of the different ministers, returned to Paris in deep distress at the sights they had seen, and spread alarm in official circles. Napoleon consequently decided that those reports should be brought to him by staff-officers, who were more inured to scenes of distress.

From headquarters at Osterode the Emperor sent eleven letters to the Empress between February 23 and April 1, 1807, but he said nothing of importance in them. Thus: “Try to pass your time agreeably; don’t be anxious. I am in a wretched village where I shall be some time; it’s not so pleasant as a large city. I tell you again, I have never been so well; you will find me much stouter…. I have ordered what you want for Malmaison; be happy and cheerful; that’s what I desire. I am waiting for good weather, which must come soon. I love you, and want to hear that you are contented and cheerful. You will hear a good deal of nonsense about the battle of Eylau; the bulletin tells everything; its report of the losses is rather exaggerated than cut down.” At the same time he somewhat reproved his wife: “I am sorry to hear that there is a renewal of the mischievous talk such as there was in your drawing-room at Mayence; put a stop to it. I shall be much annoyed if you don’t find some clue. You let yourself be distressed by the talk of people who ought to cheer you up. I recommend to you a little firmness, and to learn how to put everybody in his place. My dear, you must not go to the small theatres in private boxes; it does not suit your rank; you ought to go only to the four large theatres and always sit in the Imperial box. If you want to please me, you must live as you did when I was in Paris. Then you did not go to the small theatres or such places. You ought always to go to the Imperial box. For your life at home, you must have regular receptions; that is the only way of winning my approval. Greatness has its inconveniences. An Empress can’t go about everywhere like a commoner.”

The greatness which the Emperor spoke about was no consolation to Josephine. She was unhappier beneath the gilded ceilings of the Tuileries than a peasant woman in a hovel. She besought her husband to let her join him in Poland, and wrote to him despairing letters.

Napoleon answered from Osterode, March 27: “My dear, I am much pained by your letters. You must not die: you are well and have no real cause of grief. I think you ought to go to Saint Cloud in May. but you ought to spend April in Paris…. You must not think of travelling this summer; all that is impossible. You couldn’t be racing through inns and camps. I am as anxious as you can be to see you and be quiet. I understand other things than war; but duty is before everything. All my life I have sacrificed everything–peace, interest, happiness–to my destiny.” These phrases in no way consoled Josephine who knew very well that her husband, in spite of his assumption of Spartan austerity; occasionally indulged in distractions.

In the month of March something occurred which somewhat moderated the Empress’s sufferings. Her daughter-in-law, the Vice-Queen of Italy, gave birth at Milan, on the 17th, to a daughter who was named Josephine Maximilienne Augusta. She it was who was to marry, in 1827, Oscar, Crown Prince and later King of Sweden. “You will hear with pleasure,” the Empress wrote Queen Hortense, “of the Princess Augusta’s happy delivery. Eugene is delighted with his daughter; his only complaint is that she sleeps too much, so that he can’t see her as much as he would like.” Josephine would gladly have gone to Milan to congratulate her son and to kiss her granddaughter, but her grandeur kept her in Paris, where the prolongation of her husband’s absence and the torments of too well justified jealousy plunged her into the deepest gloom.

Napoleon became tired of the monotonous and excessively disagreeable stay at Osterode, where he could not receive the Polish lady to whom he became continually more and more attached. Early in April he installed himself at Finkenstein, in a pretty castle belonging to a Prussian crown official, and there he was very comfortably quartered with his staff and military household. It was from thence that he wrote, April 2, the following short letter to Josephine: “My dear, I send you a line. I have just moved my headquarters to a very pretty castle, like that of Bessières, where I have a number of open fireplaces, which is very pleasant for me, as I get up often in the night; I like to see the fire. My health is perfect, the weather is fine, but still cold. The thermometer is but a few degrees from freezing. Good by, my dear. Ever yours.” As soon as Napoleon was settled in this castle his first thought was to send for the Polish lady, for whom he had fitted up an apartment near his own. She left at Warsaw her old husband, who never consented to see her again, and spent three weeks with the Emperor. “They took all their meals together,” says Constant. “I was the only one in attendance, so I was able to overhear their talk which was always amiable, lively, and eager on the part of the Emperor, always tender, affectionate and melancholy on the part of Madame V. When His Majesty was away Madame V. spent all her time in reading or looking through the blinds of the Emperor’s room at the parades and drills going on in the courtyard of the castle, which he often directed in person.” Constant, who felt bound to admire his master’s choice, adds with some feeling: “The Emperor appeared, to appreciate perfectly the interesting qualities of this angelic woman, whose gentle, unselfish character left on me an impression that can never fade… Her life, like her nature, was calm and uniform. Her character fascinated the Emperor and bound him down to her.” This loving idyl, a sort of interlude in the tragedy of war, may have suited Constant’s taste, but it was hardly of a nature to please Josephine, who, like most jealous people, knew almost always what she wanted to know, and from the Tuileries found means to watch what was going on in this distant castle.

Napoleon’s letters to Josephine during the reign of Madame V. were shorter and more stupid than usual. They were merely a few lines on the weather, the Emperor’s health, or his desire to hear that his wife was “cheerful and happy.” But, alas! cheerfulness and happiness were not for her! Too astute to be hoodwinked, she understood that her husband still had a friendly feeling for her but that his love was dead. In the eyes of a jealous woman, friendship is a slight thing. What does she care for the esteem and attentions of a friend who was once her lover? To all the good services of friendship she would a thousand times prefer the anger, fury, violence, of love.

XXII.

THE DEATH OF THE YOUNG NAPOLEON.

Queen Hortense was no happier in her Holland palaces than was the Empress in the Tuileries. She had to endure all the grief, deception, and misery of an ill-assorted marriage. The incompatibility of disposition which existed between her husband and herself from the first days of their married life, made itself continually more felt. King Louis blamed his wife not merely for her faults, but also for her good qualities. He was sometimes annoyed because she was gracious, amiable, charming; and the general sympathy she aroused in Holland, as in France, excited the fears of this irritable and sullen husband. Hortense looked upon herself as a victim. She had a lively imagination, and exaggerated her grief to herself, suffering more keenly on account of her excitement, which was often very great. One day she said to Madame de Rémusat, her intimate and admiring friend, that her life was so painful and apparently so hopeless that when she was at one of her villas near the sea, and looked out on the ocean where were the English fleets blockading her ports, she wished that chance might bring a ship to where she was, and she might be carried off a prisoner.

The conjugal infelicities of Louis and his wife attracted the attention of the Emperor, who kept as strict a guard over his family as over his Empire, and was as prompt to exercise control in private, as in political matters. He wanted his brother to obey him, both as King and husband, and in his discontent at seeing his orders disobeyed, he wrote to him, from the depths of Poland, April 4, 1807, this reproachful letter, which is a real reprimand: “Your quarrels with the Queen have become public. Show, then, in private life some of that paternal and effeminate character which you display in matters of government, and in business the same rigor you exercise in your household. You treat a young woman as we treat a regiment…. You have an excellent and most virtuous wife and you make her unhappy. Let her dance as much as she pleases; she is young. My wife is forty; I wrote to her from the battle-field to go to a ball. And you want a young woman of twenty, who sees her life flitting, and has every illusion, to live in a cloister, or to be always washing her baby like a nurse. You are too much _you_ in your household, and not enough in your administration. I should not say all this to you except for the interest I have for you. Make the mother of your children happy; you have one way to do this: that is, by showing her esteem and confidence. Unfortunately your wife is too virtuous; if you had married a coquette she would lead you by the end of your nose. But you have a proud wife who is afflicted and distressed by the mere thought that you may have a bad opinion of her. You ought to have married any one of a number of women whom I know in Paris; she would have had no difficulty in getting ahead of you and would have kept you at her feet. It is not my fault, I have often told your wife so.” Thus the Emperor, by taking part in behalf of his daughter-in-law and against his brother, took a position as arbiter in their domestic quarrels. This interference was all the more galling to Louis,–who would have liked to be master in both his own kingdom and in his own house,– that calumny, as he well knew, persisted in representing the Emperor as his rival in Hortense’s love, and as the father of the Crown Prince.

This child was named Napoleon Charles. He was born in Paris, October 10, 1802. His grandmother, Josephine, nourished the hope that some day he might be heir to the Empire, and she regarded his birth as a pledge of final reconciliation between the Bonapartes and the Beauharnaises. She believed that his cradle saved her from divorce. The Emperor, who always liked children, was especially fond of his nephew. He watched his growth with the keenest interest, admiring his amiability, his precocity, his excellent disposition, The boy was really remarkable for intelligence and beauty. His large blue eyes reflected every mood of his mind. Good, loving, frank, and merry, he needed only to appear and all sadness was banished. His mother had brought him up to revere the Emperor. His father, the King, gave him new toys every day, choosing those he thought most attractive. The boy preferred those he received from his uncle, and when his father said, “But just see, Napoleon, those are ugly; mine are prettier.” “No,” said the young Prince, “those are very pretty, my uncle gave them to me.” One morning on his way to see the Emperor, he passed through a drawing-room where happened to be among others, Murat, then Grand Duke of Berg. The young Napoleon walked straight ahead without paying attention to any one, and when Murat stopped him and said, “Don’t you mean to say good-morning to me?” the child replied, “No; not before my uncle the Emperor.” Who knows? if this little Prince had lived the Emperor might have desired no other heir, and perhaps the divorce would never have taken place.

This boy was his mother’s hope and pride, her joy and consolation. His father, too, loved him much. He was a light in the darkness, a rainbow after the storm. Sometimes when his parents were quarrelling he succeeded in reconciling them. He used to take his father by the hand, who gladly let himself be led by this little angel, and then he would say in a caressing tone: “Kiss her, papa, I beg of you”; then he was perfectly happy when his father and mother exchanged a kiss of peace.

The little Prince had a sudden attack of croup in the night of May 4, 1807. He was thought to be lost, but in the evening he was a little better, and the physicians had some hope of saving him. The improvement lasted but a few minutes. In the course of the day he was given some English powders, which lent him a feverish strength, so that at six in the evening he asked for some cards and pictures to play with, but the fever only gave way to his death agony. Towards ten in the evening the child drew his last breath.

No words can describe the unhappy Queen’s despair; she became stony with grief, and fears were felt for her reason. Josephine’s grief was boundless. She did not dare to leave the Empire without the Emperor’s authorization, and so did not go to The Hague, but went in all haste to the Castle of Laeken, near Brussels, whence she wrote to Hortense in the evening of May 14: “I have just readied the Castle of Laeken, my dear daughter, and await you here. Come and give me life; your presence is necessary for me, and you must have need of seeing me and of weeping with your mother. I should have liked to go further, but I was too weak, and besides I had not time to send word to the Emperor. I have summoned courage to come thus far; I hope that you will have enough to come to your mother. Good by, my dear daughter, I am worn out with fatigue and especially with grief.” In the evening of May 15, Hortense arrived at the Castle of Laeken, accompanied by her husband and her sole surviving son. She was motionless, apathetic, the figure of despair. M. de Rémusat, who was with the Empress, wrote the next day to his wife: “The Queen has but one thought, the loss she has suffered; she speaks of only one thing, of _him_. Not a tear, but a cold calm, an almost absolute silence about everything, and when she speaks she wrings every one’s heart. If she sees any one whom she has ever seen with her son, she looks at him with kindliness and interest, and says, ‘You know he is dead.’ When she first saw her mother, she said to her: ‘It’s not long since he was here with me. I held him on my knees thus.’ Seeing me a few minutes later, she made a sign for me to come forward. ‘Do you remember Mayence? He acted with us.’ She heard ten o’clock strike; she turned to one of the ladies and said, ‘You know it was at ten that he died.’ That is the only way she breaks her almost continual silence. With all that, she is kind, sensible, perfectly reasonable; she thoroughly understands her condition, and even speaks of it. She says she is glad that she has fallen into this numb state, otherwise her sufferings would have been too intense. Some one asked her if she was much moved when she saw her mother: ‘No,’ she answered; ‘but I am very glad to have seen her.’ Mention was made of Josephine’s surprise at her lack of emotion on seeing her; ‘Oh, Heavens!’ she said, ‘she must not mind it; that’s the way I am.’ To anything that is asked her on any other subject, she says, ‘It’s all the same to me; do as you please.'”

A messenger had been sent to carry the news to the Emperor, who was much affected by hearing it. He wrote to Josephine, May 14: “I can well imagine the grief which Napoleon’s death, must cause. You can understand what I suffer. I should like to be with you, that you might be moderate and discreet in your grief. You were happy enough never to lose a child, but that is one of the conditions and penalties attached to our human misery. Let me hear that you are calm and well! Do you want to add to my regret? Good by, my dear.”

May 17 an imposing ceremony took place in Paris–the carrying of the sword of Frederick the Great to the Tuileries. A triumphal chariot, richly decorated, carried the one hundred and eighty flags captured in the last campaign. Marshal Moncey, on horseback, held the hero’s sword. The chariot proceeded to the iron gate of the Invalides, which it was too lofty to pass under. Then the veterans came to take the flags and to carry them into the church. The ceremony began with a song of triumph. Marshal Sérurier, Governor of the Invalides, spoke: “We are here,” he said, “to the number of more than nine hundred of those who fought against the great king whose warlike spoils our children have just won. At that time fortune did not always smile upon our valor. The fathers were no less brave than their sons, but they had not the same leader. Yet we can only recall with pride the words of that great man: ‘If I were at the head of the French people, not a cannon would be fired in Europe without my permission’– honorable proof of his esteem for the soldiers who were fighting him. But it was in the reign of a sovereign even greater by his genius, his feats, his moderation, that the French people was to rise to such a height of power and glory. We swear faithfully to guard the treasure which his Imperial and Royal Majesty has entrusted to us.” Then the old church echoed with cries of “We swear it!”

At this ceremony, the eloquent President of the Legislative Body, M. de Fontanes, made a fine speech full of enthusiasm for Napoleon, but respectful to the memory of the great Frederick and to the misfortunes of his successor. He closed with a few words on the grief that the death of the Crown Prince must have caused the Emperor: “Perhaps, at this moment,” he said, “the hero who has saved us is weeping in his tent at the head of three hundred thousand victorious French, and of all the confederate kings and princes who march under his banner. He weeps, and neither the trophies heaped about him, nor the glory of the twenty sceptres he holds so firmly, which even Charlemagne failed to grasp, can distract his thoughts from the coffin of that boy, whose first steps he aided with his triumphant hands, whose promising intelligence he hoped one day to guide. Let him not forget that his domestic woes have been felt like a public calamity, and may a tender expression of the national interest bring him some slight consolation. All our alarm for the future is a more ardent expression of our homage. May fortune be satisfied with this one victim, and while she always favors the plans of the greatest of monarchs, may she not make him pay for his glory by similar misfortunes!”

Doubtless the death of this young child altered the face of things. If he had lived, it would have been for him, and not his brother, to bear the name of Napoleon III., or possibly even of Napoleon II., and apparently the destiny of the world would have been very different. Kingdoms and empires, on what does their fate depend! May 5 was to be a fatal date; the young Prince died May 5, 1807, and fourteen years later to a day his uncle was to die on the rock of Saint Helena.

XXIII.

THE END OF THE WAR.

The Empress brought her daughter Hortense and her grandson Napoleon Louis, a boy a little over two, back to Paris with her, but she had not long the consolation of their presence; before the end of May Hortense was obliged to leave for Cauterets to repair her shattered health. Her mother wrote to her from Saint Cloud, May 27: “I have wept much since your departure; this separation is very painful for me, and the only thing that could enable me