1800 (18th Pluviose, year VIII.). This constitution named Bonaparte as consul for ten years, and with him two other consuls, who were more his secretaries than his colleagues. Next to him was Cambaceres, as second consul for ten years, and then Lebrun, as third consul for five years.
With these two consuls, Bonaparte, on the 19th of February, 1800, made his solemn entry into the Tuileries. The old century, with its Bourbon throne, its bloody revolution, its horrors, its party passions, had passed away, and the new century found in the Tuileries a hero who wanted to crush all parties with a hand of iron, and to place his foot on the head of the revolution, so as to close the abyss which it had opened, in order to build himself an emperor’s throne over it.
He was for the present satisfied to hear himself called “First Consul;” he was willing for a short time to grant to the two men who sat at his side in the carriage drawn by the six imperial grays, that they should share the power with him, and should consider themselves vested with the same authority. But Cambaceres and Lebrun had a keen ear for the joyful shouts with which the people followed their triumphal march from the Luxemburg to the Tuileries. They knew very well that these shouts and acclamations were not addressed to them, but only to General Bonaparte, the conqueror of Lodi and Arcola, the hero of the pyramids, the “savior of society,” who, on the 18th Brumaire, had rescued France from the terrorists. Both consuls were shrewd enough to draw a lesson from this enthusiasm of the people, and willingly to fall back into the shade rather than to be forced into it. The Tuileries had been appointed for the residence of the three consuls, but the next day after their triumphal entry Cambaceres left the royal palace to take up his abode in the Hotel Elboeuf, on the Place de Carrousel. Lebrun, who at first made the Flora Pavilion his headquarters, soon found it more advisable to take his lodgings elsewhere, and he left the Tuileries, to make his residence in the Faubourg St. Honore.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE TUILERIES.
The Tuileries had again found a master; the halls where Marie Antoinette received her joyous guests, her beautiful lady-friends, were now again alive with elegant female figures, and resounded with gay voices, cheerful laughter, and unaffected pleasantry. The apartments in which Louis XVI. had passed such sad and fearful days, where he had laid with his ministers such nefarious schemes, and where royalty had been trodden down under the feet of the infuriated populace–these rooms were now occupied by the hero who had subdued the people, slain the revolution and restored to France peace and glory.
The Tuileries had again found a master–the throne-room was still vacant and empty, for the first consul of the republic dared not yet lay claim to this throne which the revolution had destroyed, and which the republic had forever removed from France. But if there was no throne in the Tuileries, there was at least a court; and “Madame Etiquette,” driven away from the royal palace since the days of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, had again, though with modest and timid step, slipped into the Tuileries. It is true, she now clandestinely occupied a servant’s room; but the day was not far distant when, as Egeria, she would whisper advice and dictate laws to the ear of the new Numa Pompilius; when all doors would be open to her, and when she alone would, at all times, have access to the mighty lord of France.
In the Luxemburg, the fraternity and the equality of the revolution had been set aside, as, long before, on the 13th Vendemiaire, the liberty of the revolution had been cast away. In the Luxemburg the “citoyenne” Bonaparte had become “Madame” Bonaparte, and the young daughter of the citizeness Josephine heard herself called “Mademoiselle” Hortense!
After the entrance into the Tuileries, fraternity and equality disappeared rapidly, and the distinctions of gentlemen and servants, rulers and subjects, superiors and subordinates, were again introduced. The chief of the administration was surrounded with honors and distinctions; the court, with all its grades, degrees, and titles, was there; it had its courtiers, flatterers, and defamers; and also its brilliant festivities, splendors, and pomp!
It is true this was not the work of a moment, nor so rapid an achievement as the transition from the Luxemburg to the Tuileries, but the introduction of the words “madame” and “monsieur” removed the first obstacle which held the whole French nation bound to the same platform; and a second obstacle had fallen, when permission was granted to all the emigres, with the exception of the royal family, to return to their native country.
The aristocrats of old France returned in vast numbers; they, the bearers of old names of glory, the legitimists, who had fled before the guillotine, now hoped to win again the throne from the consulate.
They kept themselves, however, aloof from the consul, whose greatness and power were derived from the revolution, and who was to them a representative of the rebellious, criminal republic; but they presented themselves to his wife, they brought their homage to Josephine, the born aristocrat, the relative and friend of so many emigrant families, and they hoped, through her influence, to obtain what they dared not ask from the first consul–the re-establishment of the throne of the Bourbons.
These aristocrats knew very well that Josephine longed for the return of the royal family; that in her heart she cherished love and loyalty to the unfortunate royal couple; and that, without any personal ambition, without any desire for fame, but with the devotedness of a royalist, and the affection of a noble, sensitive woman, she sighed for the time when Bonaparte would again restore to the heir of Louis XVI. the throne of the lilies, and recall to France the Count de Lille, to replace him as king on his brother’s throne.
In fact, Josephine had faith in this fairy-tale of her royal heart; she believed in those dreams with which her tender conscience lulled her to repose, whenever she reproached herself, that she, the subject, now walked and gave orders as mistress in this palace of royalty! “Why, indeed, could she not believe in the realization of those dreams, since Bonaparte himself seemed to cherish no further wishes than to rest on his laurels, and to enjoy, in delightful privacy, the peace he had given to France?
“I am looked upon as ambitious,” said Bonaparte one day, in the confidential evening conversations with his friends in Josephine’s drawing-rooms, “I am looked upon as ambitious, and why? Listen, my friends, to what I am going to tell you, and which you may repeat to all. In three years I shall retire from public life; I shall then have about fifty thousand livres income, and that is sufficient for my mode of living. I will get a country residence, since Josephine loves a country life. One thing only I need, and this I claim–I want to be the justice of the peace for my circuit. Now, say, am I ambitious?”
Every one laughed at the strange conceit of Bonaparte, who wished to exchange his present course for the position of a justice of the peace, and Bonaparte chimed in heartily with the laughter.
But Josephine believed those words of Bonaparte, and their echoes had perchance penetrated even to Russia, to the ears of the pretender to the French throne, the Count de Lille, and to the ears of the Count d’Artois, his brother, and they both therefore based their hopes on Josephine’s winning her husband to the cause of the Bourbons.
Both sent their secret emissaries to Paris, to enter into some compact with Josephine, and to prepare their pathway to the throne, after having failed to negotiate directly with Bonaparte, who had repelled all their efforts, and with haughty pride had answered the autograph letter of the Count de Lille.
The Count d’Artois, enlightened by the fruitless efforts of his brother, resorted to another scheme. He sent a female emissary to Paris–not to Bonaparte, but to Josephine. Napoleon himself speaks of it, in his Memorial of St. Helena, as follows:
“The Count d’Artois made his advances in a more eloquent and refined manner. He sent to Paris the Duchess de Guiche, a charming woman, who by the elegance of her manners and by her personal attractions was well calculated to bring to a favorable result the object of her mission. She easily obtained an introduction to Madame Bonaparte, who was acquainted with all the persons of the old court. The beautiful duchess was therefore invited to a dejeuner at Malmaison; and during breakfast, when the conversation ran upon London, the emigrants, and the princes, Madame de Guiche stated that a few days before she had called upon the Count d’Artois. They had spoken of current events, of the future of France, of the royal family, and one of the confidants had asked the prince what would be the reward of the first consul if he re-established the Bourbons! The prince answered: ‘First of all he would be created connetable, with all the privileges attached to that rank, if that were agreeable to him. But that would not be enough; we would erect to him on the Place de Carrousel a tall and costly column, and on it we would raise the statue of Bonaparte crowning the Bourbons.’ A short time after the dejeuner the consul entered, and Josephine had nothing more pressing to do than to relate to him all these details. ‘And have you inquired,’ asked her husband, ‘whether this column would have for a pedestal the corpse of the first consul?’ The beautiful duchess was still present, and with her winning ways she was well calculated to carry her point. ‘I shall ever be happy,’ said she, ‘and grateful for the kindness of Madame Bonaparte in having granted me the opportunity of gazing upon and listening to a great man–a hero.’ But it was all in vain; the Duchess de Guiche the same night received orders to depart immediately; and the beauty of this emissary appeared to Josephine too dangerous for her urgently to intercede in her behalf. Early next morning Madame de Guiche was on her way to the frontier.” [Footnote: “Memorial de Ste. Helene,” vol. i., p. 34.]
The Count de Lille chose for his mediator a very devoted servant, the most skilful of all his agents, the Marquis de Clermont Gallerande. He also was kindly received by Josephine, and he found access to her ear. With intense sympathy, and tears in her eyes, she bade him tell her the sad wanderings of that unfortunate man, “his majesty the King of France,” and who as a fugitive was barely tolerated, roaming from court to court, a protege of the good-will of foreign potentates. Drawn away by her generous heart, and by her unswerving loyalty to the faith of her childhood, she spoke enthusiastically of the young royal couple who once had ruled in the Tuileries; and she went so far as to express the hope that Bonaparte would again make good what the revolution had destroyed, and that he would restore to the King of France his lost throne.
The Marquis de Clermont, to prove to her what confidence he reposed in her, and what consideration the King of France entertained for the first consul and his adored wife, communicated to her a letter from the Count de Lille to him, which was in itself a masterpiece, well calculated to move the heart of Josephine.
The Count de Lille portrayed in this letter first the dangers which would threaten Bonaparte if he should allow himself to be drawn into the inconsiderate and criminal step of placing the crown of France on his own head, and then continued:
“Sitting upon a volcano, Bonaparte would sooner or later be destroyed by it if he hastens not in due time to close the crater. Sitting upon the first step of the throne restored by his own hand, he would be the object of a monarch’s gratitude; he would receive from France the highest regards, the more pure since they would be the result of his administration and of public esteem. No one can convince him of these truths better than she whose fortune is bound up with his, who can be happy only in his happiness and honored only in his reputation. I consider it a great point gained if you can come into some relation with her. I know her sentiments from days of old. The Count de Vermeuil, ex-governor of the Antilles, whose judgment as you know is most excellent, has told me more than once that in Martinique he had often noticed how her fealty to the crown deepened nearly to distraction; and the protection which she grants to my faithful subjects who appeal to her, entitles her justly to the name you give her, ‘an angel of goodness.’ Let my sentiments be known to Madame Bonaparte. You will not surprise her, but I flatter myself that her soul will rejoice to know them.” [Footnote: Thibaudeau, “Histoire de la France, et de Napoleon Bonaparte,” vol. ii., p. 202.]
The Count de Lille was not deceived. Josephine’s heart was filled with joy at this confidence of the “King of France;” she was pleased that the Marquis de Clermont had fulfilled his wishes, and that he should with this letter have sent her a present. She read it with a countenance full of enthusiasm, and with a tremulous voice, to her daughter Hortense, whom she had educated to be as good a royalist as herself; and both mother and daughter besieged, with earnest petitions, with tears and prayers, and every expression of love, the first consul to realize the hopes of the Count de Lille, and to recall the exiled prince to his kingdom.
Bonaparte usually replied to all these requests with a silent smile; sometimes also, when they were too violent and pressing, he repelled them with unwilling vehemence.
“These women belong entirely to the devil!” said he, in his anger to Bourrienne, “they are mad for royalty. The Faubourg St. Germain has turned their heads, they are made the protecting genii of the royalists; but they do not trouble me, and I am not displeased with them.”
Bourrienne ventured to warn Josephine, and to call her attention to this, that she might not so strongly plead before Bonaparte for the Count de Lille, but Josephine answered him with a sad smile: “I wish I could persuade him to call back the king, lest he himself may have the idea of becoming such; for the fear that he may do this always awakens in me a foreboding of evil, which I cannot banish from my mind.” [Footnote: Bourrienne, vol. iv., p. 108.]
But until the king was really recalled by the first consul, Josephine had to be pleased to assume the place of queen in the Tuileries, and to accept the homage which France and soon all Europe brought to her. For now that the republic was firmly established, and had made peace with the foreign powers, they sent their ambassadors to the republic, and were received in the name of France by the first consul and his wife.
It was indeed an important and significant moment when Josephine for the first time in her apartments received the ambassadors of the foreign powers. It is true no one called this “to give audience;” no one spoke yet in genuine courtier’s style of “great levee” or “little levee;” the appellation of “madame” was yet in use, and there was no court-marshal, no maids of honor, no chamberlains of the palace. But the substance was the same, and, instead of the high court-marshal, it was Talleyrand, the secretary for foreign affairs, who introduced to Josephine the ambassadors, and who called their names.
This introduction of the ambassadors was the first grand ceremony which, since the revolution, had taken place in the Tuileries. With exquisite tact, Josephine had carefully avoided at this festivity any pomp, any luxury of toilet. In a plain white muslin dress, her beautiful brown hair bound up in a string of white pearls, and holding Talleyrand’s hand, she entered the great reception hall, in which the foreign ambassadors, the generals, and the high dignitaries of the republic were gathered. She came without pretension or ostentation, but at her appearance a murmur of admiration ran through the company, and brought on her cheeks the timid blush of a young maiden. With the assurance of an accomplished lady of the world she received the salutations of the ambassadors, knew how to speak to each a gracious word, how to entertain them, not with those worn-out, stereotyped phrases customary at royal presentations, but in an interesting, intellectual manner, which at once opened the way to an exciting, witty, and unaffected conversation.
Every one was enchanted with her, and from this day not only the French aristocracy, but all distinguished foreigners who came to Paris, were anxious to obtain the honor of a reception in the drawing-room of the wife of the first consul; from this day Josephine was the admiration of Europe, as she had already been that of France and Italy. As the wife of the first consul of France she could be observed and noticed by all Europe, and it is certainly a most remarkable and unheard-of circumstance that of all these thousands of eyes directed at her, none could find in her a stain or blemish; that, though neither beautiful nor young, her sweet disposition and grace so enchanted every one as to be accepted as substitutes for them, while on account of her goodness and generosity her very failings and weaknesses were overlooked, being interwoven with so many virtues.
Constant, the first chamberlain of Bonaparte, who, at the time Bonaparte was elected first consul, entered his service, describes Josephine’s appearance and character in the following manner:
“Napoleon’s wife was of medium size; her figure was moulded with rare perfection; her movements had a softness and an elasticity which gave to her walk something ethereal, without diminishing the majesty of a sovereign. Her very expressive physiognomy mirrored all the emotions of her soul without losing aught of the enchanting gentleness which was the very substance of her character. At the moment of joy or merriment she was beautiful to behold. Never did a woman more than she justify the expression that the eyes were the mirror of the soul. Hers were of a deep-blue color, shadowed by long, slightly-curved lids, and overarched by the most beautiful eyebrows in the world, and her simple look attracted you toward her as if by an irresistible power. It was difficult for Josephine to give to this bewitching look an appearance of severity, yet she knew how to make it imposing when she chose. Her hair was beautiful, long, and soft; its light-brown color agreed marvellously well with her complexion, which was a mixture of delicacy and freshness. At the dawn of her lofty power the empress was fond of putting on for a head-dress a red Madras, which gave her the piquant appearance of a creole. But what more than any thing else contributed to the charm which invested her whole person was the sweet tone of her voice. How often it has happened to me and to many others amid our occupations, as soon as this voice was heard, to remain still for the sake of enjoying the pleasure of hearing it! It might be said, perhaps, that the empress was not a beautiful woman; but her countenance, so full of expression and goodness, the angelic grace which was shed over her whole person, placed her among the most charming women of the world.”
Further on, speaking of her character, he continues:
“Goodness was as inseparable from her character as grace from her person. Good even to weakness, sensitive beyond all expression, generous to extravagance, she was the delight of all those who were round about her; certain it is that there never was a woman more loved and more deservedly loved by those who approached her than Josephine. As she had known what adversity was, she was full of compassion for the sorrows of others; with a pleasant, equable temperament, full of condescension alike to foe and friend, she carried peace wherever discord or disunion existed; if the emperor was displeased with his brothers, or with any other person, she uttered words of affection, and soon restored harmony. She possessed a wondrous tact, a rare sentiment of what was becoming, and the soundest and most unerring judgment one can possibly imagine. Besides all this, Josephine had a remarkable memory, to which the emperor would often appeal. She was a good reader, and had a peculiar charm of her own which accorded with all her movements. Napoleon preferred her to all his other readers.” [Footnote: Constant, “Memoires,” vol. i., pp. 21, 39; vol. ii., p. 70.]
The Duke de Rovigo, the Duchess d’Abrantes, Mdlle. Ducrest, the niece of the Countess de Genlis, Mdlle. d’Avrillon, General Lafayette, in a word, all who have written about that period who knew Josephine, bear similar testimony to her amiable disposition and her superior virtues.
In the same manner the man for whom, as Mdlle. Ducrest says, “she would gladly have given her life,” Napoleon, in his conversations with his confidential friends at St. Helena, ever spoke of her. “In all positions of life, Josephine’s demeanor and actions were always pleasant or bewitching,” said he. “It would have been impossible ever to surprise her, however intrusive you might be, so as to produce a disagreeable impression. I always found her in the same humor; she had the same amiable complacency; she was good, gentle, and ever devoted to her husband in true affection. He never saw her in bad humor; she was always constantly busy in endeavoring to please him.” [Footnote: “Memorial de Ste. Helene,” vol. i. pp. 38, 79.]
And she pleased him more than any other woman; he loved her in these happy days of the consulate with all the affection of the first days of his marriage; his heart might now and then be drawn aside from her to other women, but it always returned true and loving to her.
And this woman, whom the future King of France called an “angel of goodness,” and the future Emperor of France, “grace in person,” is the one who entered the Tuileries at Bonaparte’s side to bring again into France the tone of good society, refinement of manners, intellectual conversation, and a love for the arts and sciences.
She was fully conscious of this mission, and devoted herself with all the strength, energy, and perseverance of her character. Her drawing-room soon became the central rendezvous of men of science, art, learning, politics, and diplomacy, and to each Josephine knew how to address friendly and captivating words; she knew how to encourage every one by her noble affability, by her respectful interest in their works and plans–so much so that all strove to do as well as possible, and in her presence appeared more amiable than they otherwise would perhaps have been. Alongside of the distinguished men of every rank were seen the choicest company of ladies, young, beautiful, and captivating; the most intelligent women of the Faubourg St. Germain were not ashamed to appear in the drawing-room of the wife of the first consul, and thought that the glory of their old aristocratic names would not be tarnished by association with Madame Bonaparte, who by birth belonged to them, and formed a sort of connecting link between the departed royalty of the last century and the republicans of the present.
This republicanism was soon to hide itself behind the columns and mirrors of the large hall of reception in the Tuileries. Bonaparte– the first consul, and shortly to be consul for life–would have nothing to do with this republicanism, which reminded him of the days of terrorism, anarchy, and the guillotine; and the words “Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity,” which the revolution had written over the portals of the Tuileries, were obliterated by the consul of the republic. France had been sufficiently bled, and had suffered enough for these three words; it was now to rest under the shadow of legal order and of severe discipline, after its golden morning-dream of youth’s enchanting hopes.
Bonaparte was to re-establish order and law; Josephine was to remodel society and the saloon; her mission was to unite the aristocracy of ancient France with the parvenues of the new; she was to be to the latter a teacher of refinement, and of the genuine manners and habits of so-called good society.
To accomplish this, the wife of the first consul needed the assistance of some ladies of those circles who had remained in lofty, haughty isolation; she needed the co-operation of the ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain. It is true they made their morning calls, and invited the former Viscountess de Beauharnais, with her daughter, to their evening receptions; but they carefully avoided being present at the evening circles of Madame Bonaparte, where their exclusiveness was beset with the danger of coming in contact with some “parvenu,” or with some sprig of the army, or of the financial bureaus. Josephine therefore had to recruit her troops herself in the Faubourg St. Germain, so as to bring into her saloon the necessary contingent of the old legitimist aristocracy, and she found what she desired in a lady with whom she had been acquainted as Viscountess de Beauharnais, and who then had ever shown herself kind and friendly. This lady was the Countess de Montesson, the morganatic wife of the Duke d’Orleans, the father of the Duke Philippe Egalite, who, after betraying the monarchy to the revolution, was betrayed by the revolution, and, like his royal relatives, Louis and Marie Antoinette, had perished on the scaffold!
Soon after his entrance into the Tuileries, the first consul invited, through his wife, the Countess de Montesson to visit him, and when she was announced he advanced to meet her with an unusual expression of friendship, and endeavored with great condescension to make her say in what manner he could please her or be of service to her.
“General,” said Madame de Montesson, much surprised, “I have no right whatever to claim any thing from you.”
Bonaparte smiled. “You are mistaken,” said he; “I have been under many obligations to you for a long time past. Do you not know that to you I am indebted for my first laurels? You came with the Duke d’Orleans to Brienne for the purpose of distributing the prizes at the great examination, and when you placed on my head the laurel- crown, which has since been followed by others, you said, ‘May it bring you happiness!’ It is commonly believed that I am a fatalist; it is therefore very natural that I should not have forgotten my first coronation, and that it is still fresh in my memory. It would afford me much pleasure to be of service to you; besides, you can be useful to me. The tone of good society has nearly perished in France; we would like to renew it again with your assistance. I need some of the traditions of days gone by–you can assist my wife with them; and when a distinguished foreigner comes to Paris you can give him a reception which will convince him that nowhere else can so much gentleness and amiableness be found.” [Footnote: “Memoires de Mdlle. Ducrest,” vol. i., p. 9.]
That Madame de Montesson might have a striking proof of Bonaparte’s good-will, he renewed her yearly pension of one hundred and eighty thousand francs, which the duke had donated to her in his will, and which Bonaparte restored to her as the property which the revolution had confiscated for the nation’s welfare. She manifested her gratitude to the first consul for this liberal pension by opening the saloons to the “parvenues of the Tuileries;” and leading the aristocrats of the Faubourg St. Germain into the drawing-rooms of Josephine, and then assisting her to form out of these elements a court whose lofty and brilliant centre was to be Josephine herself. The ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain were no longer ashamed to appear at the new court of the Tuileries, but excused themselves by saying: “We flatter Josephine, so as to keep her on our side, and to strengthen her loyalty to the king. She will, by her entrancing eloquence, persuade the consul to recall our King Louis XVIII., and give him his crown.”
But too soon, alas! were they made aware of their error. It was not long before they became convinced that, if Bonaparte’s hands were busy in raising a throne, in lifting up from the earth the fallen crown of royalty, he was not doing this to place it on the brow of the Count de Lille; he had a nearer object in view–he considered his own head better suited to wear it.
The conqueror of terrorism and of the revolution was not inclined to be defeated by the enemies of the republic, who were approaching the frontiers of France, to restore the Bourbons. He took up the glove which Austria had thrown down–for she had made alliance with England.
On the 6th of May, 1800, Bonaparte left Paris, marched with his army over Mount St. Bernard, and assumed the chief command of the army in Italy, which recently had suffered so many disastrous defeats from Suwarrow and the Archduke Charles.
At Marengo, on the 14th of June, Bonaparte obtained a brilliant triumph. Soon after, at Hohenlinden, Moreau also defeated the Austrians. These two decisive victories forced Austria to make peace with France, to abandon her alliance with England–that is to say, with the monarchical principles; and, at the peace ratified in the beginning of the year 1801 at Limeville, to concede to France the grand-duchy of Tuscany.
In July, Bonaparte returned in triumph to France, and was received by the people with enthusiastic acclamations. Paris was brilliantly illuminated on the day of his return, and round about the Tuileries arose the shouts of the people, who with applauding voices demanded to see the conqueror of Marengo, and would not remain quiet until he appeared on the balcony. Even Bonaparte was touched by this enthusiasm of the French people; as he retreated from the balcony and retired into his cabinet, he said to Bourrienne. “Listen! The people shout again and again; they still send their acclamations toward me. I love those sounds; they are nearly as sweet as Josephine’s voice. How proud and happy I am to be loved by such a people!” [Footnote: Bourrienne, vol. v., p. 35.]
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE INFERNAL MACHINE.
The victory of Marengo, which had pleased the people, had filled the royalists with terror and fear, and destroyed their hopes of a speedy restoration of the monarchy, making them conscious of its fruitless pretensions. With the frenzy of hatred and the bitterness of revenge they turned against the first consul, who was not now their expected savior of the monarchy, but a usurper who wanted to gain France for himself.
The royalists and the republicans united for the same object. Both parties longed to destroy Bonaparte: the one to re-establish the republic of the year 1793, and the other the throne of the Bourbons. Everywhere conspiracies and secret associations were organized, and the watchful and active police discovered in a few months more than ten plots, the aim of which was to murder Bonaparte.
Josephine heard this with sorrow and fear, with tears of anxiety and love. She had now given her whole heart and soul to Bonaparte, and it was the torment of martyrdom to see him every day threatened by assassins and by invisible foes, who from dark and hidden places drew their daggers at him. Her love surrounded him with vigilant friends and servants, who sought to discover every danger and to remove it from his path.
When he was coming to Malmaison, Josephine before his arrival would send her servants to search every hiding-place in the park, to see if in some shady grove a murderer might not be secreted; she entreated Junot or Murat to send scouts from Paris on the road to Malmaison to remove all suspicious persons from it. Yet her heart trembled with anxiety when she knew him to be on the way, and, when he had safely arrived, she would receive him with rapture, as if he had just escaped an imminent danger, and would make him laugh by the exclamations of joy with which she greeted him as one saved from danger.
In the anxiety of her watchful love she made herself acquainted with all the details of the discovered conspiracies of both the Jacobins and royalists. She knew there were two permanent conspiracies at work, though their leaders had been discovered and led into prison.
One of these conspiracies had been organized by the old Jacobins, the republicans of the Convention; and these bands of the “enraged,” as they called themselves, numbered in their ranks all the enemies of constitutional order, all the men of the revolution of 1789; and all these men had sworn with solemn oaths to kill Bonaparte, and to deliver the republic from her greatest and most dangerous enemy.
The other conspiracy, which had its ramifications throughout France, was formed by the royalists. “The Society of the White Mantle” was mostly composed of Chouans, daring men of Vendee, who were ever ready to sacrifice their lives to the mere notion of royalty, and who like the Jacobins had sworn to murder Bonaparte.
Chevalier, who, with his ingenious infernal machine, sought to kill Bonaparte on his way to Malmaison, belonged to the Society of the White Mantle. But he was betrayed by his confidant and associate Becyer, who assisted the police to arrest him. To the conspiracy of the “enraged” belonged the Italians Ceracchi, Arena, and Diana, who at the opera, when the consul appeared in his loge, and was greeted by the acclamations of the people, were ready to fire their pistols at him. But at the moment they were about to commit the deed from behind the side-scenes, where they had hidden themselves, they were seized, arrested, and led to prison by the police. Josephine, as already said, knew all these conspiracies; she trembled for Bonaparte’s life, and yet she could not prevent him from appearing in public, and she herself, smiling and apparently unsuspecting, had to appear at Bonaparte’s side at the grand parades, in the national festivities, and at the theatrical performances; no feature on her face was to betray the anxiety she was enduring.
One day, however, not only Bonaparte’s life but also that of Josephine, was imperilled by the conspirators; the famous infernal machine which had been placed on their way to the opera, would have killed the first consul and his wife, if a red Persian shawl had not saved them both.
At the grand opera, that evening, was to be performed Joseph Haydn’s masterpiece, “The Creation.” The Parisians awaited this performance with great expectation; they rushed to the opera, not only to hear the oratorio, the fame of which had spread from Vienna to Paris, but also to see Bonaparte and his wife, who it was known would attend the performance.
Josephine had requested Bonaparte to be present at this great musical event, for she knew that the public would be delighted at his presence. He at first manifested no desire to do so, for he was not sufficiently versed in musical matters for it to afford him much enjoyment; and besides, there was but one kind of music he liked, and that was the Italian, the richness of whose melody pleased him, while the German and French left him dissatisfied and weary. However, Bonaparte gave way to the entreaties of Josephine, and resolved to drive to the opera. The dinner that day had been somewhat later than usual, for besides Josephine, her children, and Bonaparte’s sister Caroline, Murat, the Generals Bessieres and Lannes, as well as Bonaparte’s two adjutants, Lebrun and Rapp, had been present. Immediately after dinner they wanted to drive to the opera; but as Josephine lingered behind, busy with the arrangement of her shawl, Bonaparte declared he would drive in advance with the two Generals Bessieres and Lebrun, while Rapp was to accompany the ladies in the second carriage. With his usual rapidity of action he seized his hat and sword, and, followed by his companions, left the room to go to the carriage, which was waiting.
Josephine, who imagined that Bonaparte was waiting for her at the carriage, hurriedly put on, without troubling herself any longer about the becoming arrangement of the folds, a red Persian shawl, which Bonaparte had sent her as a present from Egypt. She was going to leave, when Rapp, with the openness of a soldier, made the remark that she had not put on her shawl to-day with her accustomed elegance. She smiled, and begged him to arrange it after the fashion of Egyptian ladies. Rapp laughingly hastened to comply with her wishes; and while Josephine, Madame Murat, and Hortense, watched attentively the arrangement of the shawl in the hands of Rapp, Bonaparte’s carriage was heard moving away.
This noise put a speedy end to all further movements, and Josephine, with the ladies and Rapp, hastened to follow Bonaparte. Their carriage had no sooner reached the Place de Carrousel, than an appalling explosion was heard, and a bright flame like a lightning- flash filled the whole place with its glare; at the same moment the windows of the carriage were broken into fragments, which flew in every direction into the carriage, and one of which penetrated so deep into the arm of Hortense, that the blood gushed out. Josephine uttered a cry of horror–“Bonaparte is murdered!” At the same moment were heard loud shrieks and groans.
Rapp, seized with fear, and only thinking that Bonaparte was in danger, sprang out of the carriage, and, careless of the wounded and bleeding, who lay near, ran onward to the opera to find out if Bonaparte had safely reached there. While the ladies, in mortal agony, remained on the Place de Carrousel, not knowing whether to return to the Tuileries or to drive forward, a messenger arrived at full speed to announce that the first consul had not been hurt, and that he was waiting for his wife in his loge, and begged her to come without delay. Meanwhile Rapp had reached the opera, and had penetrated into the box of the first consul. Bonaparte was seated calmly and unmoved in his accustomed place, examining the audience through his glass, and now and then addressing a few words to the secretary of police, Fouche, who stood near him. No sooner did Bonaparte see Rapp, than he said hastily, and in a low voice– “Josephine?”
At that moment she entered, followed by Madame Murat and Hortense. Bonaparte saluted them with a smile, and with a look of unfathomable love he extended his hand to Josephine. She was still pale and trembling, although she had no conception of the greatness of the danger which had menaced her.
Bonaparte endeavored to quiet her by stating that the explosion was probably the result of some accident or imprudence; but at this moment the prefect of the police entered who had been on the spot, and had come to give a report of the dreadful effects of the explosion. Fifteen persons had been killed, more than thirty had been severely wounded, and about forty houses seriously damaged. This was all the work of a so-called infernal machine–a small barrel filled with powder and quicksilver–which had been placed in a little carriage at the entrance of the Hue St. Nicaise.
Until now Josephine did not realize the extent of the danger which had threatened her and her husband. Had the explosion taken place a few moments before, it would have killed the consul; if it had been one minute later, Josephine and her companions would have been involved in the catastrophe. It was the shawl which Rapp was arranging on her shoulders according to the rules of art, which caused them to retard their departure, and thus saved her life.
An inexpressible horror now seized her and made her tremble; her looks, full of love and deep anguish, were fixed on Bonaparte, who, in a low voice, entreated her to compose herself, and not to make her distress public. Near Josephine sat Hortense, pale and agitated, like her mother; around her wounded arm was wrapped a handkerchief, stained here and there with blood. Madame Murat was quiet and composed, like Bonaparte, who was then giving instructions to the prefect of police to provide immediate assistance for the unfortunate persons who had been wounded.
No one yet in the audience knew the appalling event. The thundering noise had been heard, but it was presumed to have been an artillery salute, and no evil was suspected, for Bonaparte, with his usual guards, had entered his box, and, advancing to its very edge, had saluted the public in a friendly way. This act of the first consul had its ordinary effect: the audience, indifferent to the music, rose and saluted their hero with loud acclamation and applause. Not till Josephine entered the loge had the acclamations subsided, and the music begun again. A few minutes after, the news of the fearful event spread all over the house: a murmur arose, and the music was interrupted anew.
The Duchess d’Abrantes, who was present at this scene, gives a faithful, eloquent, and graphic picture of it:
“A vague noise,” says she, “began to spread from the parterre to the orchestra, and from the amphitheatre to the boxes. Soon the news of the occurrence was known all over the house, when, like a sudden clap of thunder, an acclamation burst forth, and the whole audience, with a single undivided look of love, seemed to desire to embrace Bonaparte. What I am narrating I have seen, and I am not the only one who saw it. … What excitement followed this first explosion of national anger, which at this moment was represented by the audience, whose horror at the dark plot cannot be described with words! Women were seen weeping and sobbing; men, pale as death, trembled with vengeance and anger, whatever might have been the political standard which they followed; all hearts and hands were united to prove that difference of opinion creates no difference in the interpretation of the code of honor. During the whole scene my eyes were fixed on the loge of the consul. He was quiet, and only seemed moved when public sentiment gave utterance to strong expressive words about the conspiracy, and these reached him. Madame Bonaparte was not fully composed. Her countenance was disturbed; even her attitude, generally so very graceful, was no longer under her control. She seemed to tremble under her shawl as under a protecting canopy, and in fact it was this shawl which had saved her from destruction. She was weeping; however much she endeavored to compose herself, she could not repress her tears; they would flow, against her will, down her pale cheeks, and, whenever Josephine fixed her eyes upon her husband, she trembled again. Even her daughter seemed extremely agitated, and Madame Murat alone preserved the family character, and seemed entirely herself.” [Footnote: Duchess d’Abrantes, “Memoires,” vol. ii., p. 66.]
At last, when the public excitement was somewhat abated, and the music was again resumed, the audience turned its attention to Hadyn’s masterpiece. But Josephine had not the strength to bear this effort, and to submit to it quietly. She entreated her husband to retire with her and the ladies; and when at last he acceded to her request, and had quietly left the loge with her, Josephine sat by him in the carriage, opposite Caroline and Hortense, and, sobbing, threw herself on Bonaparte’s breast, and cried out in her anguish:
“What a life, where I must ever be trembling for you!”
The infernal machine did not kill the first consul, but it gave to liberty and to the republic a fatal blow; it scattered into fragments what remained of the revolutionary institutions from the days of blood and terror. France rose up in disgust and horror against the party which made of assassins its companions, and consequently this conspiracy failed to accomplish what its originators had expected. They wanted to destroy Bonaparte and ruin his power, but this abortive attempt only increased his popularity, enlarged his power, and deepened the people’s love for him who now appeared to them as a protecting rampart, and a barrier to the flood of anarchy.
France gave herself up trembling, and without a will of her own, into the hands of the hero to whom she was indebted for fame and recognition by foreign powers, and through whom she hoped to secure domestic peace. France longed for a strong arm to support her; Bonaparte gave her this arm, but it not only supported France, it bowed her down; and from this day he placed the reins on the wild republican steed, and let it feel that it had found a master who had the power and the will to direct it entirely in accordance with his wishes.
Bonaparte was determined to put an end to the seditions and conspiracies of the republicans, whom he hated because they had for their aim the downfall of all legitimate authority; and in turn was hated by them because he had abandoned their standard and turned against the republic with the faithlessness of a son who attacks the mother that gave him birth. Bonaparte maintained that it was the republicans who had set the infernal machine on his path, and paid no attention to the opinion of Fouche, who ascribed to the royalists the origin of the plot. Bonaparte wished first to do away with his most violent and bitter enemies, the republicans of the year 1789; he desired to possess the power of punishing such, and to render them harmless, and now the horror produced by this criminal act came to his assistance in carrying out this plan.
The council of the state adopted the legislative enactment that the consuls should have “the power to remove from Paris those persons whose presence they considered dangerous to the public security, and that all such persons who should leave their place of banishment should be transported from the country!”
Under this law, George Cadoudal, Chevalier, Arena, Ceracchi, and many others were executed; and one hundred and thirty persons, whose only crime was that of being suspected of dissatisfaction toward the administration of the consuls, and considered as Bonaparte’s enemies, were transported to Cayenne.
Such were for France the results of this infernal machine, the object of which was to assassinate the Consul Bonaparte, instead of which it had only the effect of destroying his enemies and strengthening his power.
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE CASHMERES AND THE LETTER.
As mighty events always exercise an influence on minor ones, so this fearful attempt at murder became the occasion for the introduction into France of a new branch of industry, which had hitherto drawn millions from Europe to the East.
Josephine, gratefully remembering her truly wonderful deliverance through the means of her Persian shawl, wore it afterward in preference to any other. Until then she had never fancied it, for when Bonaparte sent it to her from Egypt, she wrote to him: “I have received the shawl. It may be very beautiful and very costly, but I find it unsightly. Its great advantage consists in its lightness. I doubt, however, if this new fashion will meet with approbation. Notwithstanding, I am pleased with it, for it is rare and warm.” [Footnote: “Memoires sur l’Imperatrice,” par Mademoiselle Ducrest, vol. iii., p. 227.]
But after it had saved her life, she no longer thought it unsightly, she was fond of wrapping herself up in it, and the natural consequence was, that these Persian shawls soon formed the most fashionable and costly article of apparel.
Every lady of the higher classes considered it a necessity to cover her tender shoulders with this valuable foreign material, and it soon became “comme il faut” a duty of position, to possess a collection of such Persian shawls, and to wear them at the balls and receptions in the Tuileries.
The desire to possess such a precious article of fashion led these ladies oftentimes to “corriger la fortune” and to obtain, by some bold but not very creditable act, possession of such a shawl, which had now become in a certain measure the escutcheon of the new French aristocracy.
The Duchess d’Abrantes, in reference to this matter, relates two thefts which at that time troubled the aristocratic society of the Tuileries, which prove that the ladies had taken instructions from the gentlemen, and that dishonest persons of both sexes were admitted into the society of heroes and their beautiful wives!
At a morning reception in the Tuileries, the shawl of the Countess de St. Martin had been stolen; and this lady was very much distressed at the loss, for this cashmere was not only a present from Madame Murat, but was one of uncommon beauty, on account of the rarity of the design, consisting of paroquets in artistic groups, instead of the ordinary palm. The countess was therefore untiring in recounting to every one her irreparable loss, and uttered bitter curses against the bold female who had stolen her treasure.
“A few weeks later,” relates the duchess, “at a ball given by the minister Talleyrand, the countess came toward me with a bright countenance and told me that she had just now found her shawl, and, strange to say, upon the shoulders of a young lady at the ball!
“‘But,’ said I to her, ‘you will not accuse this lady before the whole company!’
“‘And why not?’
“‘Because that would be wrong. Leave this matter to me.’
“She would not at first, but I pressed the subject on her consideration, and she agreed at length to remain somewhat behind, while I approached the young lady, who stood near the door, and was just going to leave the ballroom. I told her in a low voice that in all probability she had made a mistake; that she had perhaps mislaid her own cashmere, and had through carelessness taken the shawl of the Countess de St. Martin.
“I was as polite as I could possibly be in such a communication; but the young lady looked at me unpleasantly for such an impertinent intrusion, and replied that ‘since the time the Countess de St. Martin had deafened the ears of every one with the story of her stolen shawl, she had had ample leisure to recognize as her property the cashmere she wore.’ Her mother, who stood a few steps from her, and was conversing with another lady, turned toward her when she heard her daughter speak in so loud a voice. But the Countess de St. Martin, who had overheard that she ‘had deafened the ears of every one with the story of her stolen shawl,’ rushed in to the rescue of her case.
“‘This cashmere belongs to me,’ said she, haughtily–seizing, at the same time, the shawl with one hand, while the young lady with her fist thrust her back violently. I saw that in a moment they would come to blows.
“‘It will be easy to end this difficulty,’ said I to the Countess de St. Martin. ‘Madame will be kind enough to tell us where she has purchased this shawl which is so much like yours, and then you will see your mistake, and be satisfied.’
“‘It does not suit me to tell where I got this shawl,’ replied the lady, looking at me contemptuously; ‘there is no necessity for my telling you where I purchased it.’
“‘Well, then,’ exclaimed eagerly the Countess de St. Martin, ‘you confess, madame, that the shawl really belongs to you?’
“The other answered with a sarcastic smile, and drew the shawl closer to her shoulders. A few persons, attracted by the strangeness of such a scene, had gathered around us, and seemed to wait for the end of so extraordinary an event.
“The countess continued with a loud voice:
“‘Well, then, madame, since the shawl belongs to you, you can explain to me why the name of Christine, which is my first name, is embroidered in red silk on the small edging. Madame Junot will be kind enough to look for this name.’
“The young woman became pale as death. I shall never during my life forget the despairing look which she gave me, as with trembling hand she passed me the shawl, just as her father appeared from a room near the place of the scene. I took the cashmere with an unsteady hand, and sought reluctantly for the name of Christine, for I trusted she would at least have taken it out; but the deathly paleness of the guilty one told the contrary, and in fact I had no sooner unfolded the shawl, than the name appeared, embroidered at the narrow edging.
“‘Ah!’ at last exclaimed the countess, in a triumphant tone, ‘I have–‘ but as she raised her eyes to the young woman, she was touched by her despairing look. ‘Well, then,’ cried she, ‘this is one of those mistakes which so often happen. To-morrow I will return your cashmere.–We have exchanged cashmeres,’ said she, turning to the young lady’s father, who, surprised at seeing her naked shoulders, gazed at his daughter, not understanding the matter. ‘You will have the goodness to send me my shawl to-morrow,’ added she, noticing how the young woman trembled.
“We returned into the ballroom, and the next day the young lady sent to the Countess de St. Martin her precious shawl.
“Something similar to this happened at the same time to Madame Hamelin. She was at a ball; when rising from her seat to join in a contra-dance, she left there a very beautiful black shawl; when she returned, her shawl was no longer there, but she saw it on the shoulders of a well-known and distinguished lady. Approaching her, she said:
“‘Madame, you have my shawl!’
“‘Not at all, madame!’
“‘But, madame, this is my shawl, and, as an evidence, I can state the number of its palms–it has exactly thirteen, a very unusual number!’
“‘My shawl has also, by chance, precisely thirteen palms.’
“‘But,’ said Madame Hamelin, ‘I have torn it since I came here. You can see where it is torn, and by that means I recognize my shawl.’
“‘Ah, my goodness! my shawl has also been torn; that is precisely why I bought it, for I obtained it on that account somewhat cheaper.’
“It is useless to dispute with a person who is determined to follow Basil’s receipt, that ‘what is worth taking is worth keeping.’ Madame Hamelin lost her shawl, and had, as a sole consolation, the petty vengeance of relating to everybody how it was taken, and of pointing out the thief, who was in the meanwhile perfectly shameless.” [Footnote: Abrantes, “Memoires,” vol. ix., pp. 70-76.]
No one, however, had a larger and more choice selection of these cashmere shawls than Josephine. Mdlle. Ducrest relates that the deceased empress had more than one hundred and fifty of the most magnificent and costly cashmere shawls. She had sent to Constantinople patterns from which she had them made there, as pleasing to the eye as they were costly and precious. Every week M. Lenormant, the first man-milliner in Paris, came to Navarra, the country residence of the empress, and brought his most beautiful shawls for her selection. The empress possessed several (having a white ground covered with roses, violets, paroquets, peacocks, and other objects of beauty hitherto unknown in France) each of which cost from fifteen to twenty thousand francs.
The empress went so far in her passion for cashmeres as to have dresses made of the same material. One day she had put on one of these dresses, which was so beautiful, that some gentlemen invited to dinner could not withhold their admiration. One of them, Count Pourtales, thought that this splendid material would be well adapted for a gentleman’s vest. Josephine, in her large-heartedness, had a pair of scissors brought; she then cut her dress into several pieces sufficiently large for a vest, and divided them among the gentlemen present, so that only the bodice of the dress remained, with a small piece around the waist But this improvised spencer over the white richly-embroidered under-dress, was so exceedingly becoming to the empress, and brought out so exquisitely her beautiful bust, and slender graceful waist, that it would have been easy to consider as a piece of coquetry what was simply Josephine’s spontaneous generosity. [Footnote: Mademoiselle Ducrest.]
Josephine, however, did not so assiduously attend to her cashmere shawls as to forget the unfortunate victims of the infernal machine. On the contrary, she saw with deep pain how every one was busy in inculpating others, and in casting suspicions on royalists and Jacobins, so as to give a pretext to punish them. She noticed that all those who wished to gain the consul’s favor were zealous in spying out fresh culprits, for it was well known that Bonaparte was inclined to make of all hostile parties a terrible example, so that, through the severity of the punishment and the number of the punished, he might deter the dissatisfied from any further plots.
Josephine’s compassionate heart was distressed, through sympathy for so many unfortunate persons, whom wicked men maliciously were endeavoring to drag into guilt, so as to have them punished; and the injustice which the judges manifested at every hearing filled her with anger and horror. Ever ready to help the needy, and to protect the persecuted, she addressed herself to Fouche, the minister of police, and requested him to use mildness and compassion. She wrote to him:
“Citizen minister, while trembling at the frightful calamity which has taken place, I feel uneasy and pained at the fear of the punishments which hang over the poor creatures who, I am told, belong to families with which I have been connected in days past. I shall therefore be appealed to by mothers, sisters, and despairing wives; my heart will be lacerated by the sad consciousness that I cannot obtain pardon for all those who implore it.
“The generosity of the consul is great, his affection for me is boundless, I know it well; but the crime is of so awful a nature that he will deem it necessary to make an example of extreme severity. The supreme magistrate was not alone exposed to danger– many others were killed and wounded by this sad event, and it is this which will make the consul severe and implacable.
“I conjure you, then, citizen minister, to avoid extending your researches too far, and not always to spy out new persons who might be compromised by this horrible machine. Must France, which has been held in terror by so many executions, have to sigh over new victims? Is it not much more important to appease the minds of the people than to excite them by new terrors? Finally, would it not be advisable, so soon as the originators of this awful crime are captured, to have compassion and mercy upon subordinate persons who may have been entangled in it through dangerous sophisms and fanatical sentiments?
“Barely vested with the supreme authority, ought not the first consul study to win the hearts rather than to make slaves of his people? Moderate, therefore, by your advice, where in his first excitement he may be too severe. To punish is, alas, too often necessary! To pardon is, I trust, still more. In a word, be a protector to the unfortunate who, through their confession or repentance, have already made in part penance for their guilt.
“As I myself, without any fault on my part, nearly lost my life in the revolution, you can easily understand that I take an interest in those who can perhaps be saved without thereby endangering my husband’s life, which is so precious to me and to France. I therefore earnestly desire that you will make a distinction between the leaders of this conspiracy and those who, from fear or weakness, have been seduced into bringing upon themselves a portion of the guilt. As a woman, a wife, a mother, I can readily feel for all the heart-rending agonies of those families which appeal to me.
“Do what you possibly can, citizen minister, to diminish their numbers; you will thereby spare me much anxiety. I can never be deaf to the cries of distress from the needy; but in this matter you can do a great deal more than I can, and therefore pardon what may seem strange in my pleadings with you.
“Believe in my gratitude and loyalty of sentiment.
“JOSEPHINE.” [Footnote: Ducrest, “Memoires,” vol. iii., p. 231.]
CHAPTER XXXVI.
MALMAISON.
In the Tuileries the first consul, with his wife, resided in all the pomp and dignity of his new office. There he was the sovereign, the commander; there he ruled, and, like a king, all bowed to him; the people humbled themselves and recognized him as their master.
In the Tuileries etiquette and the stiff pomp of a princely court prevailed more and more. Bonaparte required of his wife that she should there represent the dignity and the grandeur of her new position; that she should appear as the first, the most exalted, and the most unapproachable of women. In the Tuileries there were no more evenings of pleasant social gatherings, of joyous conversation with friends whom affection made equals, and who, in love and admiration, recognizing Bonaparte’s ascendency, brought him of their own free choice their esteem and high consideration. Now, it was all honor and duty; now, the friends of the past wore servants who, for duty’s sake, had to be subservient to their master, and abide by the rules of etiquette, otherwise the frown on their lofty ruler’s brow would bring them back within their bounds.
Josephine was pained at these limits set to her personal freedom–at these claims of etiquette, which did not permit her friends to remain at her side, but strove to exalt above them the wife of the first consul. Her sense of modesty ever accepted the pleasant, genial household affections as more agreeable and more precious than the burdensome representations, levees, and the tediousness of ceremonial receptions; her sense of modesty longed for the quiet and repose of retirement, and she was happy when, at the close of the court festivities, she could return to Malmaison, there to enjoy the coming of spring, the blossoming of summer, and the glorious beauty of autumn with its manifold colors.
In Malmaison were centered all her joys and pleasures. There she could satisfy all the inclinations of her heart, all the fancies of her imagination, all the wants of her mind; there she could be the tender wife and mother, and the faithful friend; there she could receive, without the annoyance of etiquette, men of learning and art; there she could cultivate the soil and devote herself to botany, her favorite study, and to her flowers, the dearest and most faithful friends of her whole life.
Josephine sought for and found in Malmaison her earthly paradise; there she was happy, and the care and the secret anguish which in Paris wove around her heart its network, and every now and then whispered the nefarious words of divorce and separation, followed her not in the beautiful and friendly Malmaison; she left all this in Paris with the stiff Madame Etiquette, who once in the Tuileries had poisoned the existence of the Queen Marie Antoinette, and now sought to intrude herself upon the consulate as an ill-tempered sovereign.
But in Malmaison there was no etiquette, none of the dignified coldness of court-life. There you were allowed to laugh, to jest, and to be happy. In Malmaison the first consul laid aside his gravity; there his gloomy brow brightened, and he became again General Bonaparte, the lover of his Josephine, the confidential companion of his friends, the harmless individual, who seemed to have nothing to require from Heaven but the happiness of the passing hour, and who could laugh at a joke with the same guilelessuess as any other child of the people who never deemed it necessary to cultivate a close intimacy with the grave and gloomy Madame Politique.
It is true Malmaison was not Bonaparte’s sole country residence. The city of Paris had presented him with the pleasure-castle of St. Cloud, the same which Louis XVI. gave to his wife, and where, to the very great annoyance of the proud Parisians, she had for the first time engraven on the regulation-tablets, at the entrance of the park, the fatal words–“De par la Reine.”
Now this royal mansion of pleasure belonged to the first consul of the republic; it was his summer residence, but there he was still the consul, the first magistrate, and the representative of France; and he had there to give receptions, hold levees, receive the ministers, councillors of state, and the foreign ambassadors, and appear in all the pomp and circumstance of his position.
But in Malmaison his countenance and his being were changed. Here he was the cheerful man, enjoying life; he was the joyous companion, the modest land-owner, who with genial delight surveyed the produce of his soil, and even calculated how much profit it could bring him.
“The first consul in Malmaison,” said the English minister, Fox, “the first consul in St. Cloud, and the first consul in the Tuileries, are three different persons, who together form that great and wonderful idea; I should exceedingly like to be able to represent exactly after nature these three portraits; they must be very much alike, and yet very different.”
It is certain, however, that of these three portraits that of the first consul in Malmaison was the most amiable, and that of the first consul of the Tuileries the most imposing.
In Malmaison Bonaparte’s countenance was cheerful and free from care; in the Tuileries he was grave and dignified. On his clouded brow were enthroned great designs; from the deep, dark eyes shot lightnings ready to fire a world–to erect or destroy kingdoms. In Malmaison these eyes with cheerful brilliancy reposed on Josephine; his otherwise earnest lips welcomed there the beloved of his heart with merry pleasantry and spirited raillery; there he loved to see Josephine in simple, modest toilet; and if in the lofty halls of the Tuileries he exacted from the wife of the first consul a brilliant toilet, the bejewelled magnificence of the first lady of France, he was delighted when in Malmaison he saw coming through the green foliage the wife of General Bonaparte in simple white muslin, with a laughing countenance; and with her sweet voice, which he still considered as the finest music he ever heard, she bade welcome to her husband who here was changed into her tender lover.
In Malmaison, Bonaparte would even put off his general’s uniform, and, in his plain gray coat of a soldier, walk through the park in the neighborhood, resting on the arm of his confidant, Duroc, and would begin a friendly conversation with the first farmer he met, perfectly satisfied when in the little man with the gray tightly- buttoned coat, no one suspected or imagined to see the first consul of the republic.
Every Saturday the first consul hastened to the chateau to pass there, as he said, his Sunday, his day of rest; and only on Monday morning did he return to Paris, “to take up his chain again.”
How genial and happy were these days of rest! How eagerly did Josephine labor to make them days of felicity for Bonaparte! how ingenious to prepare for him new festivities and new surprises! and how her eyes brightened when she had succeeded in making Bonaparte joyous and contented!
If the weather was favorable, the whole company in Malmaison, the young generals, with their beautiful, young, and lively wives, who surrounded Bonaparte and Josephine, and of whom a great number belonged to their family, made promenades through the park, then they seated themselves on a fine spot to repeat stories or to indulge in harmless sociable games, in which Bonaparte with the most cheerful alacrity took part. Even down to the game of “catch” and to that of “room-renting” did Bonaparte condescend to play; and as Marie Antoinette with her husband and her court played at blindman’s-buff in the gardens of Trianon, so Bonaparte was pleased on the lawns of Malmaison to play at “room-renting.”
How often after a dark, cloudy morning, when suddenly at noon the skies would become clear and the sunshine break through the clouds, would Bonaparte’s countenance gladden with all the spirit of a school-boy, in the midst of holidays, and, throwing off his coat, laughingly exclaim, “Now come, one and all, and let us rent the room!”
And then on the large, open lawn, surrounded on all sides by tall trees, the first consul with his wife, his generals and their young wives, would begin the exhilarating, harmless child’s-play, forgetful of all care, void of all fear, except that he should lose his tree, and that as a penniless individual having to rent a room he would have to stand in the centre before all eyes, just as first consul he stood before all eyes in the centre of France, and struggled for a place the importance and title of which were known only to his silent soul. But in Malmaison, at the game of “room to let,” Bonaparte had no remembrance whatever of the ambitious wishes of the first consul; the whole world seemed to have set, the memories of his youth passed before his eyes in such beauty, saluting him with the gracious looks of childhood, as nearly to make him an enthusiast.
How often, when on Josephine’s arm, surrounded by a laughing, noisy group of friends, and walking through shady paths, on hearing the bells of the neighboring village chime their vespers, would Bonaparte suddenly interrupt the conversation and stand still to hear them! With a motion of the hand he would command silence, while he listened with a smile of grief to sounds which recalled days long gone by. “These bells remind me of the days of my boyhood,” said he to Josephine; “it seems to me, when I hear them, that I am still in Brienne.”
To keep alive the memories of his school-days in Brienne, he sent for one of his teachers, the Abbe Dupuis, who had been remarkably kind to him, and invited him to Malmaison, to arrange there a library, and to take charge of it; he sent also for the porter of Brienne whose wife he had so severely prohibited from entering the theatre, and made him the porter of the chateau.
In bad weather and on rainy days the whole company gathered in the large drawing-room, and found amusement in playing the various games of cards, in which Bonaparte not only took much interest, but in which he so eagerly played, that he often had recourse to apparent bungling, so as to command success. Adjoining the drawing-room, where conversation and amusements took place, was a room where the company sang and practised music, to the delight of Bonaparte, who often, when one of his favorite tunes was played, would chime in vigorously with the melody, nowise disturbed by the fact that he never could catch the right tune, and that he broke out every time into distressing discordance!
But all songs and music subsided, all plays were interrupted, when Bonaparte, excited perhaps by the approaching twilight, or by some awakened memory, began to relate one of those tragic, fearful stories which no one could tell so well as he. Then, with arms folded behind his back, he slowly paced the drawing-room, and with sinister looks, tragic manner, and sepulchral voice, he would begin the solemn introduction of his narrative:
“When death strikes, at a distance, a person whom we love,” said he, one evening, with a voice tremulous with horror, “a certain foreboding nearly always makes us anticipate the event, and the person, touched by the hand of death, appears to us at the moment we lose him on earth.”
“How very sad and mournful that sounds!” sighed Josephine, as she placed both her arms on Bonaparte’s shoulder, as if she would hold him, and chain him to earth, that he might not vanish away with every ghost-like form.
Bonaparte turned to her with a genial smile, and shook his head at her, so as to assure her of his existence and his love. Then he began his story with all the earnestness and tragic power of an improvisator of ancient Rome. He told how once Louis XIV., in the great gallery of Versailles, received the bulletin of the battle of Friedlingen, and how, unfolding it, he read to the assembled court the names of the slain and of the wounded. Quietness reigned in the splendidly-illumined gallery; and the courtiers in their embroidered coats, who, ordinarily, were so full of merriment and so high- spirited, had, all at once, become thoughtful. They gathered in a circle around the monarch, from whose lips slowly, like falling tears, fell one by one the names of the killed. Here and there the cheeks of their relatives turned pale. Suddenly the Count de Beaugre saw appear, at the farther end of the gallery, stately and ghost- like, the blood-stained figure of his son, who, with eyes wide open, stared at his father, and saluted him with a slight motion of the head, and then glided away through the door. “My son is dead!” cried Count de Beaugre–and, at the very same moment, the king uttered his name as one of the slain!” [Footnote: Bourrienne, “Memoires,” vol. iii., p. 225.]
“Ah! may I never see such a ghost-like figure,” murmured Josephine, drawing closer to her husband. “Bonaparte, promise me that you will never go to war again; that you will keep peace with all the world, so that I may have no cause of alarm!”
“And to tremble at my ghost,” exclaimed Bonaparte, laughing. “Look at this selfish woman, she does not wish me a hero’s death, lest I should appear to her here in the shape of a bloody placard!”
With her small bejewelled hand Josephine closed his mouth, and ordered lights to be brought; she asked Lavalette to play a lively dancing-tune, and cried out to the joyous youthful group, at the head of whom were Hortense and Eugene, to fall in for a dance.
“Nothing more charming,” writes the Duchess d’Abrantes, “could be seen than a ball in Malmaison, made up as it was of the young ladies whom the military family of the first consul brought together, and who, without having the name of it, formed the court of Madame Bonaparte. They were all young, many of them very beautiful; and when this lovely group were dressed in white crape, adorned with flowers, their heads crowned with wreaths as fresh as the hues of their young, laughing, charming faces, it was indeed a bewitching sight to witness the animated and lively dance in these halls, through which walked the first consul, surrounded by the men with whom he discussed and decided the destinies of Europe.” [Footnote: Abrantes, “Memoires,” vol. iii., p. 329.]
But the best and most exciting amusement in Malmaison was the theatre; and nothing delighted Bonaparte so much as this, where the young troop of lovers in the palace performed little operas and vaudevilles, and went through their parts with all the eagerness of real actors, perfectly happy in having the consul and his wife for audience. In Malmaison, Bonaparte abandoned himself with boundless joy to his fondness for the theatre; here he applauded with all the gusto of an amateur, laughed with the laisser-aller of a college-boy at the harmless jokes of the vaudevilles, and here also he took great pleasure in the dramatic performances of Eugene, who excelled especially in comic roles.
Bonaparte had a most convenient stage constructed in Malmaison for his actors; he had the most beautiful costumes made for each new piece, and the actors Talma and Michet had to come every week to the chateau, to give the young people instruction in their parts. The ordinary actors of this theatre in the castle were Eugene and Hortense, Caroline Murat, Lauriston, M. Didelot, the prefect of the palace, some of the officers attached to the establishment, and the Count Bourrienne, the friend of Bonaparte’s youth, who now had become the first secretary of the consul. The pieces which Bonaparte attended with the greatest pleasure were the “Barber of Seville,” and “Mistrust and Malice.” The young and amiable Hortense made an excellent Rosine in the “Barber of Seville,” and Bonaparte never failed to clap his hands in hearty applause to Hortense, when Josephine with cheerful smiles would thank him, for she seemed as proud of her daughter’s talent as of her husband’s applause.
Bourrienne, in his memoirs, gives a faithful description of those evening theatrical performances, and of the happy life enjoyed in Malmaison; he lingers with a sober joy over those beautiful and innocent memories of other days.
“Bonaparte,” says he, “found great pleasure in our dramatic entertainments; he loved to see comedies represented by those who surrounded him, and oftentimes paid us flattering compliments. Though it amused me as much as it did the others, yet I was more than once obliged to call Bonaparte’s attention to the fact that my other occupations did not give me time enough to learn my parts. He then, in his flattering way, said: ‘Ah, Bourrienne, let me alone. You have so excellent a memory! You know that this is an amusement to me! You see that these performances enliven Malmaison and make it cheerful! Josephine is so fond of them! Rise a little earlier!’
“‘It is a fact–I sleep a great deal!’
“‘Allons, Bourrienne, do it to please me; you do make me laugh so heartily! Deprive me not of this pleasure. You know well that otherwise I have but few recreations.’
“‘Ah, parbleu! I will not deprive you of it. I am happy to be able to contribute something to your amusement.’ Consequently I rose earlier, to learn my parts.
“On the theatre days the company at Malmaison was always very large. After the performance a brilliant crowd undulated like waves in the halls of the first story. The most animated and varied conversation took place, and I can truly affirm that cheerfulness and sincerity were the life of those conversations, and their principal charm. Refreshments of all kinds were distributed, and Josephine performed the honors of those gatherings with so much amiableness and complacency that each one might believe she busied herself more with him than with any one else. At the end of the delightful soirees, which generally closed after midnight, we returned to Paris, where the cares of life awaited us.” [Footnote: Bourrienne, “Memoires,” vol. v., p. 26.]
Time was spent not only in festivities and amusements at Malmaison, but sciences and arts also formed there a serious occupation, and it was Josephine who was the prime mover. She invited to the chateau painters, sculptors, musicians, architects, and savants of every profession, and thus to the Graces she added the Arts for companions.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
FLOWERS AND MUSIC.
Above all things, Josephine, in her retreat, devoted her time and leisure hours to botany and to her dear flowers. Alexander Lenoir, the famous architect of that day, had to assist her in enlarging the little castle of Malinaison, and to open more suitable halls for the arts and sciences. Under Josephine’s direction there arose the splendid library-room resting upon columns; it was Josephine who had the beautiful gallery of paintings constructed, and also with remarkable judgment purchased a selection of the finest paintings of the great masters to adorn this gallery. Besides which, she gave to living painters orders of importance, and encouraged them to originate new pieces, that art itself might have a part in the new era of peace and prosperity, which, under the consulate, seemed to spread over France.
Alongside of the paintings Josephine adorned this gallery with the finest antique statues, with a collection of the rarest painted vases of Pompeii, and with ten paintings on cement, memorials of Grecian art, representing the nine Muses and Apollo Mersagetos. These last splendid subjects were a present which the King of Naples had given to Josephine during her residence in Italy. Always attentive not only to promote the arts, but also to help the artists and to increase their reputation, Josephine would buy some new pieces of sculpture, and give them a place in Malmaison. The two most exquisite masterpieces of Canova, “The Dancing-Girl” and “Paris,” were purchased by Josephine at an enormous price for her gallery, whose chief ornament they were.
Her fondness for flowers was such that she spared neither expense nor labor to procure those worthy of Malmaison. She caused also large green-houses and hot-houses to be constructed, the latter suited to the culture of the pineapple and of the peach. In the green-houses were found flowers and plants of every zone, and of all countries. People, knowing her taste for botany, sent her from the most remote places the choicest plants. Even the prince regent of England, the most violent and bitter enemy of the first consul, had high esteem for this taste of Josephine; and during the war, when some French ships, captured by the English, were found to have on board a collection of tropical plants for her, he had them carried with all dispatch to Madame Bonaparte.
Josephine had a lofty aim: she wanted to gather into her hot-houses all the species and families, all the varieties of the tropical plants, and she strove to accomplish this with a perseverance, a zeal, and an earnestness of which no one would have thought her indolent, soft Creole nature capable. To increase her precious collection, she spared neither money nor time, neither supplications nor efforts. All travellers, all seafaring men, who came into her drawing-room were entreated to send plants to Malmaison; and even the secretary of the navy did not fail to give instructions to the captains of vessels sailing to far-distant lands to bring back plants for the wife of the first consul. If it were a matter of purchase, nothing was too expensive, and when, through her fondness for beautiful objects, Josephine’s purse was exhausted, and her means curtailed, she sooner gave up the purchase of a beautiful ornament than that of a rare plant.
The hot-houses of Malmaison caused, therefore, a considerable increase in her expenses, and were a heavy burden to her treasury; and for their sake, when the day of payment came, Josephine had to receive from her husband many severe reproaches, and was forced to shed many a bitter tear. But this, perhaps, made them still dearer; no sooner were the tears dried up and the expenses covered, than Josephine again abandoned herself with renewed zeal to her passion for collecting plants and costly studies in botany, especially since she had succeeded in winning to her person the renowned botanist and learned Bonpland, and in having him appointed superintendent of her gardens and hot-houses. It was Bonpland who cultivated Josephine’s inclination for botany, and exalted her passion into a science. He filled the green-houses of Malmaison with the rarest plants, and taught Josephine at the same time their classifications and sexes, and she quickly proved herself to be a zealous and tractable pupil. She soon learned the names of the plants, as well as their family names, as classified by the naturalists; she became acquainted with their origin and their virtues, and was extremely sad and dejected when, in one of her families, a single species was wanting. But what a joy when this gap was filled! No price was too exorbitant, then, to procure the missing species; and one day she paid for a small, insignificant plant from Chili the high price of three thousand francs, filling Bonpland with ecstasy, but the emperor with deep wrath as soon as he heard it. [Footnote: Avrillon, “Memoires sur l’Imperatrice Josephine.”]
Next to botany, it was music which Josephine delighted in and cultivated. Since the cares and the numerous relations of her diversified life claimed so much of her time, she had abandoned the exercises of music; and it was only at the hour of unusual serenity of mind, or of more lively recollections of the past, that she was heard singing softly one of the songs of her own native isle, even as Bonaparte himself, when he was meditating and deciding about some new campaign, would betray the drift of his thoughts by singing louder and louder the favorite melody of the day, Marlborough s’en va-t-en guerre. But Josephine had the satisfaction that Hortense was not only an excellent performer on the piano and the harp, but that she could also write original compositions, whose softness and harmonious combinations made them popular throughout France. Another satisfaction was, that Eugene sang, in a fine clear voice, with great talent, and that frequently he would by his excellent singing draw even the first consul into loud expressions of admiration.
Bonaparte was not easily satisfied as regards singing; it was seldom that music elicited any commendation from him. The Italian music alone could excite his enthusiasm, and through its impassioned fervor rouse him up, or its humorous passages enliven him. Therefore Bonaparte, when consul or emperor, always patronized the Italian music in preference to any other, and he constantly and publicly expressed this liking, without considering how much he might thereby wound the French artistes in their ambition and love of fame. He therefore appointed an Italian to be first singer at the opera. It is true this was Maestro Paesiello, whose operas were then making their way through Europe, and everywhere meeting with approbation. Bonaparte also was extremely fond of them, and at every opportunity he manifested to the maestro his good-will and approbation. But one day this commendation of Paesiello was changed to the most stinging censure. It was on the occasion of the first representation of Paesiello’s Zingari in Fiera. The first consul and his wife were in their loge, and to show to the public how much he honored and esteemed the composer, he had invited Paesiello to attend the performance in his loge.
Bonaparte followed the performance with the most enthusiastic demonstrations of gratification; he heartily applauded each part, and paid to Paesiello compliments which were the more flattering since every one knew that the lips which uttered them were not profuse in their use. A tenor part had just ended, and its effect had been remarkable. The audience was full of enthusiasm. Bonaparte, who by his hearty applause had given the signal to a storm of cheers, turned toward Paesiello, and, offering him his hand, exclaimed:
“Truly, my dear friend, the man who has composed this melody can boast of being the first composer in Europe!”
Paesiello became pale, his whole body trembled, and, with stammering voice, he said:
“General, this melody is from Cimarosa. I have placed it in my opera merely to please the singers.”
The first consul shrugged his shoulders.
“I am sorry, my dear sir,” said he, “but I cannot recall what I have said.”
The next day, however, he sent to the composer of the opera, as an acknowledgment of his esteem, a magnificent present, with which he no doubt wished to heal the pain which he had unwittingly caused the maestro. But Paesiello possessed a temper easily wounded, and the more so since he considered himself as the first and greatest composer in the world, and was sincere in the opinion that others could compose good music, but that his alone was grand and distinguished.
Bonaparte’s present could not, therefore, heal the wound which the praise of Cimarosa’s melody had inflicted, and this wound was soon to be probed deeper, and become fatal to Paesiello. Another new opera from Paesiello, Proserpina, was to be represented. The first consul, who was anxious to secure for his protege a brilliant success, had given orders to bring it out in the most splendid style; the most beautiful decorations and the richest costumes had been provided, and a stage erected for a ballet, on which the favorite ballet-leaders of Paris were to practise their art.
The mighty first consul was, on the evening of the first performance of the opera of Proserpina, to learn the lesson, that there exists a power which will not be bound in fetters, and which is stronger and more influential than the dictates of the mighty–the power of public opinion. This stood in direct opposition to the first consul, by the voiceless, cold silence with which it received Paesiello’s piece. Bonaparte might applaud as heartily as he pleased, and that might elicit an echo from the group of his favorites, but the public remained unmoved, and Bonaparte had the humiliation to see this opera, notwithstanding his approbation, prove a complete failure. He felt as nervous and excited as the composer himself, for he declared loudly and angrily that the French knew nothing about music, and that it was necessary to teach them that the Italians alone understood the art of composition.
To teach this to the French the opera of Proserpina was to be repeated until the mind of the public should have been educated to its beauty, and they had been forced to acknowledge it. A decided warfare ensued between this opera and the public, each party being determined to have its own way; the authorities persevered in having the performance repeated, and the public kept away from it with equal obstinacy. The latter, however, had the advantage in this case, for they could not be forced to attend where they were unwilling to go, and so they won the victory, and the authorities had to yield.
Paesiello, touched to the quick by the failure of Proserpina, resigned his position as leader, and left Paris to return to Italy. The question now was, how to fill this important and honorable position. The Parisians were excited about this nomination, and divided into two parties, each of which defended its candidate with the greatest zeal, and maintained that he would be the one who would receive Bonaparte’s appointment. The candidates of these two parties were the Frenchman Mehul and the Italian Cherubini. Those who formed the party of Cherubini calculated especially on Bonaparte’s well- known preference for Italian music. They knew that, though he was much attached to Mehul, whom he had known before the expedition to Egypt, and had shown him many favors, yet he had often expressed his contempt for French music, and was committed against him by the very fact of his maintaining that the Italians alone understood the art of musical composition.
Mehul had for a long time endured in silence the criticisms of Bonaparte; he had patiently returned no answer when he repeated to him: “Science, and only science–that is all the French musicians understand; my dear sir, grace, melody, and joyousness, are unknown to you Frenchmen and to the Germans; the Italians alone are masters here.”
One day Mehul, having become tired of these constant discouraging remarks, resolved to let the first consul, who so often gave him bitter pills to swallow, have a taste of them himself.
He went, therefore, to his friend, the poet Marsollier, and begged him to write an extremely lively and extravagant piece, whose design would be absurd enough to make it pass as the work of some Italian pamphlet-writer, and at the same time he enjoined the most profound secrecy.
Marsollier complied willingly with the wishes of his friend, and after a few days he brought him the text for the small opera Irato. With the same alacrity did Mehul sit down to the task of composing, and when the work was done, Marsollier went to the committee of the comic opera to tell them he had just received from Italy a score whose music was so extraordinary that he was fully convinced of its success, and had therefore been to the trouble, notwithstanding the weakness and foolishness of the libretto, to translate the text into French. The committee tried the score, was enchanted with the music, and was fully convinced of the brilliant success of the little opera, inasmuch as the strange and lively text was well adapted to excite the hilarity and the merriment of the public. The first singers of the opera were rivals for the parts; all the newspapers published the pompous advertisement that in a short time would be performed at the Opera Comique a charming, entrancing opera, the maiden piece of a young Italian.
Finally its first performance was announced; the first consul declared that he and his wife would attend, and he invited Mehul, whom he liked to tease and worry, because he loved him from his heart, to attend the performance in his loge.
“It will undoubtedly be a mortification to you, my poor friend,” said he, laughing; “but perhaps when you hear this enchanting music, so different from that of the French, you will imitate it, and cease composing.”
Mehul replied with a bow; he then began to excuse himself from accompanying the first consul to the theatre; and it was only after Bonaparte and Josephine had pressed him very much, that he accepted the invitation, and went with them to their loge.
The opera began, and, immediately after the first melody, Bonaparte applauded and expressed his admiration. There never had been any thing more charming–never had the French written music with so much freshness, elegance, or so naturally. Bonaparte continued his praise, and often-times repeated: “It is certain there is nothing superior to Italian music.”
At last the opera ended amid a real storm of applause; and, with their enthusiasm at the highest pitch, the audience claimed to know the names of the poet and of the composer. After a long pause the curtain rose and the registrar appeared; he made the three customary bows, and in a loud voice named Marsollier as the author and Mehul as the composer of the opera Irato.
The audience received this news with an unceasing storm of applause. They, like the consul and the singers who had taken part in the opera, knew nothing of the mystification, so well had the secret been kept.
Josephine turned smilingly to Bonaparte, and with her own charming grace offered her hand to Mehul and thanked him for the twofold enjoyment he had that day prepared for her, by furnishing her his entrancing opera, and by having prepared a little defeat of Bonaparte, that traitor to his country, who dared prefer the Italian music to the French.
Bonaparte himself looked at the affair on its bright side; he had enjoyed the opera; he had laughed; he was satisfied, and consequently he overlooked the deceitful surprise.
“Conquer me always in this manner!” said he, laughing, to Mehul, “and I shall enjoy both your fame and my amusement.”
The friends of Cherubini thought of this little event when the question arose as to the appointment to the situation of first singer at the Grand Opera, and they therefore did not hesitate to wager that Cherubini would be appointed, since he was an Italian.
But they knew not that Bonaparte had pardoned Mehul, and frequently joked with him, whilst he ever grumbled at Cherubini on account of an expression which the latter had once allowed himself to use against General Bonaparte.
Bonaparte had conversed with Cherubini after a representation of one of his operas, and, while he congratulated him, he however added that this opera did not please him as much as the other pieces of Cherubini–that he thought it somewhat sober and scientific, and that he missed in it the accustomed richness of the maestro’s melodies. This criticism wounded Cherubini as if pierced by a dagger, and with the irritable vehemence of an Italian he replied:
“General, busy yourself in winning battles–that is your trade; but leave me to practise mine, about which you know nothing.”
The Consul Bonaparte had neither forgotten nor pardoned Cherubini’s answer; and, despite his fondness for Italian music, he was resolved to give to Mehul the position vacated by Paesiello.
Josephine approved entirely of this choice, and, in order to witness Mehul’s joy, she invited him to Malmaison, that the consul might there inform him of his appointment. How great, however, was her and Bonaparte’s surprise, when Mehul, instead of being delighted with this distinguished appointment, positively refused to accept it!
“I can accept this position only under one condition,” said Mehul, “which is, that I may be allowed to divide it with my friend Cherubini.”
“Do not speak to me about him,” exclaimed Bonaparte, with animation; “he is a coarse man, and I cannot tolerate him.”
“He may have had the misfortune to displease you,” replied Mehul, eagerly, “but he is a master to us all, and especially as regards sacred music. He now is in a very inferior position; he has a large family, and I sincerely desire to reconcile him to you.”
“I repeat to you that I do not wish to know any thing about him.”
“In that case I must decline the position,” said Mehul, gravely, “and nothing will alter my resolution. I am a member of the Institute–Cherubini is not; I do not wish it to be said that I have misused the good-will with which you honor me for the sake of confiscating to my profit every situation, and of despoiling a man of reputation of the reward to which he is most justly entitled.”
And Mehul, notwithstanding Josephine’s intercession and Bonaparte’s ill-will, remained firm in his decision; he would not accept the honorable and distinguished position of first singer at the Grand Opera; and Bonaparte, after expressing his determination, would not change it. Neither would he confer upon Cherubini the honor refused by Mehnl. He therefore commissioned Josephine to name a successor to Paesiello; and she went to Madame de Montesson, to confer with her on the matter.
Madame de Montesson could suggest no definite plan, but she told Josephine of a French composer, of the name of Lesueur, who, notwithstanding his great talents, lived in his native city of Paris poor and unknown, and who had not succeeded in having his opera, “The Bards,” represented at the Grand Opera, simply on the ground that he was a Frenchman, and that every one knew Bonaparte’s strange aversion to French music.
Josephine’s generous heart at once took sides with Lesueur; her exquisite tact taught her that the public ought to know that the first consul would not consult his own personal gratification, when the question was to render justice to a Frenchman. She therefore recommended to her husband, with all her ability, the poor composer Lesueur, who was unknown to fame, and lost in obscurity; she represented his appointment as such an act of generosity and of policy, that Bonaparte acceded to her wishes at once, and appointed Lesueur to the office of first master of the Grand Opera.
And Josephine had the pleasure of seeing that the new opera-leader justified her expectations. His opera, “The Bards,” was naturally brought into requisition; it had a brilliant and unexampled success, and even Bonaparte, at the first representation, forgot his prejudices against French music, and applauded quite as heartily as if it had been Italian.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
PRELUDE TO THE EMPIRE.
The sun of happiness which for Josephine seemed to shine so brightly over Malmaison, had nevertheless its long shadows and its dark specks; even her gracious countenance was obscured, her heart filled with sad forebodings, and her bosom stung as if by scorpions hidden under flowers.
Josephine had in her immediate circle violent and bitter enemies, who were ever busy in undermining the influence which she possessed over her husband, to steal from his heart the love he cherished for her, and to remove from his side the woman who, by her presence, kept them in the shade, and who wielded or destroyed the influence which they desired to have over him.
These enemies were the brothers and especially the sisters of Bonaparte. Among the brothers of the first consul, Lucien showed to his sister-in-law the most violent and irreconcilable enmity. He left no means untried to do her injury, and to convert her into an object of suspicion, and this because he was convinced that Josephine was the prime cause of the hostile sentiments of Napoleon against him, and because he believed that, Josephine once out of the way, Napoleon’s ear would be open to conviction, and that he, Lucien, the most powerful citizen, next to his brother, would be the second “first consul.” He was not aware that Napoleon’s keen eagle eye had fathomed his ambitious heart; that he was the one who kept Lucien away, because he mistrusted him, because he feared his ambition, and even looked upon him as capable of the bold design of casting Napoleon aside, and setting himself up in his place. Lucien was unaware of the influence which Josephine frequently exerted over the mind of the first consul, in favor of himself; that it was she who had pacified Napoleon’s anger at Lucien’s marriage, contracted without his consent, and prevented him from annulling it violently. The other brothers of Napoleon, influenced, perhaps, by the enmity of Lucien, were also disaffected toward their sister-in-law, and of them all, only Louis, the youngest, the one who loved the first consul most tenderly and most sincerely, showed toward her due respect and affection.
His three sisters were still more active in their opposition. Constantly quarrelling among themselves, they, however, united heartily in the common feeling of hatred to Josephine. It was she who stood in their way, who every day excited anew their anger by the position she held at Napoleon’s side, and in virtue of which the three sisters were thrust into the background. Josephine, the wife of the first consul, was the one to whom France made obeisance, upon whom the ambassadors of foreign powers first waited, and afterward upon the sisters of the first consul. It was Josephine who took the precedence in solemn ceremonies, and to whom, by Bonaparte’s commands, they had to manifest respect. And this woman, who by her eminence placed the sisters of Bonaparte in an inferior position, was not of nobler or more distinguished blood than they; she was not young, she was not beautiful, she was not even able to give birth to a child, for which her husband so intensely longed.
The three sisters might have been submissive to the daughter of a prince, they might have conceded to her the right of precedence, but the widow of the Viscount de Beauharnais was not superior to them in rank or birth; she was far inferior to them in beauty and youth–and yet they had to give way to her, and see her take the first place!
From these sentiments of jealousy and envy sprang the enmity which the three sisters of Bonaparte, Madame Elise Bacciocchi, Madame Pauline Borghese, and Madame Caroline Murat, cherished against Josephine, and which her gentle words and kind heart could never assuage.
Josephine was in their way–she must therefore fall. Such is the key to the right understanding of the conduct of the three beautiful sisters of Napoleon toward the wife of their brother. In their violence they disregarded all propriety, and shrank from no calumny or malice to accomplish their ends. It was a constant warfare with intrigues and malicious suspicions. Every action of Josephine was observed, every step was watched, in the hope of finding something to render her suspicious to her husband. On every occasion the three sisters besieged him with complaints concerning the lofty and proud demeanor of Josephine, and ridiculed him about his old, childless wife, who stood in the way of his growing fame! Though Bonaparte in these conflicts always sided with Josephine against his sisters, yet there probably remained in his heart a sting from the ridicule which they had directed against him.
This hostility of the Bonaparte family was not unknown to Josephine; her soul suffered under these ceaseless attacks, her heart was agonized at the thought that the efforts of her sisters-in-law might finally succeed in withdrawing from her the love of her husband. She was persuaded that even in the Bonaparte family she needed a protector, that she must look for one among the brothers, so as to counteract the enmity of the sisters; and she chose for this Louis Bonaparte. She entreated Napoleon to give to his young, beloved brother the hand of her daughter Hortense. It would be a new bond chaining Bonaparte to her–a new fortress for her love–if he would but make her daughter his sister-in-law, and his brother her son-in- law.
Napoleon did not oppose her wishes; he consented that Hortense should be married to his brother. It is true the young people were not consulted; for the first time, Josephine’s selfishness got the better of her love for her child–she sacrificed the welfare of her daughter to secure her own happiness.
But Hortense loved another, yet she yielded to the entreaties and tears of her mother, and became the wife of this laconic, timid young man, whose meagre, unpretending appearance resembled so little the ideal which her maidenly heart had pictured of her future husband.
Louis on his side had not the slightest inclination for Hortense; he never would have chosen her for his wife, for their characters were too different; their inclinations and wishes were not in sympathy with each other. But through obedience to the wishes of his brother, he accepted the proffered hand of Josephine’s daughter, and became the husband of the beautiful, blond-haired Hortense de Beauharnais.
In February, of the year 1802, the marriage of the young couple took place, and this family event was celebrated with the most magnificent festivities. Josephine’s joy and happiness were complete–she had thrown a bridge over the abyss, and was now secure against the hostilities of her sisters-in-law, by giving up her own daughter.
Every thing was resplendent with beauty and joy at these festivities; every thing wore an appearance of happiness; only the countenances of the newly-married couple were grave and sad, and their deep melancholy contrasted strikingly with the happiness of which they themselves were the cause. Adorned with diamonds and flowers, Hortense appeared to be a stranger to all the pomp which surrounded her, and to be occupied only with her own sad communings. Louis Bonaparte was pale and grave, like Hortense; he seldom addressed a word to the young wife that the orders of his brother had given him; and she avoided her husband’s looks, perhaps to hinder him from reading there the indifference and dislike she felt for him. [Footnote: “Memoires sur l’Imperatrice Josephine, la Cour de Navarre,” etc., par Mlle. Ducrest, vol. i., p. 49.]
But Josephine was happy, for she knew the noble, faithful, and generous spirit of the man to whom she had given her daughter; and she trusted that the two young hearts, now that they were linked together, would soon love one another. She hoped much more from this alliance; she hoped not only to find in it a shield against domestic animosities, but also to give to her husband, even if indirectly, the children he so much desired–for the offspring of his brother and the daughter of his Josephine would be nearly the same as his own, and they could adopt and love them as such. This was Josephine’s hope, the dream of her happiness, when she gave her daughter in marriage to the brother of her husband.
The fact that the first consul was childless was not only a family solicitude, it was also a political question. The people themselves had changed the face of affairs, they had by solemn vote decided to confer the consulate for life upon Napoleon, who had previously been elected for ten years only. In other words, the French people had chosen Bonaparte for their master and ruler, and he now lacked but the title to be king. Every one felt and knew that this consulate for life was but the prelude to royalty; that the golden laurel- wreath of the first consul would soon be converted into a golden crown, so as to secure to France an enduring peace, and to make firm its political situation.
With her keen political instinct, Josephine trembled at the thought that the King or Emperor Bonaparte would have to establish for himself a dynasty–that he would have to appease the apprehensions of France by offering to the nation a son who would be his legitimate heir and successor. Thus was the subject of divorce kept hanging over her head until the conviction was forced upon her mind that some day Napoleon would be led into sacrificing his love to politics. Josephine was conscious of it, and consequently the hopes of Napoleon’s future greatness, which so pleased his brothers and sisters, only made her sorrowful, and she therefore entreated Bonaparte with tender appeal to remain content with the high dignity