CHAPTER X

EFFECT ON JOSEPHINE OF DISASTERS IN RUSSIA—ANXIETY DURING CAMPAIGN OF 1813—FLIGHT FROM PARIS—DEATH IN 1814

By the spring of 1812 Josephine had adjusted herself admirably to her new life. She had conquered her suspicions, acquired self-control, taken up useful duties. Her position was recognized by all France. In every quarter she was loved and honored. Never indeed in all her disordered, changeful existence was she so worthy of respect and affection. With every week her power of self-control, her capacity for happiness seemed to grow. In the spring she spent some time with Hortense at the chateau of Saint Leu, the latter’s country home. After she returned to Malmaison, she wrote back a letter which shows to what a large degree she had regained contentment. “The few days I spent with you,” she wrote Hortense, “were very happy, and did me great good. Everybody who comes to see me says that I never looked better, and I am not surprised at it. My health always depends on my experiences, and those with you were sweet and happy.”

In June, the campaign against Russia, for which Napoleon had been preparing for several months, began; but there is no indication that Josephine had any anxiety in seeing the Grand Army set out. Had she not seen the Emperor return from Italy, from Austerlitz, Jena, and Wagram? In July she went to Milan, to remain with the Princess Augusta, Eugène’s wife, through her confinement. She seemed to get great pleasure from her visit. The princess she found charming, the children could not be better, everybody treated her with a consideration and an affection which touched her deeply. She seems to have been happy at Milan for the most natural, wholesome reasons—because her son’s wife is a good woman and loves her husband; because the new granddaughter is a healthy child; because the good people of Milan remember her, and love her.

Josephine took great satisfaction at this time, too, in Eugène’s success. He was, in fact, justifying fully in Russia the good opinion the Emperor had always had of him, and his letters to his mother were almost exultant. “The Emperor gained a great victory over the Russians to-day,” he wrote her on September 8th. “We fought for thirteen hours, and I commanded the left. We all did our duty, and I hope the Emperor is satisfied.” And again, “I write you only two words, my good mother, to tell you that I am well. My corps had a brilliant day yesterday. I had to deal with eight divisions of the enemy from morning until night, and I kept my position. The Emperor is pleased, and you can believe that I am.”

But the joy of victory was not long continued. Moscow was entered on September 15th, 1812. The exultation that the capture of the enemy’s capital caused in France was short-lived. Close upon it came reports of the burning of the city, of the awful cost of the march inland, of the suffering the army was undergoing. When Josephine reached Paris in October, the city was full of sinister reports of defeat. A plot to seize the government, based on a report of Napoleon’s death, had just been suppressed. Her letters from Eugène had talked only of victory. What could it mean? As she listened to the reports afloat and came under the spell of the city’s foreboding, a deadly despair seized her. At the mere mention of Napoleon’s name she wept. Her face carried such woe that her household feared that worse evils had befallen them than they knew of, and Malmaison for weeks was wrapped in gloom.

This was her condition when suddenly it was reported that Napoleon had returned unannounced from Russia. Amazed at the extent of the conspiracy which had arisen in his absence and at the instability of the throne at the mere report of his own death, and fearing still more serious results when the full news of the catastrophe in Russia reached France, the Emperor had driven night and day across Europe to Paris. His presence inspired courage, but it could not close the ears of France to the ghastly stories of the retreat from Moscow, nor blind her eyes to the haggard remnants of men who daily flocked into the city. There was an appearance of gaiety, because the Emperor ordered it; but there was little heart in the winter’s merry-making.

Napoleon’s return did not restore Josephine’s confidence. Her superstition, always lively, asserted itself to the full. The first day of the new year, 1813, was on Friday. Josephine’s presentiments were the darkest. This year would bring Napoleon sorrow and loss, she declared. France was to suffer. Nothing could restore her calm. In all this grief the thought was ever present with her that the divorce was the cause of Napoleon’s misfortunes. He had destroyed his Star. Nor was she by any means alone in this theory. Indeed, it is probable that she had adopted it from others, for many people in France had always believed it. Even in the Grand Army, during the campaign against Russia, soldiers said, after reverses began, that it was because of the divorce. “He shouldn’t have left the old girl,” they put it; “she brought him luck—and us too.”

In the spring of 1813, the Emperor was off again at the head of the army which by feverish efforts he had gathered and equipped. Josephine saw the new campaign begin with foreboding; she watched its doubtful progress with growing dismay, and finally when in November, the French army, defeated, and with its allies daily deserting, crossed the Rhine, her anguish was pitiful. Napoleon’s name was incessantly on her lips, and of everybody who came within her range that knew anything of him she asked a hundred eager questions. How did he look? Was he pale? Did he sleep? Did he believe his Star had deserted him?

When Eugène’s father-in-law, the King of Bavaria, abandoned his alliance with the Emperor, Josephine urged upon her son loyalty and energy; and when Louis Bonaparte moved by his brother’s misfortunes, hurried to offer his services, Josephine pointed out to Hortense, who, she thought, might reasonably expect new annoyance if Louis’s offer was accepted, that her husband’s act was a noble one and that Hortense should view it so. Hortense seems as a matter of fact, to have felt more respect for her husband when she heard of his offer to return than she had for many years.

During the advance of the allies towards Paris and the wonderful resistance Napoleon offered for many weeks, Josephine remained at Malmaison feverishly questioning everybody who came. As the battles grew nearer, she interested herself in hospital work, and set her household to making lint. Now and then she received a note from the Emperor—a characteristic note of triumph—never of fear or complaint. These notes she always retired to read and to weep over, and afterwards she spent hours talking of them to her women.

As the end of March approached the allies were so near Paris that Josephine saw bodies of strangely uniformed men passing and repassing near Malmaison—Cossacks, Austrians, Prussians. What could it all mean? Hortense, at the court of Marie Louise, sent her daily notes, telling her of the hopes and fears of Paris. Invariably these notes were courageous, showing perfect confidence in the final triumph of Napoleon. When at last, on March 28th, Hortense learned that Marie Louise and the court were leaving the city, her indignation was intense. She could do nothing, however. It was her duty to accompany Marie Louise, and she had only time before departing to send a note to Josephine, urging her to go to Navarre.

“My dear Hortense,” Josephine replied, “up to the moment I received your