Part 32

“‘I could not say another word,’ continued Josephine. ‘I know not what happened after. I seemed to lose my reason; I became insensible, and when I recovered I found myself in my chamber. Your friend Corvisart and my poor daughter were with me. Bonaparte came to see me in the evening; and oh! Bourrienne, how can I describe to you what I felt at sight of him! even the interest he evinced for me seemed an additional cruelty. Alas! I had good reason to fear ever becoming an empress!’”

The 15th of December, 1809, was the fatal day appointed for the consummation of the divorce. The imperial council of state was convened, and the official announcements of the coming separation were made. Napoleon’s address on this occasion is well known. The prepared response which Josephine attempted to read in acceptation of this cruel decree, was too much for even her marvellous fortitude to endure; and Eugène was obliged to take the paper from his weeping mother, and finish for her the heart-breaking avowal which her quivering lips refused to utter.

Upon the following day the council was again assembled with the imperial family in the grand _salon_ at the Tuileries, to witness the legal consummation of the divorce.

All were in court costume. Napoleon entered the apartment, clothed in the imposing robes of state. Pale as a corpse, he stood leaning against a pillar, with folded arms, motionless as a statue.

Again the poor victim of this cruel sacrifice must appear. The keen-edged knife of the political guillotine of blind ambition must this day perform its final act of political decapitation.

The door opens; a sad figure appears. Some reports clothe this sorrowful, weeping woman in white muslin; others in black satin. As the latter seems more fitting: to this funereal scene, we incline to that supposition, which would surely appear more appropriate than bridal white for this moment of public repudiation.

The graceful woman, bending like a weeping-willow before the storm of sorrow which is crushing her to the earth, walks slowly to the seat prepared for her, followed by her son and daughter. The pallor of death is upon her brow. A coffin would have seemed less cruel than the mocking chair of state waiting for her. Had she been Marie Antoinette upon the scaffold, she could scarcely have suffered more; for Marie Antoinette could at least love her dead husband without reproach; while the living husband of poor Josephine holds in his hand the cruel dagger which is piercing her bleeding heart, and his word tears from her brow her rightful royal diadem of wifehood.

The iniquitous decree is read. The quivering victim must pronounce her own sentence. Pressing her handkerchief to her streaming eyes for a moment, she slowly rises, and the oath of acceptance passes her pallid lips. The pen is handed to her, and she signs her own _death-warrant_; and then glides like a mournful spectre from the grand _salon_ of state, the imperial grandeur of which, together with the presence of her triumphant foes, mock her unutterable woe.

It is the evening of the same day. The weeping woman has still another heart-rending duty to perform. She must take her final farewell of the man who has stabbed her to the heart; of the husband whom she still adores with every heart-beat of her loyal, loving soul; of the emperor who has crowned her, only to tear from her brow his royal gift and bestow it upon another. Was ever woman’s soul torn with such conflicting emotions? Pride and love have fought a terrible battle within her heart, since the cruel public sacrifice of the morning. But love has conquered; yes, so royally conquered, that there is no place left in her soul for aught but overpowering devotion to the adored husband of her heart.

Napoleon had retired to his apartments. His valet was about to be dismissed for the night when the door opens, and upon the threshold stands Josephine!—more irresistible in her infinite sorrow than in her most imperial robes of dazzling splendor. Her tender eyes are glistening through her tears; her hair falls in disordered locks around her quivering face; her hands are clasped in agonizing despair. For one moment she gazes upon the face of him who has been her life and happiness;—then, forgetting all but her overpowering love, she throws herself into his arms, exclaiming, in tones of commingled tenderness and heart-broken anguish,—“My husband!—My husband!”

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

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

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

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

“What a handsome dress!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sire.”

“What was the cause of that malady?”

“Uneasiness of mind—grief.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah! she used to speak of me, then?”

“Often; very often.”

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

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

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

“How? What would she have done?”

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