But Bonaparte did not like to have his portrait painted. The staring, watchful gaze of an artist was an annoyance to him; it made him restless and anxious, as if he feared that the scrutinizing look at his face might read the secrets of his soul. Yet at Josephine’s tender and pressing request he had consented to its being taken by a young painter, Le Gros, whose distinguished talent had been brought to his notice.
Le Gros came therefore to Montebello, happy in the thought that he could immortalize himself through a successful portrait of the hero whom he honored with all the enthusiasm of a young heart. But he waited in vain three days for Bonaparte to give him a sitting. The general had not one instant to spare for the unfortunate young artist.
At last, at Josephine’s pressing request, Bonaparte consented on the fourth day to sit for him one-quarter of an hour after breakfast. Le Gros came therefore delighted, at the time appointed, into the cabinet of Josephine, and had his easel ready, awaiting the moment when Bonaparte would sit in the arm-chair opposite. But, alas! the painter’s hopes were not to be realized. The general could not bring himself to sit in that arm-chair, doing nothing but keeping his head quiet, so that the painter might copy his features. He had no sooner been seated, than he sprang up suddenly, and declared it was quite impossible to endure such martyrdom.
Le Gros dared not repeat his request, but with tears in his eyes gathered up his painting-materials. Josephine smiled. “I see very well,” said she, “that I must have recourse to some extraordinary means to save for me and for posterity a portrait of the hero of Arcola.”
She sat down in the arm-chair, and beckoned to Le Gros to have his easel in readiness. Then with a tender voice she called Napoleon to her, and opening both arms she drew him down on her lap, and in this way she induced him to sit down quietly a few moments and allow the painter the sight of his face, thus enabling him to sketch the portrait. [Footnote: “Memoires et Souvenirs du Comte Lavalette,” vol. i., p. 168.]
At the end of this peculiar sitting, Bonaparte smilingly promised that he would next day grant the painter a second one, provided Josephine would again have the “extraordinary means” ready. She consented, and for four days in succession Le Gros was enabled to sit before him a quarter of an hour, and throw upon his canvas the features of the general, while he quietly sat on Josephine’s lap.
This picture, which Le Gros thus painted, thanks to the sweet ruse of Josephine, and which was scattered throughout Europe in copperplate prints, represented Bonaparte, with uncovered head, holding a standard in his hand, and with his face turned toward his soldiers, calling on them to follow him as he dashed on the bridge of Arcola, amid a shower of Austrian balls.
It is a beautiful, imposing picture, and contemporaries praised it for its likeness to the hero, but no one could believe that this pale, grave countenance, these gloomy eyes, and earnest lips, which seemed incapable of a smile, were those of Bonaparte as he sat on the lap of his beloved Josephine when Le Gros was painting it.
After three months the time drew nigh when the peace negotiations were to reach a final conclusion, and when it was to be decided if the Emperor of Germany would make peace with the French republic or if he would renew the war.
For three months had the negotiations continued in Montebello—three months of feasts, pleasures, and receptions. To the official and public rejoicings had been also added domestic joys. Madame Letitia came to Italy to warm her happy, proud mother’s heart at the triumphs of her darling son; and she brought with her her daughter Pauline, while the youngest, Caroline, remained behind in Madame Campan’s boarding-school. It could not be otherwise than that the sisters of the commander-in-chief, whose true beauty reminded one of the classic features of ancient Greece, should find among the officers of the army of Italy most enthusiastic admirers and worshippers, and that many should long for the favor of being more intimately connected by the ties of affection with the celebrated general.
Bonaparte left his sisters entirely free to make a choice among their suitors, and he hesitated not to give his consent when Pauline became affianced to General Leclerc. After a few weeks, the marriage was celebrated in Montebello; and, soon after, the happy couple left that city to return to Paris, whither Madame Letitia had preceded them.
Josephine, however, remained with her husband; she accompanied him from Montebello to Milan, where Bonaparte, now that the Austrian envoys had taken their leave, tarried some time, awaiting the final decision of the Austrian court upon his propositions. Meanwhile, the imperial court, for good reasons, still hesitated. It was known that in France there was secretly preparing an event which in a short time might bring on a new order of things, putting an end to the hateful republic, and once more placing the Bourbons on the throne of the lilies.
General Pichegru, a zealous royalist, and intimate friend of the Prince de Conde, with whom he had been in secret correspondence for several months, had organized a conspiracy which had for its object the downfall of the Directory, the ruin of the republican administration, the recall of the monarchy to Paris, and the re-establishment of the Bourbons.
But General Moreau, who, with his army on the Rhine, stood opposite to that of the royalists, had the good fortune to discover the conspiracy, by intercepting Pichegru’s whole correspondence. The Directory, informed by Moreau, took secretly precautionary measures, and on the 18th Fructidor, Pichegru, with all his real or supposed guilty companions, was arrested. To these guilty ones belonged also, according to the opinion of the Directory, two out of their number, Carnot and Barthelemy, besides twenty-two deputies and one hundred and twenty-eight others, all among the educated classes of society. These were exiled to Cayenne; Carnot alone escaped from this distant and cruel exile by a timely flight to Geneva.
The 18th Fructidor, which disarmed the royalists and destroyed their plans, had a great influence upon the negotiations carried on between France and Austria, which were entangled with so many difficulties. Austria, which had vacillated and delayed—for she was informed of the schemes of the royalists, and hoped that if Louis XVIII. should ascend the throne, she would be delivered from all the burdensome exactions of the republic—now saw that this abortive attempt had removed the royalists still further from their object and more firmly consolidated the republic; she was therefore inclined to push on negotiations more speedily, and to show greater readiness to bring on a final settlement.
The conferences broken off in Montebello were resumed in Udine. Thither came the Austrian and French plenipotentiaries. Bonaparte, however, felt that his presence was also necessary, so as not to allow these conferences again to remain in abeyance. He therefore, accompanied by Josephine, went to Passeriano, a beautiful residence of the Doge Marini, not far from Udine, charmingly situated on the shores of the Tagliamento, and in the midst of a splendid park. But the residence in Passeriano was not enlivened by the pleasures, recreations, and festivities of Montebello. Politics alone occupied Bonaparte’s mind, and not only the peace negotiations, but also the Directory of the republic, furnished him with too many occasions for ill-will and anger.
Austria, which had added the Count von Coblentz to her plenipotentiaries, adhered obstinately to her former claims; and the Directory, which now felt stronger and more secure by their victory of the 18th Fructidor, were so determined not to accept these claims, that they wrote to General Bonaparte that they would sooner resume hostilities than concede to “the overpowered, treacherous Austria, sworn into all the conspiracies of the royalists, her unreasonable pretensions.”
But Bonaparte knew better than the proud lords of the Directory, that France needed peace as well as Austria; that France lacked gold, men, and ammunition, for the vigorous prosecution of the war. While, therefore, the Directory, enthroned in the Luxemburg, amid peace and luxury, desired a renewal of hostilities, it was the man of battles who desired peace, and who was inclined to make to Austria insignificant concessions sooner than see the work of peace dashed to pieces.
The sole recreation in Passeriano consisted in the banquets which were interchanged between it and Udine, and where Josephine found much pleasure, at least in the conversation of the Count von Coblentz, who could speak to her with spirit and grace of his sojourn in Petersburg—of Catharine the Great, at whose court he had been accredited so long as ambassador from Austria, and who had even granted him the privilege of being present at her private evening circles at the Hermitage.
Bonaparte was still busy with the glowing tenderness of a worshipping lover, in procuring for his Josephine pleasures and recreations, as each favorable opportunity presented itself.
The republic of Venice, now laboring under the greatest anxiety and fear on account of Bonaparte’s anger at her perfidy and enmity, had descended from the height of her proud attitude to the most abject humility. Her solicitude for mere existence made her so far forget her dignity, that she humbly invited Bonaparte, whose loud voice of anger pronounced only vengeance and destruction, to come and receive in person their homage and the assurance of their loyalty.
Bonaparte refused this invitation as regarded his own person, for in his secret thoughts the ruin of Venice was a settled matter; and as the death-warrant of this republic of terror and secret government was already signed in his thoughts, he could not accept her feasts and her homage. But he did not wish before the time to betray to the republic his own conclusions, and his refusal to accept their invitation ought not to have the appearance of a hostile demonstration. He therefore sent to Venice a representative, who, in his name, was to receive the humble homage and the assurances of friendship from the republic. This representative was Josephine, and she gladly undertook this mission, without foreseeing that Venice, which adorned itself for her sake with flowers and festivities, was but the crowned victim at the eve of the sacrifice.
As Bonaparte himself could not accompany his wife, he sent with her as an escort the ex-magistrate Marmont; and in his memoirs the latter relates with enthusiasm the feasts which the republic of Venice gave in honor of the general upon whom, as she well knew, her future fate depended.
“Madame Bonaparte,” says he, “was four days in Venice. I accompanied her hither. Three days were devoted to the most splendid feasts. On the first day there was a regatta, a species of amusement which seems reserved only to Venice, the queen of the sea. ... Six or seven gondolas, each manned by one or two oarsmen, perform a race which begins at St. Mark’s Square, and ends at the Rialto bridge. These gondolas seem to fly; persons who have never seen them can form no idea of their swiftness. The beauty of the representation consists especially in the immense gatherings of the spectators. The Italians are extremely fond of this spectacle; they come from great distances on the continent to see it; there is not in Venice an individual who rushes not to the Canal Grande to enjoy the spectacle; and during the time of the regatta of which I am speaking, the wharves on the Canal Grande were covered with at least one hundred and fifty thousand persons, all full of curiosity. More than five hundred small and large barges, adorned with flowers, flags, and tapestries, followed the contesting gondolas.
“The second day we had a sea-excursion; a banquet had been prepared on the Lido: the population followed in barges adorned with wreaths and flowers, and to the sound of music re-echoing far and near.
“The third day, a night promenade took place. The palace of the doge, and the houses along the Canal Grande, were illuminated in the most brilliant manner, and gave light to hundreds of gondolas, which also were made luminous with divers-colored lamps. After a promenade of two hours, and a splendid display of fireworks in the midst of the waters, the ball opened in the palace of the doge. When we think of the means which the situation of Venice offers, the beauty of her architecture, the wonderful animation of the thousand gondolas closely pressed together, causing the impression of a city in motion; and when we think of the great exertions which such an occasion would naturally call forth, the brilliant imagination of this people so remarkable for its refined taste, and its burning lusts for pleasure—then we can form some idea of the wondrous spectacle presented by Venice in those days. It was no more the mighty Venice, it was the elegant, the luxurious Venice.” [Footnote: “Memoires du Due de Raguse,” vol. i., p. 287.]
After those days of festivities, Josephine, the queen of them, returned to the quietude of Passeriano, which, after the sunshine of Venice, must have appeared to her still more gloomy and sad.
But Bonaparte himself was weary of all this useless repose, and he resolved with a daring blow to cut into shreds those diplomatic knots of so many thousand interwoven threads.
The instrument with which he was to give the blow was not the sword—it was not that which Alexander had used, but it was a cup. This cup, at a dejeuner given to him by the Count von Coblentz, where was displayed the costly porcelain service presented to him by the Empress Catharine, was dashed at the feet of the Count von Coblentz by Bonaparte, who, with a thundering voice, exclaimed: “In fourteen days I will dash to pieces the Austrian monarchy as I now break this!”
The Count von Coblentz, infuriated at this, was still staring in bewilderment at the fragments of the imperial gift, when Bonaparte left the room, to enter his carriage. With a loud voice he called to one of the officers of his suite, and gave him orders to go at once to the camp of the Archduke Charles, and to tell him, in the name of General Bonaparte, that the peace negotiations were broken, and that hostilities would be resumed next day.
But as Bonaparte was going toward his carriage, he met the Marquis de Gallo, who besought him to re-enter the room; he assured him that it had been resolved to accept Bonaparte’s ultimatum—that is to say, to renounce all claims to the fortress of Mantua.
On the next day [Footnote: The 17th of October, 1797.] the treaty of peace between Austria and France was signed. It had been decided that the ceremony of signing it should take place in the village of Campo Formio, which for this reason was declared to be neutral ground. It lay midway between Udine and Passeriano; and Bonaparte sent his adjutant, Marmont, into the village to select a house where the ceremony might take place. But there was not a single building which was in any way fitted to receive such distinguished guests. The Austrian diplomats, therefore, consented to come to Passeriano to ratify the terms of peace, provided, it should be named after the neutral territory of Campo Formio.
The Count von Coblentz and the Marquis de Gallo passed the whole day at Passeriano, in the company of Bonaparte and Josephine. In Josephine’s drawing-room each abandoned himself to the most cheerful and unaffected conversation, while at the same time the secretaries of both the Austrian and French embassies were in the cabinet of the French general, writing two copies of the mutual agreements of peace which were to be signed by Bonaparte and by the Austrian plenipotentiaries.
During the whole day Bonaparte was in high spirits. He had reached his aim: the strife was over; diplomatic bickerings were at rest; the small as well as the great war was ended; peace was gained at last! Bonaparte had, not only on the battle-field, but also at the green-table, been victorious; he had not only overcome Austria, but also the Directory. During the whole day he remained in the drawing-room with Josephine and his Austrian guests, and without any affectation he took his part in the conversation. It was so pleasant to him to be thus in confidential intercourse, that, as the evening came on, he would not allow lights to be brought into the drawing-room. As if they were in a sociable family circle, in some old remote castle, they amused themselves in relating ghost-stories, and here, too, Bonaparte won a victory. His story surpassed all others in horrors and thrilling fears, and the dramatic mode of its delivery increased its effect. Josephine became excited as if by some living reality; and while Bonaparte, with an affrighted, trembling voice, was describing how the door opened, how the blood-stained ghost with hollow eyes entered, she screamed aloud, and tremblingly clung to his arm.
At this moment it was announced that the secretaries had prepared the documents of the treaty, and that nothing was wanting to make it operative but the signatures.
Bonaparte laughingly thanked his Josephine with a kiss for the flattering effect produced by his ghost-story, and then he hastened into his cabinet to attach his signature to the peace of Campo Formio. [Footnote: Lavalette, “Memoires,” vol. i., p. 250.]
This peace gave to France the left bank of the Rhine, with the fortress of Mayence: it delivered Italy from the rule of Austria, but it repaid Austria by giving her possession of the beautiful city of the lagoons, Venice, which made Austria mistress of the Adriatic Sea.
Peace was concluded, and now Bonaparte, with his laurels and victories, could return to Paris; now he could hope that he had swept away, from the memory even of his adversaries, the sad success of the 13th Vendemiaire, by the series of brilliant victories and conquests which he had obtained in the name of their common country.
Bonaparte prepared himself therefore to return home to France. But the Emperor of Germany, full of admiration for the hero of Arcola, and of joy at a peace which had given him Venice, and which gave to France little more than the captured cannon, standards, and prisoners, but undying glory, wished to show himself thankful to Bonaparte. He offered to the general millions of treasure, and, still more, a magnificent estate, and promised him the title of duke.
But Bonaparte refused alike the money and the title. As a simple French general he wished to return to France, and, though in future days he created at his will many dukes, he now disdained to become a duke by the grace of the Emperor of Germany. He accepted nothing out of all the offered presents, but six splendid gray horses which the Emperor Francis had sent him from his own stalls. Bonaparte had won too many victories, to need the title of a German duke; he had obtained a sufficiently ample share of the war-booty not to need the wealth and the treasures of sovereign gifts. He was no longer the poor general, of whom his enemies could say that he had married the widow of General de Beauharnais on account of her riches and of her influence; he now, besides fame, possessed a few millions of francs, which, as a small portion of his share of the victory’s rewards, he brought home with him.
His work in Italy was accomplished; and in Milan, whither Bonaparte had returned with Josephine, they bade each other farewell: they wished to return to Paris by different routes.
Bonaparte desired first to go to Rastadt, there to attend the great peace congress of Germany and France. His journey thither was a complete triumph. He was everywhere received with enthusiasm; everywhere the people applauded the conqueror of so many battles, the hero who, only twenty-eight years old, had, by his series of victories, gained immortality. His reception in Berne, especially, was enthusiastic and flattering; both sides of his pathway were lined with brilliant equipages, and the beautiful, richly apparelled ladies who sat in them threw him kisses, crowns of flowers and bouquets, shouting, “Long live the peace-maker!”
He travelled over Mount Cenis to Rastadt, where he found in the crowd of German and French diplomats many generals and learned men, who had come there to see the man whom his very enemies admired, amongst whom he was nearly as popular as with his friends. However, Bonaparte remained but a few days there; for, after having attended the opening of the Congress, he pursued his journey to Paris, where he arrived on the 6th of December.
Josephine, as we have already said, did not accompany her husband to Paris. Before leaving Italy, she desired to accomplish two objects of her heart. She wished to see Rome, the everlasting city of fame and of arts, the city of the ancient gods, and of the seat of St. Peter; and she wished also to embrace her son Eugene, who was there as an attache of Joseph Bonaparte, the ambassador of the French republic. Wherever she went, she was received with enthusiasm, not only as the wife of Italy’s deliverer, but also on account of her personal merits. Through her affability, her amiableness, and her sweet disposition, which shunned every haughty exaltation, and yet was never lacking in dignity or in reserve—through the goodness of her heart, which was ever ready to help the unfortunate—through all those exquisite and praiseworthy qualities which adorned and beautified her, she had won the love and admiration of all Italy; and long afterward, when the deliverer of Italy had become her lord and her oppressor, when she had no longer cause to love Bonaparte, but only to curse him, Italy preserved for Josephine a memory full of admiration and love.
On the 5th of December, 1797, Bonaparte returned to Paris; and, a few days after, Josephine arrived also. In her little hotel, in the Street Chautereine, where she had passed so many bright and happy days, she hoped, after so many storms and hardships, to enjoy again new and cheerful sunny days of domestic enjoyments—she hoped to rest from all those triumphs which had accompanied at each step both her and her husband.
This hope, however, was not to be realized, for greater triumphs still than those she had enjoyed in Italy awaited Bonaparte in Paris. The days of quietude, and the pleasures of home, which Josephine so much loved, and which she so well understood how to embellish with friendships and joys, were now forever past away. Placed at the side of a hero whose fame already filled all Europe, she could no longer calculate upon living in modest retirement, as she would have wished to do: it was her lot to share his burden of glory, as she also was illumined by its beams.
From this moment nothing of former days remained; all was changed, all was altered by Bonaparte’s laurels and victories. He was no more the servant of the republic, he was nearly its master; he had not only defeated Austria in Italy, but he had also defeated in France the Directory, which had sent him as its general to Italy, and which now saw him return home as the master of the five monarchs of France.
Every thing now, as already said, assumed a new shape: even the house in which they lived, the street in which this house stood, had to be changed. Hitherto this street had been called “Rue Chautereine;” since Bonaparte’s return the municipality of Paris gave it the name “Rue de la Victoire,” and now to this Street of Victory the people of Paris streamed forth to see the conqueror; to stand there patiently for hours before the little hotel, and watch for the moment when at one of the windows the pale countenance of Bonaparte, with his long, smooth hair, might appear.
Even the little hotel was to be altered. Bonaparte—who, in earlier days, had described, as his dream of happiness, the possession of a house, of a cabriolet, and to have at his table the company of a few friends, with his Josephine—now found that the little house in the Rue de la Victoire was too small for him; that it must be altered even as the street had been. The modest and tasteful arrangements which had sufficed the Widow Josephine de Beauharnais, appeared now to her young husband as insufficient; the little saloon, in which at one time he had felt so happy at the side of the viscountess, was no longer suited to his actual wants. Large reception-rooms and vestibules were needed, magnificent furniture was necessary, for the residence of the conqueror of Italy, in the Rue de la Victoire.
Architects were engaged to enlarge and transform the small house into a large hotel, and it was left to Josephine’s taste to convert the hitherto elegant private dwelling into a magnificent residence for the renowned general who had to be daily in readiness to receive official visits, delegations of welcome from the authorities, and the institutions of Paris, and from the other cities of France.
For France was desirous to pay her homage to the hero of Arcola, and to celebrate his genius—to wish him prosperity, and to applaud him. The Directory had to adapt themselves to the universal sentiment; to pay their respects to the general with a cheerful mien and with friendly alacrity, while at heart they looked on him with vexation and envy. Bonaparte’s popularity filled them with anxiety and fearful misgivings.
But it was necessary to submit to this; the public sentiment required those festivities in honor of the general of the republic, and the five directors in the Luxemburg had no longer the power to guillotine the public sentiment, the true king of Paris, as once they had guillotined King Louis.
The directors, therefore, inaugurated brilliant festivities; they received the conqueror of Italy in the Luxemburg with great demonstrations of solemnity, in which the Parisians took a part. In the immense court in front of the residence of the directors this celebration took place. In the midst of the open place a lofty platform was erected; it was the country’s altar, on which the gigantic statues of Freedom, Equality, and of Peace, were lifted up. Around this altar was a second platform, with seats for the five hundred, the deputies, and the authorities; the standards conquered in the Italian war formed over the seats of the five directors a sort of canopy: they were, however, to them as the sword of Damocles, ready to fall upon them at any moment and destroy them.
The directors, dressed in brilliant antique robes, created no impression, notwithstanding their theatrical splendor, in comparison with the sensation produced by the simple, unaffected appearance of General Bonaparte. He wore the plain green uniform which he had worn at Arcola and Lodi; his suite was limited to a few officers only, who, like himself, appeared in their ordinary uniforms, which they had worn on the battle-field. The two generals, Andreossy and Joubert, carried the standards which the Legislative Assembly, two years before, had presented to the army of Italy, and upon which could now be read the names of sixty-seven battles won.
At one of the windows of the palace of the Luxemburg, Josephine watched this strange celebration, the splendors of which made her heart beat with delight, and filled her eyes with tears of joy. Near her was her daughter Hortense, lately withdrawn from Madame Campan’s institution, to be with her mother, who, full of ecstasy and pride, gazed at the charming maiden at her side, just blooming into a young lady; and then beyond, at that pale young man with pensive eyes standing near yonder altar, and before whom all the authorities of Paris bowed—who was her husband, her Bonaparte, everywhere conqueror! Before her only was he the conquered! She listened with a happy smile to the long speech with which Talleyrand saluted Bonaparte in the name of his country; she heard how Barras, concealing within himself his jealousy and his envy, welcomed him; how with admiration he praised him; how he said that Nature, in one of her most exalted and greatest moments, had resolved to produce a masterpiece, and had given to the wondering world Bonaparte!
And then, after this affected harangue, Josephine saw how Barras, with tears of emotion, embraced Bonaparte, and how the other Directors of France followed his example. A slight sarcastic smile for a moment played on Josephine’s lips, for she well knew how little this friendship and this love of the Directory were to be trusted, how little sincerity was contained in the sentiments which they so publicly manifested toward the conqueror.
With love’s anxiety and a woman’s instinct, she watched over her hero; she was ever busy to track out the meandering paths of his foes, to destroy the nets wherein they wished to entangle his feet. She had even braved the jealous wrath of Bonaparte when it was necessary to ferret out some intrigue of the Directory. The special spy, whom Barras had sent to Italy to watch the movements of Bonaparte, and to give him early reports of every word, Botot, had been received by Josephine with a friendly smile and with great attention; she manifested toward him a confiding friendship, and thus succeeded in discovering his secret, and behind the seeming friend to unveil the cunning spy of Bonaparte’s enemies. She could therefore meet Bonaparte’s anger with serene brow and pure conscience; and when he accused her of frivolity and unfaithfulness, she justified herself before him by unveiling the secret schemes and machinations of his foes. And these foes were chiefly the five directors. He therefore knew very well what he was to expect from the embraces, the tears, the kisses of Barras; and the flattering words which he spoke to him in the presence of the Parisians made no impression whatever on Bonaparte’s heart.
But the applause with which the people of Paris received him was not deceitful, like that of the Directory; the respect they paid him was not forced, and their applause therefore filled the hearts of Josephine and Bonaparte with joy. Wherever he appeared, he was greeted with loud demonstrations of joy; the poets praised him in their songs, the musicians sang hymns in his honor, and the men of science brought to him proofs of their esteem. The Institute of Sciences named him one of their members in the place of Carnot; the painters and architects paid him homage with their works. The renowned painter David requested the honor of taking Bonaparte’s portrait, and the general acceded to his wishes because Josephine had promised that the painter’s request should be granted. David desired to paint him on horseback near the bridge of Lodi or of Arcola, and he placed before him a sketch he had made for this picture. But Bonaparte rejected it.
“No,” said he, “I was not there alone, I conquered only with the whole army. Place me there, quiet and calm, seated upon a fiery horse.”
What did Bonaparte mean by this “fiery horse”? Are his words to be understood in all their beauty and simplicity? or did he, by the restless horse, which he so calmly reins in, already think of the republic which, under the guidance of his masterly hand, was one day to be converted into an empire? Who could read the depths of this man’s heart, which screened itself so carefully, and whose secrets in regard to the future he dared not divulge even to his beloved Josephine?
The first few weeks after their return from Italy were passed away amid festivities and demonstrations of respect. Josephine abandoned herself to this pomp with a high spirit, and with a deep love for enjoyment. Her whole being was thoroughly interpenetrated with the warmth of this new sun, which had risen over her in so wondrous a light, and surrounded her with its lustrous rays. All these festivities, banquets, representations at the grand opera, and at the Theatre Francais, these public ovations which accompanied Bonaparte at every step, at every promenade, at every attendance at the theatre,—all these marks of honor elated Josephine, filling her with an enthusiastic pride for the hero, the man whom she now loved with all the excitability of a woman’s heart, and over whom fame rested as a halo, and which made him appear to Josephine still greater and more exalted. To him alone now belonged her whole heart and being; and now for the first time she experienced those nervous spasms of jealousy which at a later date were to mix so many bitter drops of gall in the golden cup of her greatness.
At the ovations, the tokens of affection on the part of gentlemen delighted her, but she had no thanks for the ladies when, with their enthusiasm, brilliant eyes, bewitching smiles, and flattering words, they endeavored to manifest their adoration and gratitude to the hero of Italy; she could barely keep back her tears when, at the reception which Talleyrand, the minister of foreign affairs, gave to Bonaparte, the beautiful songstress Grassini appeared, and, with her entrancing voice, sang the fame of the conqueror who had bound captive to his triumphal car, as the most precious booty, the proud songstress herself.
The Directory, however, would have gladly allowed the ladies to take part in this enthusiasm if the men had taken no share in it; but the admiration which they had everywhere manifested so strongly for Bonaparte, had completely overshadowed their own greatness and importance. They were no longer the monarchs of France—Bonaparte alone seemed to be its ruler—and their envious jealousy told them that it would require but a sign from his hand to impart to the French government a new form, to disenthrone the five directors, and to place himself in their position. The sole aim was, therefore, to remove Bonaparte as soon as practicable from Paris, and if possible from France, so as to check his popularity, and to oppose his ever-growing power.
Bonaparte was but little inclined to meet these views of the Directory, and to accept the propositions made to him. He declined at once to go to Rastadt, there to attend to the discussions of the congress, with as much resolution as he had refused to go to Rome to punish the papal government for the enmity it had shown to Prance. He left it to diplomats to prattle in Rastadt over the green-table, and to General Berthier to punish the papal government, and to drive Pius out of the Eternal City, the seat of St. Peter, and erect there the altar of the republic of Rome.
There were greater and loftier aims which Bonaparte now sought—and fame, which he loved quite as much as Josephine did, and was soon to love even more, was enticing him on to paths yet untrodden, where no hero of past ages had sought for it.
In Egypt, near the pyramids of four thousand years, he desired to gather fresh laurels; from thence the astonished world was to hear the wondrous recitals of his victories. His lively fancy already imagined his name written on those gigantic monuments of past ages, the only earthly creations which have in themselves nearly the character of immortality. With his mighty deeds he wished to surpass all the heroes of modern times; he desired to rival Caesar and Alexander.
Caesar had won fifty battles, Bonaparte wanted to win a hundred. Alexander had gone from Macedonia to the temple of Jupiter Ammon, Bonaparte wished to leave Paris to obtain victories at the cataracts of the Nile.
The bitterness which existed between the Directory and Bonaparte was increasing more and more. He no longer spoke to the five monarchs as an obedient, submissive son of the republic; he spoke as their lord and master; he threatened when his will was not obeyed; he was wroth when he met with opposition. And the Directory had not the courage to reproach him for his undutiful conduct, or to enter the lists with him to dispute for the sovereignty, for they well knew that public sentiment would declare itself in his favor, that Paris would side with the general if matters were to come to a crisis between them. It was therefore better and wiser to avoid this strife, and, under some good pretext, remove Bonaparte and open to him some distant pathway to fame, so as to be rid of him.
Egypt was far enough from Paris to give to the Directory guaranties of security, and it fell in with Bonaparte’s plans. It was resolved therefore to send an expedition to Egypt, and he was appointed its commander-in-chief.
Bonaparte had directed his eyes to the East when in Passeriano he was making peace with Austria. In Egypt were the battle-fields which were to surround his name with a fresh halo of glory.
Josephine learned this resolution of Bonaparte with fear and anxiety, but she dared not betray this to any one, since this expedition was to remain a secret to all the world. Only in private could her tears flow, only before Bonaparte could she complain. Once, as she encircled him convulsively with her arms, her mind full of misgivings and her eyes of tears she asked him how many years he thought of remaining in Egypt.
She had put this question only in a jesting form. He took it in full earnestness, and answered:
“Either a few months or six years. All depends upon circumstances. I must win Egypt to civilization. I will gather there artists, learned men, mechanics of all trades, even women—dancers, songstresses, and actresses. I want to mould Egypt into a second France. One can do a great deal in six years. I am now twenty-nine years old, I shall be thirty-five when I return—that is not old. But I shall want more than six years if I go to India.” [Footnote: Bourrienne, vol. ii., p. 49.]
Josephine cried aloud with anguish and horror, and, embracing him in her arms, implored him with all the delicate tenderness of her anxious affection not to thrust her aside, but to allow her to accompany him to Egypt.
But Bonaparte refused, and this time her tears, which he had never before denied, were fruitless. He felt that Josephine’s presence would damp his ardent courage, retard his onward march, and that he would not have the necessary fearless energy to incur risks and perils if Josephine were to be threatened by their consequences. He could not expose her to the privations and restless wanderings of a campaign, and his burning love for her was too real for him to yield to her wishes.
Josephine, meanwhile, was not silenced by his refusal; she persevered in her supplications, and Bonaparte, at last softened by her prayers, was obliged to come to terms. It was decided that Josephine should follow him to Egypt, that he would select a place of residence and prepare every thing for her reception there, so that she might without danger or too much inconvenience undertake the journey.
But before commencing such an undertaking, Josephine’s health needed recruiting; she was to go to the baths of Plombieres, and Bonaparte was to hold a ship in readiness in Toulon to bring her to Egypt.
The ship which was chosen to transport her was the Pomona, the same in which, when only sixteen years old, she had come from Martinique to France. Then she had gone forth to an unknown world and to an unknown husband; now she was on the same ship to undertake a journey to an unknown world, but it was a beloved husband whom she was going to meet, and love gave her the strength to do so.
Josephine, full of the sweetest confidence that she was soon to follow Bonaparte, and hereafter to see him again, accompanied him to Toulon. She had the strength to repress her tears as she bade him farewell, and to smile as he entreated her to keep her heart faithful to him.
She showed herself at this separation stronger than Bonaparte himself, for while her eyes were bright with joyous love, his were sad and obscured by tears.
The difference was this: Bonaparte knew that he was bidding farewell to Josephine for long years; she trusted that in a few months she would be reunited to him.
Bonaparte imprinted a last kiss on the lips of Josephine. She embraced him tenderly in her arms, and, to shield herself against the deep anguish of the separation, she cried aloud:
“In three months we meet again! The Pomona, which brought me to France, will bear me back to my hero, to my Achilles! In three months I shall be with you again. You have often called me the star of your fortune. How could this star abandon you when you are going to fight against your foes?”
He gazed at her with a look at once full of deep love and sorrow:
“Josephine,” said he, solemnly, “my enemies are neither in Asia nor in Africa, but they are all in France. I leave you behind me in their midst, for you to watch them, and to unravel their schemes. Think of this, and be my strong and prudent wife.” [Footnote: Bonaparte’s words.—See Le Normand, vol. i., p. 278.]
Deeply moved, he turned away, and hastened from her to the boat that was to bear him to the flag-ship, which was waiting only for the commanding general to come aboard before weighing anchor.
While Bonaparte with the French fleet was sailing toward the East, there, in the wide valley of the Nile, to win a new fame, Josephine started for Plombieres, where she had requested her daughter Hortense to meet her. The splendid scenery and pleasant quietude of Plombieres offered at least some comfort and satisfaction to Josephine, whose heart was not yet healed from the anguish of separation. Her greatest consolation was the thought that in a few months she would go to her husband; that the Pomona would bear her to him who now possessed her whole soul, and surrounded her whole being with an enchantment which was to cease only with her life.
She counted the days, the weeks, which separated her from the wished-for journey; she waited with impatient longing for the news that the Pomona, which needed a few repairs, was ready and all prepared for the distant but welcome voyage.
Her sole recreation consisted in the company of, and in the cordial fellowship with Hortense, now grown up a young lady, and the companionship of a few intimate ladies who had followed her to Plombieres. Surrounded by these, she either sat in her drawing-room, busy with some manual labor, or else, followed by a single servant, she and Hortense made long walks in the wonderfully romantic vicinity of Plombieres.
One morning she was in the drawing-room with her friends, working with the needle, conversing, and finding recreation in stepping through the wide-open folding-doors upon the balcony, from which a most enchanting view could be had of the lovely valley, and the mountains which stood round about it. While there, busily embroidering a rose, one of her friends, who had gone to the balcony, called her to come quickly to admire a remarkably small greyhound which was passing down the street. Josephine, whose love for dogs had made Napoleon pass many a restless hour, hastened to obey her friend’s call, and went out upon the balcony, whither the rest of the ladies followed her, all curious to see the greyhound which had set Madame de Cambis into such an excitement. But the weight of these six ladies, gathered close together on the balcony, was too heavy for the plank and joist-work loosely put together. A fearful crash was heard; and as Hortense, who had remained in the drawing-room, busy with her painting, looked out, she saw neither the ladies nor the balcony. All had disappeared—nothing but a cloud of dust arose from the street, amidst a confusion of cries of distress, of shouts for help, and groans of pain.
The balcony, with the ladies, had been precipitated into the street, and all those who were on it were more or less severely injured. Josephine recognized it as a providential protection that she had not paid with broken limbs, like her friends, for the curiosity of seeing the beautiful little greyhound, but had only received violent contusions and sprained joints. For weeks she had to suffer from the consequences of this fall, and was confined to her bed, not being able to lift herself up, nor with her bruised, swollen hands to bring the food to her mouth during this time. Hortense had to wait upon her mother as she had waited upon her when she was only a small, helpless child.
While Josephine was thus for these weeks suffering, the Pomona, fully equipped, was sent to sea, for she was intrusted with important instructions for the commanding general Bonaparte, and could not possibly be detained for Josephine’s recovery. She received this news with bitter tears, and resolutely declared that no sooner should she be recovered than she would sail for Egypt in any kind of vessel; that she was firmly decided to follow her husband and share his dangers.
She had, however, twice received letters from Bonaparte. In the first of these he had, full of tender solicitude, entreated her not to undertake the fatiguing and dangerous voyage; in the second he had commanded her with all the earnestness of love to give up the enterprise, and requested as a proof of her affection and faithfulness, that she would listen to reason, remain in Paris, and watch over his interests, and be his guardian angel.
Josephine read this last letter with a sorrowful smile, and, as she handed it to her friend Madame de Chateau-Renaud, she said, sighing:
“The days of happiness are over. While in Italy, Bonaparte required that I should bid defiance to all dangers, so as to be at his side, for his letters then demanded my presence. Now he orders me to avoid dangers, and to remain quietly at home.”
“But it is out of pure love he does this!” exclaimed her friend. “See how affectionate and how tender his letter is! Certainly no man can love his wife more warmly than Bonaparte loves you.”
“Oh, yes,” sighed Josephine, “he loves me yet, but I am no longer absolutely necessary—he can live without me; once love ruled over his reason, now his reason rules over his love. It will be as I fear: I shall day by day love him more fondly and more passionately, for he is my last love, but he will every day love me less, for perhaps I am his first love, and his heart will be young long after he reads upon my face that I am six years older than he.”
However, she conformed to the wishes of her husband; she was resigned, and gave up the thought of going to Egypt. At first she did it only with tears, but soon after there came news which made her accept her husband’s wishes as the commands of Fate.
The Pomona, the vessel which had once brought her from Martinique to France, and on board of which she was to go to Egypt, had been captured by an English man-of-war, and all her passengers sent as prisoners to England.
The fall from the balcony had therefore saved Josephine from being carried into captivity to England. To this fall she owed her liberty! With all the levity and superstition of a creole, Josephine looked upon this fortunate mishap as a warning from Fate, and it seemed to her as if this had taken place to hinder her journey to Egypt. She therefore dried her tears and submitted to the orders alike of Fate and of her husband.
She remained in France, and accepted her mission to watch, as a true friend and beloved one, over the interests of her husband, to observe his friends and foes, and to send him news of every thing which it was important for him to know.
Once her fate decided, and she resolved to remain in France, she determined to make her life comfortable and pleasant; she wished to prepare for herself and her children a joyous existence, and procure also for her returning husband a gift which she knew would meet a long-cherished wish of his.
She bought a residence, situated not far from Paris, the Castle Malmaison, if the name of castle can be properly given to a pretty, tastefully-built country residence, tolerably large and plain, but surrounded by a beautiful park.
Their wishes and wants were yet simple, and the country residence, Malmaison, was amply sufficient to receive the family and the friends of General Bonaparte and his wife; it became too small and too narrow only when it had to accommodate the Emperor Napoleon, the empress, and their court-attendants and suite.
But if the Castle Malmaison was not large, the park which surrounded it was all the larger and handsomer, and, with its shady walks, its wondrous beds of flowers, its majestic avenues, its splendid groves and lawns, it had for Josephine pleasures and joys ever new and fresh; and it furnished her, moreover, with the welcome opportunity of following the inclinations of her youth amidst the flowers, birds, trees, and plants.
Josephine loved botany; it was natural that she should endeavor to collect together in Malmaison the most beautiful plants and flowers, and to arrange them in this her little earthly paradise. She enlisted the most able architects and the most skilful gardeners, and, under their direction, with the hands of hundreds of workmen, there soon arose one of the most beautiful hot-houses, wherein all these glories of earth, splendid flowers, and fruits of distant climes, would find a home!
Josephine herself, with her fine taste and her deep knowledge of botany, directed all these arrangements and improvements; the builders as well as the gardeners had to submit their plans for her approbation, and it was not seldom that her keen, practised eye discovered in them defects which her ingenuity at once found means to correct.
In Malmaison, Josephine created around her a new world, a quiet paradise of happiness, where she could dream, with blissful cheerfulness and with all the youthful energy of her heart, of a peaceful future, of delightful contentment, in the quiet enjoyment of Nature and of home.
But the old world outside did not cease its own march; it fought its battles, spun its intrigues, and continued its hostilities. Josephine could not withdraw herself from this old world; she dared not place the paradise of Malmaison as a wall of partition between her and the wild stir and tumult of Paris; she had to rush away from the world of innocence, from this country-life, into the whirlpool of the agitated, restless life of Paris.
Bonaparte had made it a duty for her to watch his friends as well as his foes, and there were then happening in Paris events which appeared to the wife of General Bonaparte worthy of close observation. His long absence had diminished the number of his friends, and at the same time gave strength to and increased his enemies, who were ever busy to defame and vilify his heroic deeds, and to turn them into a crime; they represented that the expedition to Egypt, notwithstanding the glorious exploits of the French army, should have had more striking results, and the louder they cried out, the more feeble and timid were the voices of his friends. The latter daily found their position becoming more precarious, for they were the moderate republicans, the supporters of the actual order of things, and of the constitution which France had adopted. Against this constitution arose, with loud cries, two hostile parties, which increased every day, and assumed toward it a more and more threatening attitude.
These parties were, on the one hand, the royalists, who saw their hopes increase every day, because the armies of the European powers, allied against France, were approaching nearer and nearer the French frontiers; and, on the other, the republicans of the past, who hoped to re-establish the old days of the Convention and of the red republic.
Both parties tried to undermine society and the existing authorities; they organized conspiracies, seditions, and tumults, and were constantly inventing new intrigues, so as to destroy the government, and set themselves up in its place.
The royalists trusted to the combined powers of the princes of Europe, with whom the exiled Bourbons were approaching; and in La Vendee the guerilla warfare had already begun against the republic.
The red republicans dreamed of re-establishing the guillotine, which was to restore France to health by delivering her from all the adversaries of the republic and bring back the glorious days of 1793; they left nothing untried to excite the people into dissatisfaction and open rebellion.
Against both parties stood the Directory, who in these days of tumult and sedition, were themselves feeble and without energy, seeking only to prolong their existence. They were satisfied to live on day by day, and shrank from every decided action which might increase the wrath of the parties or destroy the brilliant present of the mighty directors, in whose ears the title of “the five monarchs” sounded so sweetly.
In the interior of France, anarchy, with all its horrors and confusion, prevailed, and, on the frontier, its enemies were taking advantage of this anarchy to give to the republic its mortal stroke.
Turkey, Russia, the Kings of Sardinia, Naples, and Sweden, were allied with Austria, England, and Prussia, and they had begun to make immense preparations. A Russian army, led by Suwarrow, was marching toward Italy, to the help of Austria—to reconquer Lombardy. The Rastadt congress, from which a universal peace had been expected, had dissolved, and the only result was an increased enmity between Germany and France, the deputies of the latter, as they were returning home, being shamefully murdered in the open street, immediately before the gates of Rastadt, at the instigation of the Austrian Count Lehrbach.
The murder of these ambassadors became the signal for the renewal of war, which was now to be prosecuted with increased bitterness.
At this important, critical moment, when all Europe was buckling on its armor against France, which so much needed the guidance of her victorious general—at this moment, Bonaparte was not only away from Paris, but no news had been received from him for some months. Only a vague rumor was spread through Paris: “Bonaparte had fallen at the desperate attack on Acre,” and this sufficed to discourage entirely his friends, and to make his enemies still more audacious and overbearing.
At first Josephine was entirely cast down by the terrible news; but afterward came the reflection, the doubt, the hope, that all this might be a rumor spread by his enemies. She hastened to Paris to obtain information from the Directory, so as to find out if there were any foundation for the report of Bonaparte’s death. But the Directory had as uncertain news as Josephine herself, and the absence of information seemed to confirm its truth.
As she came one day to Barras to ask him if there were any news from the army, she heard him say to Rewbell, one of the five directors: “Here comes the wife of that hypocrite Bonaparte! If he is not dead to Europe, he is at least dead to France.”
This expression proved to her that Barras himself did not believe in his death, and gave to Josephine all her energy and presence of mind. She busied herself in endeavoring to find a clew to this horrible rumor; and she found that Bonaparte’s enemies had spread it, and that only those to whom his death would be welcome, and his return be objectionable, had circulated this report.
Her heart again beat with hope; she now felt, in the blissful joy which penetrated her whole being, that Bonaparte was not dead; that he lived still; that he would return home, to her great delight and to the terror of his foes. A cheerful assurance sustained her whole nature. While all those, who in the days of her happiness had rivalled each other in assuring her of their friendship and devotedness, the Directory, the ministers, the majority of the generals, turned away from her, cold and indifferent; and her few true friends, low-spirited and depressed, bowed their heads, while her foes and those of Bonaparte scornfully said in their joy, “Now the new King of Jerusalem and Cyprus has fallen under the blows of a new savage Omar.” While every thing was against her, Josephine alone was cheerful, and confidingly looked into the future, for she felt and knew that the future would soon bring back her husband, her beloved.