On the first day of the new year, when the Emperor was returning from Pultusk to Warsaw, he stopped to change horses at the gate of the little city of Bronie. At that time Napoleon was the idol of the Poles, who hoped through him to secure their independence, and an enthusiastic crowd had gathered to welcome the “liberator.” Duroc descended from the carriage, and with difficulty pushed his way through the throng. Some one touched his arm, and he turned to look into the large innocent blue eyes of a young girl who seemed almost a child. Her beautiful face, fresh as a rose, was flushed with excitement; her figure was small, but perfectly proportioned. She was very simply dressed, and wore a black hat, with a heavy veil which almost concealed her blond hair. As Duroc at a glance took in these details, a sweet voice said to him in perfect French: “Monsieur, can you not arrange for me to speak a moment to the Emperor?” Duroc conducted her to the door of the carriage, and said to the Emperor: “Sire, here is a lady who has braved all of the dangers of the crowd for you.” Napoleon bowed and started to address her, but she did not allow him to finish. Carried away by her enthusiasm she wished him a thousand welcomes to her native land, and expressed her gratitude for what he had done to free it from the yoke of Russia.

Napoleon was so struck with her beauty that he ordered Duroc to find out the name of the “belle inconnue.” After many inquiries the marshal learned that her name was Marie Walewska. Of an old but ruined Polish family, two years before, at the age of sixteen, she had married the chief of one of the most illustrious houses of Poland, a man seventy years of age, with a grandchild nine years older than herself.

Comte Walewski, who was as intensely patriotic as his young wife, was then staying at his town-house in Warsaw. The Emperor requested Prince Poniatowski, in whose palace he was residing, to give a ball, and invite the comte and his wife to be present. The prince called in person to extend this invitation. Marie was frightened at this special mark of attention, and at first refused to accept, but finally yielded to the entreaties of her husband.

At the ball the Emperor paid her many compliments, and the following day wrote her in terms of warm but respectful admiration. He also sent her very handsome presents; but she refused to answer his letters or accept his gifts. Her coldness only increased the ardor of the Emperor, who never yet had met such opposition to his desires. Yielding finally to the importunities of all around her—the chief magistrates of Poland, her family, even her husband—Marie accepted a rendez-vous. She was made to believe that the fate of her country was in her hands, that Heaven had chosen her to be the instrument of reëstablishing the ancient glory of Poland.

Up to this time Napoleon’s affaires d’amour had been of short duration, but this attachment was to end only with his departure for Saint Helena. With the exception of Joséphine, Marie Walewska was the only great love of his life.

During the winter Napoleon continued to write Joséphine as frequently as before, but a change will be noted in the tone of his letters, which must have been perceived at once by a woman as jealous and suspicious as Joséphine:

In eight letters which Napoleon wrote during the following three weeks there is only a repetition of the same words: The weather is too bad, the distances too great, and the roads too dangerous for me to consent to your making the journey; Paris demands your return, to give a little life to the capital; I forbid you to cry, or be sad and uneasy; I wish you to be amiable, gay and happy; you are very unjust to doubt my love and devotion!

The winter was unusually mild for Poland, but the Emperor, whose troops were in winter quarters, did not expect the campaign to reopen before spring. In this he was doomed to disappointment: at the end of January the Russians began a forward movement, and Napoleon was forced to leave Warsaw to put himself at the head of his army.

In another letter, written at six o’clock on the night of the same day, and in four other letters sent during the week following, Napoleon gives further details of the battle. Both in his correspondence and in his bulletins he tries to minimize his losses, which had been enormous. He states that he took 40 cannon, 10 flags, 12,000 prisoners, and only lost 1600 killed, 3–4000 wounded. He says nothing of the vicissitudes of this terrible day, of this victory which was so nearly a defeat; of the terrible suffering of his army from cold and hunger; of regiments, and even entire army corps, wiped out; of the great personal danger which he had run in the cemetery when he was almost captured by the Russian grenadiers, and only saved by the valor of his Guard. He does not speak of the words wrung from his pale lips as the night fell on this field covered with dead and dying: “This sight is enough to inspire in princes the love of peace and the horror of war!” Well would it have been for Napoleon if he had taken these words to heart!

After the battle the Emperor was too weak to follow up the retiring Russians, and was glad to put his troops again in winter quarters. He selected Osterode for his headquarters and here for weeks he shared all the privations of his men. During all this time his only residence was a miserable barn, and it was not until he moved to the castle of Finckenstein the first of April that his quarters became more comfortable.

Napoleon’s letters to Joséphine from Osterode were cold, brief, commonplace, almost insignificant. He spoke of his health, the weather, and ended always with the injunction to be gay! A letter to his brother Joseph, under date of the first of March, gives a better idea of the horrors of this terrible winter campaign:

In the eleven letters he sent to Joséphine from Osterode, Napoleon says, in substance:

Endeavor to pass your time agreeably; do not worry.

I am in a wretched village, where I shall still pass considerable time. I have never been in better health. I have ordered what you want for Malmaison. Be gay and happy: it is my wish.

I am looking for the spring, which ought to come soon. I love thee, and wish to see thee gay and happy. They say many foolish things about the battle of Eylau; the bulletins tell all; the losses are exaggerated rather than under-stated.

I learn that the gossip of your salon in Mayence has been renewed: make them stop talking.

You should not go to a small box in a little theatre. That does not accord with your rank: attend only the four large theatres and always use the large box.

To be agreeable to me you must live in all respects exactly as you do when I am in Paris. Grandeurs have their inconveniences: an empress cannot go to the same places as a private individual.

Your letter grieves me. You must not die; you are in excellent health, and you have no reasonable ground of chagrin. You should go to Saint-Cloud for the month of May, but remain in Paris during April. You must not think of travelling this summer. I know how to do other things than make war, but duty is the first consideration. All my life I have sacrificed everything—tranquillity, self-interest, happiness—to my destiny.

These fine phrases were far from satisfying Joséphine, who knew that her Napoleon, in spite of his pretended Spartan simplicity, sometimes gave himself distractions!

For nearly four months at Mayence Joséphine had waited in vain for the permission of the Emperor to rejoin him. Finally, on the 3 January he had expressed his wish that she should return to Paris. This desire he reiterates in four other letters, and in more positive form. It was his letter of the eighteenth which decided her: “If you continue to cry, I shall believe you devoid of courage and character. I do not like cowards. An empress should have heart.” Nothing remained but to start.

The brilliant winter of 1805, after the Coronation, had been followed by the two dead seasons of 1806 and 1807, and a Paris without a Court, without balls, fêtes or receptions, was very hard on the merchants, who complained bitterly. By order of the Emperor, the princes of the Empire had opened their houses, but this did not make up for the absence of the sovereigns.

Leaving Mayence on the 26 January, the Empress spent the following night at Strasbourg, where a small fête had been improvised in her honor. The hall of the hôtel of the préfecture was brilliantly decorated. After a contredanse and a valse, the Empress made the round of the room, addressing with her usual grace and affability a pleasant word to each one of the ladies present. At an early hour on the following morning Joséphine resumed her route, and arrived at the Tuileries at eight o’clock on the night of the 31 January. Her return to the capital was announced the next day at noon by a salvo of artillery fired by the guns of the Invalides. A little fatigued by her journey, the Empress did not hold a reception until the fifth, when all the high officials of State called to render their homage. By Monge, president of the Senate, by Fontanes, president of the Corps Législatif, by the president of the Tribunal, the vicar-general of Notre-Dame, and the préfet de la Seine, she was welcomed in speeches almost as flattering as those usually addressed to the Emperor.

In spite of all this adulation, more or less sincere, Joséphine was far from happy. She regretted the absence of her children, and of her husband; she was worried over the dangers which Napoleon was running in this distant campaign, and the reports of his liaison with the “belle Polonaise.” A few days after her return she wrote Hortense:

During the following month the heart of Joséphine was rejoiced by the news of the birth at Milan on the 17 March of a daughter to Augusta and Eugène, who was named Joséphine by order of the Emperor. This was the princesse who twenty years later married the son of Bernadotte, Oscar, crown-prince, and later King of Sweden. Joséphine longed to go to Italy to see her first granddaughter in her cradle, but feared to leave Paris without the permission of the Emperor. She wrote Hortense that Eugène was delighted at the birth of his daughter, but complained that he could hardly see her “as she slept all the time.”

The first of April the Emperor changed his residence to Finckenstein where he occupied a fine château built by the governor of Frederick the Great. At this time it was the property of Comte de Dohna, grand master of the household of the King of Prussia. It is still owned by the same family, and at a recent date the room occupied by Napoleon was carefully preserved in the same condition. Here Napoleon was very comfortably installed, with his staff and his military family. An apartment adjoining his own was fitted up for Madame Walewska. She left at Warsaw her aged husband, whom she was never to see again, and spent three weeks with the Emperor. They took all of their meals alone, and were served by Constant, the valet de chambre of Napoleon. When the Emperor was not with her, Marie passed her time in reading, or in watching from the windows the parades in the court of the château, which were often commanded by the Emperor in person. She had a very sweet, even disposition, was always gay and full of life, and Napoleon became more attached to her every day.

During the two months that he lived at Finckenstein, Napoleon as usual wrote Joséphine two or three times a week:

To the Empress, at Paris

During the visit of Marie, the letters of Napoleon were even shorter and more commonplace. In them there were only a few lines about the weather, the temperature, the state of his health, and his desire to know that she was “gay and contented.” Alas! poor Joséphine, her days of happiness were about over.

After the departure of his inamorata Napoleon’s correspondence once more becomes interesting:

To the Empress, at Paris