The Emperor reached Fontainebleau on his return from Vienna at nine o’clock on the morning of the 26 October. He had travelled with such rapidity that he arrived a day sooner than he was expected, and found no one to receive him except the concierge. To pass away the time he inspected the new apartments in the château which he had had furnished with great magnificence.

A little later Cambacérès appeared, in advance of the other courtiers. The failure of the Empress to meet him, which was in no way her fault, seemed to have put Napoleon in very bad humor, and he openly declared to the arch-chancellor his fixed intention of repudiating Joséphine, and espousing either a Russian or an Austrian princess. Cambacérès, who was devoted to the Empress, ventured some timid and respectful remonstrances, but was immediately silenced.

At this time Napoleon was truly the “spoilt child of Fortune.” More absolute and more imperious than ever, he no longer allowed even a suggestion from his family or his ministers: every one obeyed and kept silent. In the words of Monsieur Thiers: “His all-powerful nature had completely blossomed out, and it was to fade away like his fortune, for nothing stands still.”

Next came Fouché, and the wily Minister of Police was not slow to take advantage of the Emperor’s feeling to make an indirect attack on the absent Joséphine. “There is not one of your marshals,” he said, “who is not considering how to dispose of your estate if we have the misfortune to lose you. It is a case of Alexander’s lieutenants eager for their kingdoms.”

After these conversations with his ministers, the Emperor went to his library and began to write. Late in the afternoon he heard the noise of a carriage arriving in the court, and rushed down stairs. But it was not the Empress, and he returned to his work.

An hour later Joséphine finally arrived. She had made all possible haste to come from Saint-Cloud as soon as she was informed of the return of the Emperor. Seeing that Napoleon did not come to meet her, with a heavy heart she mounted the stairway, and entered the library, where she found Napoleon seated at his writing-table. “Ah! there you are at last,” he exclaimed. “You did well to come, for I was about to leave for Saint-Cloud.” At this brutal welcome, after a separation of six months, the eyes of Joséphine filled with tears, and she swayed as though she were about to fall. Napoleon at once relented, took her in his arms, and tenderly embraced her. Joséphine then went to her apartment to change her toilette for dinner.

An hour and a half later she reappeared, resplendent in a new gown which became her marvellously. To avoid the embarrassment of a tête-à-tête meal, the Emperor invited two of his ministers, who were working with him, to dine with them. Forgetting his bad humor, he showed himself quite amiable.

But the evening was not to end without another rude shock to Joséphine. On going to her rooms for the night she discovered for the first time that, during the recent alterations to the château, the inner door which communicated with the Emperor’s suite had been closed. This was a significant fact which she did not fail to appreciate. She did not dare to ask the Emperor for an explanation, but the next morning she questioned M. de Bausset, the prefect of the palace. He professed his ignorance of the change, and Joséphine said: “You may be sure that there is some mystery attached to it.” To a woman of her intelligence, however, there was very little mystery about the matter. She fully understood that the divorce was now only a question of days. Yet when they left Fontainebleau for Paris on the 14 November, the Emperor had not spoken, and Joséphine again began “to hope against hope.”

At Paris there was soon a regular assembly of crowned heads. The King of Saxony was already there, and a few days later there arrived the kings of Naples, Westphalia and Holland, and the princes of the Confederation of the Rhine. Ségur, the grand-master of ceremonies, had difficulty in finding suitable quarters for so many exalted personages, and complained that he was troubled by an “embarras de rois.” It was surely an irony of fate that the imperial Court had never been so brilliant and so attractive as when the gracious Joséphine was about to leave it forever.

Napoleon, usually so prompt to put his plans into execution, did not seem to be able to make up his mind to sever finally the tie which bound him to the woman who for fourteen years had been associated with his destiny, and who recalled the most brilliant days of his youth and his glory. M. de Bausset draws this sketch of Joséphine at the time of the divorce:

“The Empress was forty-six years old. No woman could have more grace of manner and bearing. Her eyes were enchanting, her smile full of charm, her voice of an extreme softness, her form noble, supple, perfect. Her toilette, always elegant and in perfect taste, made her appear much younger than she really was. But all this was as nothing beside the goodness of her heart. Her spirit was amiable; never did she wound the self-love of any one, never had she anything disagreeable to say. Her disposition was always even and placid. Devoted to Napoleon, she communicated to him, without his perceiving it, her kindness and goodness.”

A still more intimate observer, Mlle. Avrillon, gives us another view of Joséphine at this same time. She says: “The Empress, constantly in tears, endeavored to hide them from the persons around her; but it did not take a very discerning eye to perceive that her happiness was destroyed forever, for she lived in a state of continual agitation. It is really impossible for me to say whether she was rendered more unhappy by the blow she received than by all the preliminaries of the event itself. As, notwithstanding the conviction of her future, she still preserved, if not hope, at least a vague feeling of uncertainty, every time that a minister or a grand dignitary of the Empire came to see her, she pressed him with indirect questions, tormented equally by the desire to know her fate and the fear to learn it.”

Finally, on the last day of November, Napoleon found the courage to break the fatal news. “What a scene for a tragedy!” he said himself, in speaking later of the events of that evening at the Tuileries.

Joséphine dined alone with the Emperor in a room adjoining his chamber on the first floor. She wore a large white hat which partly concealed her face. Not a word was spoken, and neither of them touched the courses which were placed before them, and then silently removed. After dinner they went into the salon on the other side of the palace, between the Throne Room and the Gallery of Diana. After a moment of silence, Napoleon began to speak. He said that the safety of the Empire demanded a momentous resolution, and that he counted on all of her courage and devotion to consent to a step upon which he himself, with the greatest reluctance, had decided—the dissolution of their marriage. Joséphine made no reply. She burst into tears, and then fell, apparently in a dead faint, upon the floor.

Greatly agitated, the Emperor opened the door of the salon, and called M. de Bausset, who was on duty that evening. After closing the door, Napoleon asked the prefect if he was strong enough to lift the Empress, and carry her by the interior staircase to her apartment on the ground floor. Bausset, a large, stout man, took Joséphine in his arms, and followed Napoleon, who led the way, holding a candle in his hand. When the staircase was reached, Bausset saw that it was too narrow for him to descend with such a burden. The Emperor thereupon called an attendant, gave him the candle, and told him to light the way. Then he relieved Bausset of the Empress’ legs, allowing him to support her body. In this manner, the descent was begun, Napoleon walking backwards and Bausset following, supporting Joséphine with his arms around her waist and her head resting on his shoulder. Suddenly he heard her voice, whispering to him softly: “Take care! you hurt me; you are holding me too tight.”

The descent was finished without other incidents, and Joséphine, still in a swoon, was placed upon a sofa, and her maids called. The Emperor then left her in their care, and withdrew from the room, with his eyes filled with tears, and every sign of the deepest agitation. It would be difficult to believe this little episode of the stairway if the story were not related by such a devoted servant of the Empress as M. de Bausset.

If there is anything certain in this world, it is that Napoleon from the first always loved Joséphine with a devotion which far exceeded her attachment for him, and that he continued to love her until his life’s end. Yet History will never forgive him for finally allowing his duty to the Empire to overcome his affections. It is easy to condemn his action as heartless, or as dictated by ambition, but nothing is gained by calling names. If it were not for the fantastic connection which has been imagined between the fortunes of Napoleon and the “guiding star of his life,” we should not have heard so much in condemnation of his divorce, which certainly was dictated by the most powerful reasons of State. The case is not altered by the fact that his second marriage was a dismal failure; or, as he himself once expressed it, that the Austrian alliance was “an abyss covered with flowers.” It is a striking instance of the shortness of human foresight that a step taken to assure the safety of the Empire was to be the principal cause of its fall.

In his trouble, after this trying scene with Joséphine, Napoleon opened up his heart to Bausset. In a voice broken by emotion he said: “The interests of France and of my dynasty have forced my heart; the divorce has become for me a rigorous duty.... I am all the more afflicted by the scene which I have just had with Joséphine because for three days she must have known through Hortense the unfortunate obligation which condemns me to seek a separation from her.... I pity her from the bottom of my heart; I thought that she had more character, and I was not prepared for the manifestation of her grief.” After each sentence he paused to catch his breath, and displayed every sign of the most poignant emotion.

Then he sent for his personal physician, Corvisart; also for Hortense, Fouché, and Cambacérès. Before ascending to his own apartment, he went again to see Joséphine, whom he found calm and more resigned. He received the two ministers on their arrival, and afterwards had a long talk with Hortense.

The interview with the Queen was very painful. He began in a tone of simulated harshness:

“My decision is made,” he said. “Neither tears nor cries will affect a resolution which has become unavoidable, a resolution absolutely necessary for the safety of the Empire.”

“Sire,” replied Hortense, “you will have neither tears nor cries. The Empress will not fail to submit to your wishes, and to descend from the throne, as she mounted it, by your will. Her children, content to renounce the grandeurs which have not made them happy, will willingly consecrate their lives to consoling the best and most tender of mothers.”

“That cannot be,” cried Napoleon, much moved by her words. “Such an action would raise the suspicion of a veiled misunderstanding, either on your part towards me, or on my part towards your mother and her family.”

“In our exile,” continued Hortense, “we shall never forget all that we owe to the Emperor.”

“Ah! you will abandon me?” cried the Emperor, bursting into tears. “You, you, to whom I have been a father! No, you cannot do that! You will remain with me; the future of your children demands it.... No matter how great for us all is this cruel sacrifice, it must be carried out with the dignity imposed by circumstances.”

The Emperor then outlined to Hortense his plans for Joséphine’s future: palaces, châteaux, a magnificent income, the first rank after the reigning Empress. Everything possible was to be done to dissemble the change in her situation which would result from the divorce. He then sent Hortense to see her mother and try to reconcile her.

The night which followed was one of the saddest in the life of Napoleon. Several times he arose and descended to inform himself personally of the condition of Joséphine. He did not sleep at all.

In the morning, when Mlle. Avrillon came, Joséphine called to her to approach the bed, and told her confidentially what had occurred. Seeing her air of consternation, Joséphine at once began to excuse the Emperor, saying: “He is in despair over our separation; he also cried, and assured me that it was the greatest sacrifice he could make for France. Yes, I well know that he must have an heir for his glory, a child who will consolidate his Empire.... He has told Hortense that he will always be the same for her and Eugène, and that he will often come to me in my retreat.... He has sworn that he will never compel me to leave France. He allows me to live at Malmaison..... He wishes me always to enjoy a position of consideration, and that I shall have an adequate income.”

At that time there were no daily papers such as we have to-day, all eager for news; but the journals would not have ventured to publish the reports even if rumors of the coming event had leaked out. The secret seems to have been well kept by the few persons who knew it, and the Empress appeared as usual at several functions during the first two weeks of December. At the fêtes of this trying fortnight Napoleon was in public even more attentive to Joséphine than usual.

On the first day of December the Emperor and Empress went to Malmaison where a fête was given in honor of the King of Saxony, at which were present the kings of Naples, Holland and Würtemberg, who arrived in Paris that day.

An elaborate program had been arranged, to celebrate the double anniversary of the Coronation and the victory of Austerlitz, as well as the conclusion of the Treaty of Vienna. The festivals were to be prolonged over several days. On the third, in the morning, there was a Te Deum at Notre-Dame; in the afternoon, the formal opening of the Corps Législatif; and in the evening, a State dinner at the Tuileries. On the fourth, in the morning there was a grand review in the court of the Tuileries, and in the evening the Emperor and Empress were present at a fête given at the Hôtel-de-Ville in honor of the Coronation. For this occasion the court of the Hôtel-de-Ville had been transformed into an enormous ball-room. The kings and queens danced in the quadrille d’honneur, after which the Emperor traversed the room, and addressed a few courteous words to many of the ladies present.

On the seventh, there was a spectacle at the Tuileries, but this time the Empress did not appear. It was given out that she was suffering from a migraine: poor Joséphine had gone to the limits of her endurance. She was also absent from the side of the Emperor, when on the eighth he received in the Throne Room a deputation of the Corps Législatif. In his reply to the address the Emperor used a phrase which seemed to presage the coming event: “We shall always know how, my family and myself, to sacrifice even our dearest affections to the interests and the welfare of this great nation.”

On the eleventh, Joséphine appeared in public with Napoleon for the last time, at a fête given at the château of Grosbois by Marshal Berthier, Prince de Neuchâtel et de Wagram. This fine residence had belonged before the Revolution to the Comte de Provence, and later to Barras and Moreau. The kings and princes then in Paris, and a large part of the Court, were present. There was a hunt during the day, followed in the evening by a dinner, a spectacle and a ball.

The evening was marred by a most unfortunate contretemps. Berthier had arranged to entertain his guests with a comedy played by Brunet, one of the most popular actors of the day. Brunet, who was entirely ignorant of the coming event, chose from his répertoire a very droll little play which turned on the subject of divorce. Imagine the embarrassment, the stupefaction of poor Berthier, and the feelings of Napoleon and Joséphine, when the actor announced his intention of securing a divorce “pour avoir des ancêtres” (to have ancestors); followed by a change of mind, with the sage remark: “I know what my wife is, I do not know what the one I take may be like.”

This scene of comedy, in the drama of divorce, was worthy of the pen of a Shakespeare. “Truth is stranger than fiction.”