and, with prophetic voice, exclaimed: "Now I am lost! Now is divorce
certain!"
Yes, she was lost! She felt it, she knew it! Nothing the emperor did
to pacify her anguish - the numerous expressions of his love, of his
sympathy, of his winning affection - nothing could any longer deceive
Josephine. The voices which had so long whispered in her breast now
cried aloud: "You must give place to another! Napoleon will reject
you, so as to have a son!"
But the emperor seemed still to try to dispel these fears, and, to
give to his Josephine a new proof of his love and faithfulness, he
chose Eugene de Beauharnais, the son of Josephine, for his adopted
heir, and named him Vice-King of Italy, and gave him in marriage the
daughter of the King of Bavaria; he thus afforded to Europe the
proof that he still considered Josephine as his wife, and that he
desired to be shown to her all the respect due to her dignity, for
he travelled to Munich in company with her in order to be present at
the nuptials.
This journey to attend her son's marriage was the last pleasure of
Josephine - her last days of honors and happiness. Once more she saw
herself surrounded by all the splendor and the pomp of her rank;
once more she was publicly honored and admired as the wife of the
first and greatest ruler of the world, the wife of the Emperor
Napoleon.
Perhaps Josephine, in these hours of happiness, when as empress,
wife, and mother, she enjoyed the purest and most sacred pleasure,
forgot the sad forebodings and fears of her soul. Perhaps she now
believed that, since Napoleon had adopted her Eugene as his son, and
had given to this son a wife of royal extraction, Fate would be
propitious to her; that the emperor would be satisfied with the son
of his choice, and that the future scions of the royal princess
would be the heirs of his throne.
But one word of Napoleon frightened her out of this ephemeral
security into which happiness had lulled her.
Josephine wept as she bade farewell to her son; she was comfortless
when with his young wife Eugene left for Italy. She complained to
Napoleon, in justification of her tears, that she should seldom see
her son, that now he was lost to his mother's heart.
The emperor, who at first had endeavored to comfort her felt at last
wounded by her sorrow.
"You weep, Josephine," said he, hastily, "but you have no reasonable
motives to do so; you weep simply because you are separated from
your son. If already the absence of your children causes you so much
sorrow, think then what I must endure! The tenderness which you feel
for your children makes me cruelly experience how unhappy it is for
me to have none." [Footnote: Avrillon, "Memoires sur l'Imperatrice
Josephine," vol. i., p. 202.]
Josephine trembled, and her tears ceased flowing in the presence of
the emperor, but only to fall more abundantly as soon as he had left
her. Now she wept no longer at her separation from her son; her
tears were still more bitter and painful - she grieved over the
coming future; she wept because those voices which happiness for a
moment had deafened, now spoke more loudly - more fearfully and
menacingly shouted: "Napoleon will reject you! He will choose for
himself a wife of royal birth, who will give an heir to his throne
and his empire."
CHAPTER XLII.
DIVORCE.
It was at last decided! The storm which had so long and so fearfully
rolled over Josephine's head was to burst, and with one single flash
destroy her earthly happiness, her love, her future!
The peace of Vienna had been ratified on the 13th of October, 1809.
Napoleon passed the three long months of peace negotiations in
Vienna and in Schonbrunn, while Josephine, solitary and full of sad
misgivings, lived quietly in the retreat of Malmaison.
Now that peace was signed, Napoleon returned to France with fresh
laurels and new crowns of victory. But not, as usual after so long
an absence, did he greet Josephine with the tenderness and joy of a
home-returning husband. He approached her with clouded brow; with a
proud, cold demeanor; with the mien of a ruling master, before whom
all must bow, even his wife, even his own heart.
At Fontainebleau, whither the emperor in a few, short, commanding
words - in a letter of three lines - had invited the empress, did the
first interview of Josephine and Napoleon take place. She hastened
to meet her husband with a cheerful face and beaming eyes. He,
however, received her coldly, and endeavored to hide his feelings of
uneasiness and shame under a repulsive, domineering manner.
He returned to his home victorious; the whole world lay conquered at
his feet; he was triumphant. He had so deeply humiliated the pride
of Austria that she not only accepted his harsh terms of peace, but,
as once men had appeased the Minotaur by the sacrifice of the most
amiable and most beautiful maiden, so Austria had asked in a low
voice whether the daughter of the emperor, Maria Louisa. might not
give to the alliance of Austria and France the consecration of love.
Napoleon eagerly entered into the scheme; and while Josephine, as
his married wife before God and man, stood yet at his side, he
already had begun negotiations, the object of which was to make the
daughter of the Austrian emperor his wife, and before Napoleon
returned to France those negotiations had been brought to a
satisfactory result.
The ambitious Maria Louisa was to be the wife of the Emperor of the
French. Nothing more was wanted but that Napoleon should reject his
legitimate wife, whom the pope had anointed! He had but to
disenthrone her who for fifteen years, with true and tender love,
had shared his existence. He had only to be divorced publicly and
solemnly, so as immediately to possess a bride, the daughter of an
emperor!
Napoleon came to Fontainebleau to accomplish this cruel task, to
break at once his marriage with Josephine and her heart. He knew
what terrible sufferings he was preparing for her; he himself
quailed under the anguish she was to endure; his heart was full of
sorrow and woe, and yet his resolution was irrevocable. Policy had
controlled his heart, ambition had conquered his love, and the man
was determined to sacrifice his wife to the emperor.
Josephine felt this at the first word he addressed her, at the first
look he gave her, after so long a separation, and her heart shrank
within itself in bitter anguish, while a stream of tears started
from her eyes.
But Napoleon asked not for the cause of these tears; he had not the
courage to wage an open war with this brave, loving heart, and to
subdue her love and despair with the two-edged sword of his state
policy and craftiness. He did not wish to utter the word; he wanted
to make her feel what an abyss was now open between them; all
confidential and social intercourse was to be avoided, so that the
empress might become conscious that love and fellowship of hearts
had ceased also.
On the evening after the first interview the empress found that the
door of communication between her apartments and those of the
emperor had been closed. Napoleon did not, as had been his wont, bid
her good-night with a cordial and friendly kiss, but, in the
presence of her ladies, he dismissed her with a cold salutation. The
next day the emperor expressly avoided her society; and when at rare
moments he was with her, he was so taciturn, so morose and cold,
that the empress had not the courage to ask for an explanation, or
to reproach him, but, trembling and afraid, she bowed under the iron
pressure of his severe, angry looks.
To prevent their being with each other alone, and to avoid this
horrible solitude, dreaded alike by Napoleon and Josephine, the
emperor sent the next day for all the princes and princesses of his
family to come to Fontainebleau. His sisters, no longer kept in
control by the domineering will of the emperor, made Josephine feel
their malice and enmity; they found pleasure in letting the empress
see their own ascendency, their secure position, and in treating her
with coldness and disrespect. The emperor, instead of guarding
Josephine against these humiliations, had the cruel courage to
increase them; for, without reserve or modesty, and in the very
presence of Josephine, he offered the most familiar and positive
attentions to two ladies of his court - ladies whom he honored with
special favor. [Footnote: Thiers, "Histoire du Consulat et de
l'Empire," vol. xi., p. 323.]
It was death-like agony which Josephine suffered in those days of
Fontainebleau; it was a cruel martyrdom, which she, however, endured
with all the gentleness of her nature, with the devotedness and
uncomplaining anguish of true and genuine love.
Napoleon could not endure this. The sight of this yet beloved pale
face, with its sweet, angelic smile, lacerated his heart and
tortured him with reproaches. He wanted to have festivities and
amusements, so as not to witness this quiet, devoted anguish, so as
not to read every day in the sorrowful, red eyes of Josephine, the
story of nights passed in tears.
The court returned to Paris, there to celebrate the new victorious
peace with brilliant feasts. Napoleon, so as to be delivered from
the tearful companionship of Josephine, made the journey on
horseback, and never once rode near her carriage.
In Paris had begun at once a series of festivities, at which German
princes, the Kings of Saxony, of Bavaria, and of Wurtemberg, were
present, to congratulate Napoleon on his victories in Germany. The
Empress Josephine, by virtue of her rank, had to appear at these
receptions; she had, although in the deepest despondency, to wear a
smile on her lip, to appear as empress at the side of the man who
met her with coldness and estrangement, and whom she yet loved with
the true love of a wife! She had to see the courtiers, with the keen
instinct of their race, desert her, leaving around her person an
insulting void and vacancy. Her heart was tortured with anguish and
woe, and yet she could not uproot her love from it; she did not have
the courage to speak the decisive word, and to desire the divorce
which she knew hung over her, and which at any moment might agonize
her heart!
Josephine did not possess the cowardice to commit suicide; she was
ready to receive the fatal blow, but she could not plunge the dagger
into her own heart.
Napoleon, unable to endure these tortures, longed to bring them to
an end. He secretly made all the necessary arrangements, and
communicated to the first chancellor, Cambaceres, his irrevocable
resolution to be divorced from the empress. He, however, notified
him that he wanted this act of separation to be accomplished in the
most respectful and honorable form for Josephine, and he therefore,
with Cambaceres, prepared and decided upon all the details of this
public divorce.
It only remained now to find some one who would announce to
Josephine her fate, who would communicate to her the emperor's
determination. Napoleon had not the courage to do it himself, and he
wanted to confide this duty to the Vice-King Eugene, whom for this
purpose he had invited to Paris.
But Eugene declined to become a messenger of evil tidings to his
mother; and when Napoleon turned to Hortense, she refused to give to
her mother's heart the mortal stroke. The emperor, deeply touched by
the sorrow manifested by the children of Josephine, was not able to
repress his tears. He wept with them over their blasted happiness -
their betrayed love. But his tears could not make him swerve from
his resolution.
"The nation has done so much for me," said he, "that I owe it the
sacrifice of my dearest inclinations. The peace of France demands
that I choose a new companion. Since, for many months, the empress
has lived in the torments of uncertainty, and every thing is now
ready for a new marriage, we must therefore come to a final
explanation." [Footnote: Lavalette, "Memoires," vol. ii., p. 44.]
But as none could be found to carry this fatal news to Josephine,
Napoleon had to take upon himself the unwelcome task.
Wearied with the tears of the slighted empress, with the reproaches
of his own conscience and with his own sufferings, Napoleon suddenly
broke the sad, gloomy silence which had been so long maintained
between him and his wife; in answer to her tears and reproaches, he
told her that it was full time now to arrive at a final conclusion;
that he had resolved to form new ties; that the interest of the
state demanded from them both an enormous sacrifice; that he
reckoned on her courage and devotedness to consent to a divorce, to
which he himself acceded only with the greatest reluctance.
[Footnote: Thiers, "Histoire du Consulat," vol. xi., p. 340.]
But Josephine did not hear the last words. At the word divorce she
swooned with a death-like shriek; and Napoleon, alarmed at the sight
of her insensibility, called out to the officers in waiting to help
him to carry the empress into her rooms upon her bed.
Such hours of despair, of bitter pain, of writhing, agonized love
did Josephine now endure! How courageous, yet how difficult, the
struggle against the wretchedness of a rejected love! How angrily
and scornfully she would rise up against her cruel fate! How
lovingly, humbly, gently she would acquiesce in it, as to a long-
expected, inevitable fatality!
These were long days of pain and distress; but Josephine was not
alone in her sufferings, for the emperor's heart was also touched
with her quiet endurance, and her deep agony at this separation.
At last the empress came out victorious from these conflicts of
heart and soul, and she repressed her tears with the firm will of a
noble, loving woman! She bade her son Eugene announce to the emperor
that she assented to the divorce on two conditions: first, that her
own offspring should not be exiled or rejected, but that they should
still remain Napoleon's adopted children, and maintain their rank
and position at his court; secondly, that she should be allowed to
remain in France, and, if possible, in the vicinity of Paris, so
that, as she said with a sweet smile, she might be near the emperor,
and still hope in the pleasure of seeing him.
Napoleon's countenance manifested violent agitation when Eugene
communicated to him his mother's conditions; for a long time he
paced the room to and fro, his hands behind his back, and unable to
gather strength enough to return an answer. Then, with a trembling
voice, he said that he not only granted all these conditions, but
that they corresponded entirely with the wishes of his heart, and
that he would add to them a third condition, namely, that Josephine
should still be honored and treated by him and by the world as
empress, and that she should still be surrounded with all the honors
belonging to that rank.
There was yet wanting, for the full offering of the sacrifice, the
public and solemn act of divorcement; but before that could take
place it was necessary to make the requisite preparations, to
arrange the future household of the divorced empress, and to prepare
every thing for Josephine's reception in Malmaison, whither she
desired to retire from the world. The mournful solemnity was put off
until the 15th of December, and until then Josephine, according to
the rules of etiquette, was to appear before the world as the ruling
empress, the wife of Napoleon. Twice it was necessary to perform the
painful duty of appearing publicly in all the pomp of her imperial
dignity, and to wear the heavy burden of that crown which already
had fallen from her head. On the morning of the 3d of December she
had to be present at the chanting of the Te Deum in Notre Dame, in
thanksgiving for the peace of Vienna, and to appear at the ball
which the city of Paris that same evening gave to the emperor and
empress.
This ball was the last festivity which Josephine attended as
empress, but even then she received not all the honors which were
due to her as such. Napoleon himself had given orders that the
ladies of Paris, gathered in the Hotel de Ville, with the wife of
the governor of the capital, and the Duchess d'Abrantes at their
head, should not, as usual, meet the empress at the foot of the
stairs, but that they should quietly await her approach in the
throne-room, while the marshal of ceremonies would alone accompany
her up the stairs.
The Duchess d'Abrantes, deeply affected by this order of the
emperor, which at once revealed the sad secret of the approaching
future, had reluctantly to submit to this arrangement, which so
cruelly broke the established etiquette. She has herself, in her
memoirs, given full particulars of this evening, and her words are
so touching and so full of sentiment that we cannot refuse to make
them known here:
"We, therefore," says she, [Footnote: Abrantes, "Memoires." vol.
xii., p. 289.] "ascended the throne-room, and were no sooner seated,
than the drums began to beat, and the empress entered. I shall never
forget that figure, in the costume which so marvellously suited
her... never will this gentle face, now wrapped in mourning crape,
fade away from my memory. It was evident that she was not prepared
for the solitude which she had found on the grand staircase; and yet
Junot, in spite of the risk of being blamed by the emperor, went to
receive her, and he had even managed that the empress should meet on
the stairs a few ladies who, it is true, did not very well know how
they came and what they had to do there. The empress, however, was
not deceived; as she entered the grand hall and approached the
throne on which, in the presence of the public of the capital, she
was to sit probably for the last time....her feet trembled and her
eyes filled with tears. ....I tried to catch her eyes; I would
willingly have sunk at her feet and told her how much I
suffered....She understood me, and looked at me with the most
agonizing gaze which perhaps was ever in her eyes since that now
blighted crown had been placed on her head. That look spoke of
agony - it revealed depths of sorrow!....What must she have suffered
on this awful day!....She felt wretched, dying, and yet she smiled!
Oh, what a torture was that crown!....Junot stood by her.
"'You were not afraid of Jupiter's wrath,' said I to him afterward.
"'No,' said he, with a gloomy look, 'no, I fear him not, when he is
wrong....'
"The drums beat a second time; they announced the emperor's
approach.... A few minutes after he came in, walking rapidly, and
accompanied by the Queen of Naples and the King of Westphalia. The
heat was extraordinary, though it was cold out of doors. The Queen
of Naples, whose gracious, charming smile seemed to demand from the
Parisians the salutation, 'Welcome to Paris,' spoke to every one,
and with the expression of uncommon goodness. Napoleon, also, who
wished to appear friendly, walked up and down the room, talking and
questioning, followed by Berthier, who fairly skipped at his side,
fulfilling more the duties of a chamberlain than those of a
connetable. A trifling circumstance in reference to Berthier struck
me. The emperor, who for some time had been seated on his arm-chair
near the empress, descended the steps of the throne to go once more
around the hall; at the moment he rose I saw him bend down toward
the empress, probably to tell her that she was to accompany him. He
rose up first; Berthier, who had stood behind him, rushed on to
follow his master; the empress was already standing up, when his
feet caught in the train of her mantle, and he nearly fell down,
causing the empress almost to fall. However, he disentangled
himself, and, without one word of excuse to the empress, he followed
the emperor. Certainly Berthier had not the intention to be wanting
in respect to the empress; but he knew the secret - he knew the whole
drama soon to be performed.... and assuredly he would not have so
acted one year ago as he did to-day..... The empress had remained
standing with a marvellous dignity; she smiled as if the accident
was the result of mere awkward-ness.... but her eyes were full of
tears, and her lips trembled...."
At last the 15th of December had come; the day on which Josephine
was to endure the most cruel agony of her life, the day on which she
was solemnly to descend from the throne and bid farewell to her
whole brilliant past, and commence a despised, lonely, gloomy
future.
In the large cabinet of ceremonies were gathered on this day, at
noon, the emperor, the Empress Josephine, the emperor's mother, the
King and Queen of Holland, the King and Queen of Westphalia, the
King and Queen of Naples, the Vice-king Eugene, the Princess Pauline
Borghese, the high-chancellor Cambaceres, and the secretary of civil
affairs, St. Jean d'Angely. Josephine was pale and trembling; her
children were agitated, and hiding their tears under an appearance
of quietude, so as to instil courage into their mother.
Napoleon, standing upright, his hand in that of the empress, read
with tremulous voice:
"My cousin, prince state-chancellor, I have dispatched you an order
to summon you hither into my cabinet for the purpose of
communicating to you the resolution which I and the empress, my
much-beloved wife, have taken. I am rejoiced that the kings, queens,
and princesses, my brothers and sisters, my brothers-in-law and
sisters-in-law, my daughter-in-law and my son-in-law, who also is my
adopted son, as well as my mother, are here present to hear what I
have to say.
"The policy of my empire, the interest and wants of my people,
direct all my actions, and now demand that I should leave children
heirs of the love I have for my people, and heirs of this throne to
which Providence has exalted me. However, for many years past, I
have lost the hope of having children through the marriage of my
beloved wife, the Empress Josephine; and this obliges me to
sacrifice the sweetest inclinations of my heart, so as to consult
only the welfare of the state, and for that cause to desire the
dissolution of my marriage.
"Already advanced to my fortieth year, I still may hope to live long
enough to bring up in my sentiments and thoughts the children whom
it may please Providence to give me. God knows how much this
resolution has cost my heart; but there is no sacrifice too great
for my courage if it can be shown to me that such a sacrifice is
necessary to the welfare of France.
"It is necessary for me to add that, far from having any cause of
complaint, I have, contrariwise, but to praise the devotedness and
affection of my much-beloved wife; she has embellished fifteen years
of my life; the remembrance of these years will therefore ever
remain engraven on my heart. She has been crowned at my hands; it is
my will that she retain the rank and title of empress, and
especially that she never doubt my sentiments, and that she ever
hold me as her best and dearest friend."
When he came to the words "she has embellished fifteen years of my
life," tears started to Napoleon's eyes, and, with a voice trembling
through emotion, he read the concluding words.
It was now Josephine's turn. She began to read the paper which had
been prepared for her:
"With the permission of our mighty and dear husband, I must declare
that, whereas I can no longer cherish the hope of having children to
meet the wants of his policy and the wants of France, I am ready to
give the highest proof of affection and devotedness which was ever
given upon earth...."
Josephine could proceed no further; sobs choked her voice. She tried
to continue, but her trembling lips could no more utter a word. She
handed to Count St. Jean d'Angely the paper, who, with tremulous
voice, read as follows:
"I have obtained every thing from his goodness; his hand has crowned
me, and on the exaltation of this throne I have received only proofs
of the sympathy and love of the French people.
"I believe it is but manifesting my gratitude for these sentiments
when I consent to the dissolution of a marriage which is an obstacle
to the welfare of France, since it deprives her of the happiness of
being one day ruled by the posterity of a great man, whom Providence
has so manifestly favored, as through him to bring to an end the
horrors of a terrible revolution, and to re-establish the altar, the
throne, and social order. The dissolution of my marriage will not,
however, alter the sentiments of my heart; the emperor will always
find in me his most devoted friend. I know how much this action,
made incumbent upon him by policy and by the great interests in
view, has troubled his heart; but we, the one and the other, are
proud of the sacrifice which we offer to the welfare of our
country."
When he had finished, Napoleon, visibly affected, embraced
Josephine, took her hand, and led her back to her apartments, where
he soon left her insensible in the arms of her children. [Footnote:
Thiers, "Histoire du Consulat," etc., vol. xi., p. 349.]
Napoleon himself, sad and silent, returned to his cabinet, where, in
a state of complete exhaustion, he fell into an easy-chair.
On the evening of the same day he again visited Josephine, to pass a
few hours with her in quiet, undisturbed communion; to speak in
tenderness and love of the future, to weep with her, and, full of
deepest emotion and sincerity, to assure her of his undying
gratitude for the past, and of his abiding friendship for the
future.
Josephine passed the night in tears, struggling with her heart,
sometimes breaking into bitter complaints and reproaches, which she
immediately repressed with that gentleness and mildness so much her
own, and with that love which never for a moment departed from her
breast.
There remained yet to perform the last, the most painful scene of
this great, tearful drama. Josephine had to leave the Tuileries; she
had forever to retire from the place which she so long had occupied
at her husband's side; she had to descend into the open grave of her
mournful abandonment; as a widow, to part with the corpse of her
love and of the past, and to put on mourning apparel for a husband
who was not yet dead, but who only rejected her to give his hand and
his heart to another woman.
The next day at two o'clock, the moment had come for Josephine to
leave the Tuileries, to make room for the yet unknown wife of the
future. Napoleon wanted to leave Paris at the same moment, and pass
a few days of quiet and solitude in Trianon.
The carriages of the emperor and empress were both ready; the last
farewell of husband and wife, now to part forever, had yet to be
said. M. de Meneval, who was the sole witness of those sad moments,
gives of them a most affecting description, which bears upon its
face the merit of truth and impartiality.
"When it was announced to the emperor that the carriage was ready,
he stood up, took his hat, and said: 'Meneval, come with me.'
"I followed him through the narrow winding stairs which led from his
room into that of the empress. She was alone, and seemed absorbed in
the saddest thoughts, At the noise we made in entering she rose up
and eagerly threw herself, sobbing, upon the neck of the emperor,
who drew her to his breast and embraced her several times; but
Josephine, overcome by excitement, had fainted. I hastened to ring
for assistance. The emperor, to avoid the renewal of a painful
scene, which it was not in his power to prevent, placed the empress
in my arms as soon as he perceived her senses return, and ordered me
not to leave her, and then he hurried away through the halls of the
first story, at whose gate his carriage was waiting. Josephine
became immediately conscious of the emperor's absence; her tears and
sobs redoubled. Her women, who had now entered, laid her on a sofa,
and busied themselves with tender solicitude to bring her relief. In
her bewilderment she had seized my hands, and urgently entreated me
to tell the emperor not to forget her, and to assure him of her
devotedness, which would outlast every trial. I had to promise her
that at my arrival in Trianon I would wait upon the emperor and see
that he would write to her. It caused her pain to see me leave, as
if my departure tore away the last bond which united her to the
emperor. I left her, deeply affected by so true a sorrow and by so
sincere a devotion. During the whole journey I was deeply moved, and
could not but bewail the merciless political considerations which
tore violently apart the bonds of so faithful an affection for the
sake of contracting a new union, which, after all, contained but
uncertain chances.
"In Trianon I told the emperor all that had happened since his
departure, and I conveyed to him the message intrusted to me by the
empress. The emperor was still suffering from the emotions caused by
this farewell scene. He spoke warmly of Josephine's qualities, of
the depth and sincerity of the sentiments she cherished for him; he
looked upon her as a devoted friend, and, in fact, he has ever
maintained for her a heart-felt affection. The very same evening he
sent her a letter to console her in her solitude. When he learned
that she was sad and wept much, he wrote to her again, complained
tenderly of her want of courage, and told her how deeply this
troubled him." [Footnote: Meneval, "Napoleon et Marie Louise. -
Souvenirs Historiques," vol. i., pp. 230-232.]
It is true Josephine's sorrow was bitter, and the first night of
solitude in Malmaison was especially distressing and horrible. But
even in these hours of painful struggle the empress maintained her
gentleness and mildness of character. Mademoiselle d'Avrillon, one
of the ladies in waiting, has given her testimony to that effect:
"I was with the empress during the greater part of the night,"
writes she; "sleep was impossible, and time passed away in
conversation. The empress was moved to the very depth of her heart;
it is true, she complained of her fate, but in expressions so
gentle, in so resigned a manner, that tears would come to her eyes.
There was no bitterness in her words, not even during this first
night when the blow which destroyed her, had fallen upon her; she
spoke of the emperor with the same love, with the same respect, as
she had always done. Her grief was most acute: she suffered as a
wife, as a mother, and with all the wounded sensitiveness of a
woman, but she endured her affliction with courage, and remained
unchanged in gentleness, love, and goodness." [Footnote: Avrillon,
"Memoires," vol. ii., p. 166.]
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE DIVORCED.
Josephine had accepted her fate, and, descending from the imperial
throne whose ornament she had long been, retired into the solitude
and quietness of private life.
But the love and admiration of the French nation followed the
empress to Malmaison, where she had retreated from the world, and
where the regard and friendship, if not the love of Napoleon
himself, endeavored to alleviate the sufferings of her solitude.
During the first days after her divorce, the road from Paris to
Malmaison presented as animated a scene of equipages as in days gone
by, when the emperor resided there with his wife. All those whose
position justified it, hastened to Malmaison to pay their respects
to Josephine, and through the expressions of their sympathy to
soften the asperities of her sorrow. Doubtless many came also
through curiosity, to observe how the empress, once so much honored,
endured the humiliation of her present situation. Others, believing
they would exhibit their devotedness to the emperor if they should
follow their master's example, abandoned the empress, as he had
done, and took no further notice of her.
But the emperor soon undeceived the latter, manifesting his
dissatisfaction by his cold demeanor and repelling indifference
toward them, whilst he loudly praised all those who had exercised
their gratitude by visiting Malmaison, and in expressing their
devotedness to the empress.
He himself went beyond his whole court in showing attention and
respect to Josephine. The very next day after their separation, the
emperor went to Malmaison to visit her, and to take with her a long
walk through the park. During the following days he came again, and
once invited her and the ladies of her new court to a dinner in
Trianon.
Josephine might have imagined that nothing had been altered in her
situation, and that she was still Napoleon's wife. But there were
wanting in their intercourse those little, inexpressible shades of
confidence which her exquisite tact and her instinctive feelings
felt yet more deeply than the more important and visible changes.
When Napoleon came or went, he no longer embraced her, but merely
pressed her hand in a friendly manner, and often called her "madame"
and "you;" he was more formal, more polite to her than he had ever
been before.
And then his daily visits ceased; in their place came his letters,
it is true, but they were only the letters of a friend, who tried to
comfort her in her misfortune, but took no sympathetic interest in
her distress.
Soon these letters became more rare, and when they did come they
were shorter. The emperor had to busy himself with other matters
than with the solitary, rejected woman in Malmaison; he had now to
occupy his thoughts with his young and beautiful bride - with Maria
Louisa, the daughter of the Emperor of Austria, who was soon to
enter Paris as the wife of Napoleon, the Emperor of France.
Bitter and painful indeed were those first days of resignation for
Josephine; harsh and unsparing were the conflicts she had to fight
with her own heart, before its wounds could be closed, and its pains
and its humiliations cease to torment her!
But Josephine had a brave heart, a strong will, and a resolute
determination to control herself. She conquered herself into rest
and resignation; she did not wish that the emperor, the happy
bridegroom, should ever hear of her red, weeping eyes, of her
lamentations and sighs; she did not wish that, in the golden cup
which the husband of the emperor's young daughter was drinking in
the full joyousness of a conqueror, her tears should commingle
therein as drops of gall.
She controlled herself so far as to be able with smiling calmness to
have related to her how Paris was celebrating the new marriage
festivities, how the new Empress of the French was everywhere
received with enthusiasm. She was even able to inquire, with an
expression of friendly sympathy, after Maria Louisa, the young wife
of sixteen, who had taken the place of the woman of forty-eight, and
from whom Josephine, in the sincerity of her love, required but one
thing, namely, to make Napoleon happy.
When she was told that Napoleon loved Maria Louisa with all the
passion of a fiery lover, Josephine conquered herself so as to smile
and thank God that she had accepted her sacrifice and thus secured
Napoleon's happiness.
But the emperor, however much he might be enamored of his young
wife, never forgot the bride of the past, the beloved one of his
youth, of whom he had been not only captivated, but whom he had
loved from the very depths of his soul. He surrounded her, though
from a distance, with attentions and tokens of affection; he would
often write to her; and at times, when his heart was burdened and
full of cares, he would come to Malmaison, and visit this woman who
understood how to read in his face the thoughts of his heart, this
woman whose soft, gracious, and amiable disposition - even as a
tranquillizing and invigorating breeze after a sultry day - could
quiet his excited soul; to this woman he came for refreshment, for a
little repose, and sweet communion.
It is true those visits of the emperor to his divorced wife were
made secretly and privately, for his second wife was jealous of the
affection which Napoleon still retained for Josephine; she listened
with gloomy attention to the descriptions which were made to her of
the amiableness, of the unwithered beauty of Josephine; and one day,
after hearing that the emperor had visited her in Malmaison, Maria
Louisa broke out into tears, and complained bitterly of this
mortification caused by her husband.
Napoleon had to spare this jealous disposition of his young wife,
for Maria Louisa was now in that situation which France and its
emperor had expected and hoped from this marriage; she was
approaching the time when the object for which Napoleon had married
her was to be accomplished, when she was to give to France and the
Bonaparte dynasty a legitimate heir. It was necessary, therefore, to
be cautious with the young empress, and, on account of her
interesting situation, it was expedient to avoid the gloomy
sulkiness of jealousy.
By the emperor's orders, and under pain of the punishment of his
wrath, no one dared speak to Maria Louisa of the divorced empress,
and Napoleon avoided designedly to give her an occasion of
complaint. He went no longer to Malmaison; he even ceased
corresponding with his former wife.
Only once during this period he had not been able to resist the
longing of visiting Josephine, who, as he had heard, was sick. The
emperor, accompanied only by one horseman, rode from Trianon to
Malmaison. At the back gate of the garden he dismounted from his
horse, and, without being announced, walked through the park to the
castle. No one had seen him, and he was about passing from the
front-room into the cabinet of the empress by a side-door, when the
folding-doors leading from this front-room into the cabinet opened,
and Spontini walked out.
Napoleon, agitated and vexed at having been surprised, advanced with
imperious mien toward the renowned maestro, who was quietly
approaching him.
"What are you doing here, sir?" cried Napoleon, with choleric
impatience.
Spontini, however, returned the emperor's haughty look, and,
measuring him with a deep, flaming glance, asked, With a lofty
assurance: "Sire, what are you doing here?"
The emperor answered not - a terrible glance fell upon the bold
maestro, without, however, annihilating him: then Napoleon entered
into Josephine's cabinet, and Spontini walked away slowly and with
uplifted head.
Spontini, the famous composer of the "Vestals," whose score he had
dedicated to the Empress Josephine, remained after her divorce a
true and devoted admirer of the empress; and in Malmaison, as well
as in the castle of Navarra, he showed himself as faithful, as ready
to serve, as submissive, as he had once been in the Tuileries, or at
St. Cloud, in the days of Josephine's glory. He often passed whole
weeks in Navarra, and even undertook to teach the ladies and
gentlemen of the court the choruses of the "Vestals," which the
empress so much liked.
Josephine had, therefore, for the renowned maestro a heart-felt
friendship, and she took pleasure in boasting of the gratitude and
loyalty of Spontini, in contrast with the sad experiences she had
made of man's ingratitude. [Footnote: Memoires sur l'Imperatrice
Josephine," par Mlle. Ducrest," vol. i., p. 287.]
The emperor, as already said, avoided to trouble his young wife by
exciting her jealousy; and though he did not visit Malmaison, though
for a time he did not write to Josephine, yet he was acquainted with
the most minute details of her life, and with all the little events
of her home; and he took care that around her every thing was done
according to the strictest rules of etiquette, and that she was