the capital and from the attrition of parties. Josephine acquiesced
gladly in the wishes of her husband, for she felt her innermost
being shattered by these last exciting times, and perhaps she
cherished the secret hope that her husband, once removed from Paris,
would be drawn away from the dangerous arena of politics, into which
his enthusiasm had driven him. She was, and remained at heart, a
good and true royalist; and as Mirabeau, dying in the midst of
revolution's storms, had said of himself, that "he took to his grave
the mourning-badge for the monarchy," [Footnote: Mirabeau died on
the 6th of May, 1791. - See, on his death, "Count Mirabeau," by
Theodore Mundt, vol. iv.] so also Josephine's heart, since the
flight to Varennes, wore the mourning-badge for the unfortunate
royal family, who since that day had to endure so much humiliation,
so much insult, and to whom Josephine in her loyal sense of duty
consecrated the homage of a devout subject.
Josephine, therefore, gladly consented to the viscount's proposal to
leave Paris. Accompanied by their children and by the governess of
Hortense, Madame Lanoy, the viscount and his wife went to a property
belonging to one of the Beauharnais family near Solange.
Three months were granted to Josephine in the quietude, in the sweet
repose of country-life, at her husband's side, and with her
children, to gather strength from the anxieties and griefs which she
had suffered in Paris. She enjoyed these days as one enjoys an
unexpected blessing, a last sunshine before winter's near approach,
with thankful heart to God. Full of cheerful devotedness to her
husband, to her children, her lovely countenance was radiant with
joy and love; she was ever busy, with the sunshine of her smile, to
dissipate the shadows from her husband's brow, and to replace the
impassioned excitements, the honors and distinctions of his Parisian
life, by the pleasantness and joys of home.
But Alexandra de Beauharnais could no longer find satisfaction in
the quiet, harmless joys of home; he even reproached himself that he
could be cheerful and satisfied whilst France resounded with cries
of distress and complaints, whilst France was torn in her innermost
life by the disputes and conflicts of factions which, no more
satisfied with the speeches of the tribune, filled the streets with
blood and wounds. The revolution had entered into a new phase, the
Legislative Assembly had become the Constituent Assembly, which
despoiled the monarchy of the last appearance of power and degraded
it to a mere insignificancy. The Girondists, those ideal fanatics,
who wanted to regenerate France after the model of the states of
antiquity, had seized the power and the ministerial portefeuilles.
The beautiful, witty, and noble Madame Roland ruled, by means of her
husband, the Minister Roland, and was striving to realize in France
the ideal of a republic after the pattern of Greece; she was the
very soul of the new cabinet, the soul of the Girondists, the rulers
of France; in her drawing-room, during the evening, the new laws to
be proposed next day in the Constituent Assembly, were spoken of,
and the government measures discussed.
For a moment it had seemed as if the king, through his cabinet of
Girondists, would once more be reconciled with his people, and
especially with the Constituent Assembly, as if the nation and the
monarchy would once more endeavor to stand one by the other in
harmony and peace. Perhaps the Girondists had believed in this
possibility, and had regarded the king's assurances that he would
adhere to the constitution, and that he would go hand in hand with
his ministers, and accept the constitution as the faithful
expression of his will. But when they discovered that Louis was not
honorable in his assurances; that he was in secret correspondence
with the enemies of France; that in a letter to his brother-in-law,
the Emperor Leopold, he had made bitter complaints about the
constraint to which he was subjected, then the Girondists were
inflamed with animosity, and had recourse to counter-measures. They
decreed the exile of the priests, and the formation, in the vicinity
of Paris, of a camp of twenty thousand militia from all the
departments of France.
Foreign nations looked upon this decree as a sign of dawning
hostilities, and threatened France with countermeasures. France
responded to the challenge thus thrown at her, and, in a stormy
session of the Assembly, the fatherland was declared to be in
danger, the organization of an army to occupy the frontiers was
decreed, and all the children of the fatherland were solemnly called
to her defence.
This call awoke Alexandre de Beauharnais from the dreamy repose to
which he had abandoned himself during the last months. His country
called him, and he dared not remain deaf to this call; it was his
duty to tear himself from the quiet peace of the household, from the
arms of his wife and family, and place himself in the ranks of the
defenders of his country.
Josephine heard this resolution with tears in her eyes, but she
could not keep back her husband, whose countenance was beaming with
enthusiasm, and who dreamed of fame and victory. She accompanied
Alexandre to Paris, and after he had been gladly received by the
minister of war, and appointed to the Northern army, she then took
from him a last, fond farewell, entreated him with all the eloquence
of love to spare himself, and not wantonly to face danger, but to
preserve his life for his wife and children.
Deeply moved by this tender solicitude of his wife, Alexandre
promised to hold her requests as sacred. Once more they embraced
each other before they both quitted Paris on diverging roads.
Alexandre de Beauharnais went to Valenciennes, where commanded
Marshal Rochambeau, to whom he had been commissioned adjutant.
Josephine hastened with her children toward Fontainebleau, so at
least to be there united with her husband's father, and to live
under his protection until the return of her husband.
CHAPTER XI.
THE TENTH OF AUGUST, AND THE LETTER OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.
Since the death of Mirabeau, the last defender of the monarchy,
since the failure of the contemplated flight, royalty in France had
no chance of existence left; the throne had lost every prop upon
which it could find support, and it sank more and more into the
abyss which the revolution had dug under its feet.
Marie Antoinette was conscious of it; her foreboding spirit foresaw
the coming evil; her proud soul nearly broke under the humiliations
and griefs which every day brought on. She had hitherto courageously
and heroically struggled against adversity; she had concealed tears
and anguish, to smile at that people which hated her and cursed her,
which insulted and reviled her constantly. But a day was to come in
which the smile would forever depart from her lip - in which Marie
Antoinette, the daughter of the Caesars, so deeply humbled and
trodden down in the dust, would no more lift up her head, would no
more rise from the terrible blow.
This day was the 10th of August, in the year 1792. The terrible
storm, which so long had filled the air with its mutterings, and had
shaken the throne with its thunderings, was on this day with
terrific power to be let loose and to dash in pieces the monarchy.
The king furnished the occasion for this eruption by dismissing his
Girondist ministry, by not signing the decree for the organization
of a national militia, and for the exile of the priests.
This refusal was the flash which broke open the heavy clouds that so
long had hung over his head - the flash which caused the tempest to
burst forth.
Since that day Paris was in a state of rebellion; fresh disturbances
took place every day; and finally, on the morning of the 10th of
August, bands of people rushed to the palace of the Tuileries and
surrounded it with wild howlings and shouts. A portion of the
National Guards endeavored to force the people into a retreat; the
other portion united with the people in fierce assaults upon the
Tuileries, and on its defenders the Swiss. These were massacred by
the people armed with pikes; with jubilant howlings the armed masses
rushed over the corpses of the fallen into the king's palace.
The Procurator-General Roderer implored the king to save himself
with his family by taking refuge in the National Assembly, for there
alone was safety for him and the queen.
Louis hesitated; but Marie Antoinette felt once more the pride of a
queen awake within her; she felt it was nobler and worthier to die
as the loyal Swiss had done, to die sword in hand, than to meet
pardon and disgrace, than to bow her head under the yoke. She
entreated the king to remain with the loyal National Guards and to
fight with his soldiers and die in the palace of his fathers. She
spoke to the successor of Henry IV., to the father of the dauphin,
for whom he should maintain the inheritance received; she appealed
to the heart, to the honor of Louis; she spoke with flaming eyes,
and with the eloquence of despair.
But Louis listened not to her, but to the solicitations of Roderer,
who told him that he had but five minutes to save himself, the
queen, and his children; that in five minutes more all would be
lost.
"It cannot be helped," muttered the king; and then with louder voice
he continued: "It is my will that we be conducted into the
Legislative Assembly; I command it!"
A shriek of terror broke forth from the breast of the queen; her
proud heart resisted once more her husband's weakness, who, for his
own and for her misfortune, was not made of the stuff which moulds
kings.
"Sire," cried she, angrily and excited - "sire, you must first
command that I be nailed to the walls of this palace! I remain here.
I stir not from this spot!" [Footnote: The very words of the queen.-
-See "Memoires Secretes et Universelles," par Lafont d'Aussone.]
But Madame Elizabeth, the Princesses de Lamballe and de Tarent,
begged her with tears to consent; the good king fixed on her sad,
weeping eyes, and Roderer entreated her not to abandon, by her
delays, to the approaching executioners, her husband, her children,
and herself.
Marie Antoinette offered to her husband her last and her greatest
sacrifice; she bowed her proud head to his will; she consented to
accompany the king with her children into the Assembly.
She took the dauphin in her arms, Madame Therese by the hand, and,
at the side of the king, followed by the Princesses Lamballe and
Tarent, walked out of the palace of the Tuileries to go to the
Convent des Peuillants, where the Legislative Assembly held its
sessions.
What a martyrdom in this short distance from the Tuileries to the
Feuillants - what dishonor and fears were gathered on this path!
Between the deep ranks of Swiss grenadiers and National Guards was
this path; the queen stares fixedly on the ground, and she does not
see that her thin silk shoes will be torn by the hard, fallen leaves
of the trees under which they are moving.
But the king sees every thing, notices every thing. "How many
leaves," said he, gazing forward - "they fall early this year!"
Now at the foot of the terrace the advance of the royal family is
stopped by a multitude of people, who, with wild howlings, swing
their pikes and clubs, and in their madness shout: "No, they must
not enter the Assembly! - they are the cause of all our misery! Let
us put an end to all this! Down with them! - down!"
The queen pays no attention to these shouts; she sees not that the
National Guards are clearing a way by force; she walks forward with
uplifted head, with a countenance petrified like that of Medusa at
the sight of evil.
But as a man approaches her, seizes the dauphin and takes him in his
arms, the transfixed queen is aroused, and, with all the anguish of
a mother's despair, grapples the arm of the man who wants to rob her
of all she now possesses, her child!
"Be not afraid," whispered the man, "I will do him no harm, I am but
going to carry him;" and Marie Antoinette, her eyes fixed on the
child, moves forward. At their entrance into the hall of the
Assembly the man gives her back the dauphin, and she makes him sit
down near her on the seats of the ministers.
A rough voice issues from the midst of the Assembly: "The dauphin
belongs to the nation; place him at the side of the president. The
Austrian is not worthy of our confidence!"
They tear away from the queen the weeping child, who clings to her,
and who is carried to the president, at whose left hand the king has
seated himself.
Again a voice is heard reminding the Assembly of the law which
forbids them to deliberate in the presence of the king.
The royal family must leave the lower portion of the hall, and are
led into a small room, with iron trellis-work, behind the
president's chair.
The royal family, with their attendants, pressed into the small
space of this room, can here at least, away from the gaze of their
enemies, hide their dishonored heads; at least no one sees the
nervousness of despair which now and then agitates the tall figure
of the queen, the tears trembling on her eyelids when she looks to
the poor little dauphin, whose blond curly head lies in her bosom,
asleep from exhaustion, hunger, and sorrow.
No one sees the king and the queen, but they see and hear every
thing. They hear from without the howlings of the mob, the cannon's
roar, the reports of the rifles, telling them that a bloody
fratricidal strife, a terrible civil war, is raging. They hear there
in the hall, a few steps from them, the fanatical harangues of the
deputies, whose words, full of blood, are like the hands of the
murdering Marsellais there without. Marie Antoinette hears
Vergniaud's motion, "to divest the king at once of his power and
rank," and she hears the acclamations of the Assembly in favor of
the motion. She hears the Assembly by their own power reinvesting
the Girondist ministers, dismissed by the king, with their dignity
and power! She hears the Assembly decide "to invite the French
people to form a national compact."
She hears all this, and the cold perspiration of anguish and horror
covers her brow while she has yet strength enough to force hack her
tears into her heart. She asks for a handkerchief to wipe her
forehead. Not one of the attendants around can furnish a kerchief
which is not stained with the blood of the victims fallen at their
side in protecting the royal family with their lives. [Footnote:
"Memoires inedites du Comte de la Rochefoucauld."]
At last, at two o'clock in the morning, is this painful martyrdom
ended, and the royal family are led into the upper rooms of the
convent, where hastily and penuriously enough a few chambers had
been furnished.
The howlings of the crowd ascend to their windows. Under those of
the queen's room groups of infuriated women sing the song whose
horrible burden is, "Madame Veto avait promis de faire egorger tout
Paris." Between the sentences other voices shout and howl: "The
queen is the cause of our misery! Kill her! kill the queen, the
murderess of France! Kill Madame Veto! Throw us her head!"
Three days after, the royal family are led to the Temple. The rulers
of the state are now state prisoners. But the queen had already
found the peace which misfortune generally brings to strong souls;
and as she walked to the Temple, and saw her foot protruding from
the extremity of her shoe, she said with an affecting smile, "Who
could have believed that one day the Queen of France should be in
want of shoes!"
With the 10th of August began the last act of the great tragedy of
the revolution. Its second scene had its representation in the first
days of September, in those days of blood and tears, in which
infuriated bands of the people stormed the prisons to murder the
captive priests, aristocrats, and royalists.
Under the guillotine fell during this month the head of the queen's
friend, the Princess de Lamballe, who was followed in crowds by the
king's faithful adherents, sealing their loyalty and their love with
their death.
This loyalty and love for the royal family was during this month
branded as an unpardonable crime, for the National Convention, which
on the 21st of September had taken the place of the Constituent
Assembly, on the 25th declared France to be a republic, and the
royalists became thereby criminals, who had sinned in the respect
and love which they owed to the "republic one and indivisible."
The new republic of France celebrated her saturnalia in the
following months, and unfurled her blood-stained standard over the
nation. She was not satisfied with having brought to the guillotine
more than ten thousand aristocrats and royalists, to terrify the
faithful adherents and servants of the throne. She required,
moreover, the death of those for whose sake so many thousands had
perished - the death of the king and of the queen.
On the 5th of December began the trial of Louis Capet, ex-King of
France, now accused by the Convention. The pages of history have
illustrated this stupendous and tragical event in all its shapes and
colors. Each party has preyed upon it, the poets have sung it, and
made it the central point of tragedy and romance: but none have
painted it in so telling, in so terse, masterly traits, none have so
fully comprehended and expressed the already stupendous event, as
Lieutenant Napoleon Bonaparte, the future Emperor of France.
He happened to be in Paris during these days of terror. He had, with
all the energies of his soul, given himself up to the new state of
things, and he belonged to the most upright and zealous faction of
the republicans. He acknowledged himself won over to their ideas, he
participated in their celebrations, he was the friend of many of the
most influential and conspicuous members of the Convention, and he
was rarely absent from their meetings; but in the presence of the
awful catastrophe of the king's accusation and execution his proud
and daring soul shrank back, and, full of misgivings, shuddered
within itself. The young, enthusiastic republican, to his own great
horror, found in the depths of his soul a holy respect and awe in
the presence of this royalty which he so often in words had
despised, and the fall of the king, this enemy of the republic,
moved his heart as a calamity which had fallen upon him and upon all
France. He himself gave to one of his friends in Ajaccio a very
correct description of these days. After narrating the events of the
first days of the trial of the king, he continues:
"The day after I heard that the advocate Target had refused to
undertake the king's defence, to which he was privileged by virtue
of his office. This is what may be called, in the strictest sense of
the word, to erase one's name from history. What grounds had he for
such a low cunning? 'His life I will not save, and mine I dare not
risk!' Malherbes, Tronchet, Deseze, loyal and devoted subjects, to
imitate them in their zeal would be impossible for me; but were I a
prince I would have them sit at my right hand - united together in
the most strenuous efforts to defend the successor of St. Louis. If
they survive this deed of sublime faithfulness, never can I pass by
them without uncovering my head.
"Business detained me unavoidably in Versailles. Only on the 16th of
January did I return to Paris, and consequently I had lost three or
four scenes of this tragedy of ambition. But on the 18th of January
I went to the National Convention. Ah, my friend, it is true, and
the most infuriated republicans avow it also, a prince is but an
ordinary man! His head will as surely fall as that of another man,
but whosoever decrees his death trembles at his own madness, and
were he not urged by secret motives, his vote would die on his lips
ere it was uttered. I gazed with much curiosity at the fearless
mortals who were about deciding the fate of their king. I watched
their looks. I searched into their hearts. The exceeding weightiness
of the occasion had exalted them, intoxicated them, but within
themselves they were full of fear in the presence of the grandeur of
their victim.
"Had they dared retreat, the prince had been saved. To his
misfortune, they had argued within themselves, 'If his head falls
not to-day, then we must soon give ours to the executioner's
stroke.'
"This was the prominent thought which controlled their vote. No pen
can adequately portray the feelings of the spectators in the
galleries. Silent, horrified, breathless, they gazed now on the
accused, now on the defenders, now on the judges.
"The vote of Orleans sounded forth - 'Death!' An electric shock could
not have produced deeper impression. The whole assembly, seized with
an involuntary terror, rose. The hall was filled with the murmurs of
conflicting emotions.
"Only one man remained seated, immovable as a rock, and that one was
myself.
"I ventured to reflect on the cause of such indifference (as that of
Orleans) and I found that cause grounded on ambition, but this
cannot justify the conduct of Orleans. It is only thus that I could
account for his action: he seeks a throne, though without any right
to it, and a throne cannot be won if the pretender renounces all
claims to public respect and virtue.
"I will be brief, for to unfold a mournful story is not my business.
The king was sentenced to death; and if the 21st day of January does
not inspire hatred for the name of France, a glorious name at least
will have been added to the roll-call of her martyrs.
"What a city was Paris on that day! The population seemed to be in a
state of bewilderment; all seemed to exchange but gloomy looks, and
one man hurried on to meet another without uttering a word. The
streets were deserted; houses and palaces were like graves. The very
air seemed to mirror the executioner. In a word, the successor of
St. Louis was led to the scaffold through the ranks of mourning
automatons, that a short time before were his subjects.
"If any one is at your side, my friend, when you read this, conceal
the following lines from him, even were he your father. It is a
stain on the stuff of which my character is made - that Napoleon
Bonaparte, for the sake of a human being's destruction, should have
been deeply moved and compelled to retire to his bed, is a thing
barely credible, though it is true, and I cannot confess it without
being ashamed of myself.
"On the night before the 21st of January I could not close my eyes,
and yet I could not explain to myself the cause of this unusual
excitement. I rose up early and ran everywhere to and fro where
crowds had gathered. I wondered at, or much more I despised, the
weakness of those forty thousand National Guards, of which the
nineteenth part were practically the assistants of the executioner.
At the gate of St. Denis I met Santerre; a numerous staff followed
him. I could have cut off his ears. I spat down before him - it was
all I could do. In my opinion, the Duke d'Orleans would have filled
his place better. He had set his eyes on a crown, and, as every one
knows, such a motive overcomes much hesitancy.
"Following the Boulevards, I came to the Place de la Revolution. The
guillotine, a new invention, I had not yet seen. A cold perspiration
ran over me. Near me stood a stranger, who attributed my uneasiness
and pallor to some special interest on my part for the king's fate.
'Do not be alarmed,' said he, 'he is not going to die; the
Convention is only glad to exhibit its power, and at the foot of the
scaffold the king will find his letters of pardon.' 'In this case,'
said I, 'the members of the Convention are not far from their own
ruin, and could a guilty man have more deserved his fate than they?
Whoever attacks a lion, and desires not to be destroyed by it, must
not wound but kill on the spot.'
"A hollow, confused noise was heard. It was the royal victim. I
pushed forward, making way with my elbows, and being pushed myself.
All my efforts to come closer were fruitless. Suddenly the noise of
drums broke upon the gloomy silence of the crowd. 'This is the
signal for his freedom,' said the stranger. 'It will fall back on
the head of his murderers,' answered I; 'half a crime in a case like
this is but weakness.'
"A moment's stillness followed. Something heavy fell on the
scaffold. This sound went through my heart.
"I inquired of a gendarme the cause of this sound. 'The axe has
fallen,' said he. 'The king is not saved then?' 'He is dead.' 'He is
dead!'
"For ten times at least I repeated the words 'He is dead.'
"For a few moments I remained unconscious. Without knowing by whom,
I was carried along by a crowd, and found myself on the Quai des
Theatines, but could say nothing, except 'He is dead.'
"Entirely bewildered, I went home, but a good hour elapsed before I
fully recovered my senses." [Footnote: See "Edinburgh Quarterly
Review," 1830.]
CHAPTER XII.
THE EXECUTION OF THE QUEEN.
The king's execution was the signal-fire which announced to the
horrified world the beginning of the reign of terror, and told
Europe that in France the throne had been torn down, and in its
stead the guillotine erected. Yes, the guillotine alone now ruled
over France; the days of moderation, of the Girondists, had passed
away; the terrorists, named also men of the Mountain, on account of
the high seats they occupied in the Convention, had seized the reins
of power, and now controlled the course of events.
Everywhere, in every province, in every city, the blood-red standard
of the revolution was lifted up; might had become law; death was the
rule, and in lieu of the boasted liberty of conscience was tyranny.
Who dared think otherwise than the terrorists, who presumed to doubt
the measures of the Convention, was a criminal who, in the name of
the one and indivisible republic, was to be punished with death;
whose head must fall, for he had cherished thoughts which agreed not
with the schemes of the revolutionists.
How in these days of agitation and anguish Josephine rejoiced at her
good fortune, that she had not to tremble for her husband's life;
that she was away from the crater of the revolution which raged in
Paris, and daily claimed so many victims!
Alexandre de Beauharnais was still with the army. He had risen from
rank to rank; and when, in May, General Custine was deposed by the
Committee of Public Safety from the command of the Northern army,
Alexandre de Beauharnais, who was then chief of the general's staff
of this army, was appointed in his place as commanding general of
the Army of the Rhine; and the important work now to be achieved was
to debar the besieging Prussians and Austrians from recapturing
Mayence. The Committee of Public Safety had dismissed General
Custine from his post, because he had not pressed on with sufficient
speed to the rescue of Mayence, according to the judgment of these
new rulers of France, who wanted from Paris to decide all military
matters, and who demanded victories whilst too often refusing the
means necessary for victory.
General de Beauharnais was to turn to good what General Custine,
according to the opinion of these gentlemen of the Convention, had
failed to do. This was an important and highly significant order,
and to leave it unfulfilled was to excite the anger of the Committee
of Safety; it was simply to deserve death.
General de Beauharnais knew this well, but he shrank not back from
the weighty and dangerous situation in which he was placed. To his
country belonged his life, all his energies; and it was to him of
equal importance whether his head fell on the battle-field or on the
scaffold; in either case it would fall for his country; he would do
his duty, and his country might be satisfied with him.
In this enthusiastic love for country, De Beauharnais accepted
cheerfully the offered command of the Army of the Rhine as general-
in-chief, and he prepared himself to march to the rescue of besieged
Mayence.
Whilst General de Beauharnais was on the French frontier, Josephine
trembled with anxious misgivings. The new dignity of her husband
filled her with fear, for she multiplied the dangers which
surrounded him and his family, for now the eyes of the terrorists
were fixed on him. An unfortunate move, an unsuccessful war
operation, could excite the wrath of these men of power, and send
Beauharnais to the guillotine. It was well known that he belonged
not to the Mountain party, but to the moderate republicans, to the
Girondists; and as the Girondists were now incarcerated, as the
Committee of Safety had brought accusations against them, and
declared them guilty of treason toward France, it was also easy, if
it pleased the terrorists, to find a flaw in the character of
General Beauharnais, and to bring accusations against him as had
been done against the Girondists.
Such were Josephine's fears, which made her tremble for her husband,
for her children. She wished at least to secure these from the
impending danger, and to save and shield them from the guillotine.
Her friend, the Princess von Hohenzollern, was on the eve of leaving
for England with her brother the Prince von Salm, and Josephine was
anxious to seize this opportunity to save her children. She brought
Eugene and Hortense to the princess, who was now waiting in St.
Martin, in the vicinity of St. Pol, in the county of Artois,
expecting a favorable moment for departure; for already was the
emigration watched, already it was considered a crime to leave
France. With bitter tears of grief, and yet glad to know her
children safe, Josephine bade farewell to her little ones, and then
returned to Paris, so as to excite no suspicion through her absence.
But no sooner had General Beauharnais heard of Josephine's plan to
send her children from the country, than in utmost speed he
dispatched to his wife a courier bearing a letter in which he
decidedly opposed the departure of the children, for by this
emigration his own position would be imperilled and his character
made suspicious.
Josephine sighed, and, with tears in her eyes, submitted to her
husband's will; she sent a faithful messenger to St. Martin to bring
back Eugene and Hortense. But the Princess von Hohenzollern would
not trust the children to any one; she had sworn to her friend
Josephine to watch over them, never to let them go out of her sight,
and she wished to keep her oath until such time as she could restore
the children to their mother. She therefore returned herself to
Paris, to bring back Eugene and Hortense to Josephine; and this
journey, so short and so insignificant in itself, was nevertheless
the occasion that the Princess von Hohenzollern remained in France;
that her brother, the Prince von Salm, should mount the scaffold!
The favorable moment for emigration was lost through this delay; the
journey to Paris had attracted the eyes of the authorities to the
doings of the princess and of her brother, the contemplated journey
to England was discovered, and the incarceration of the Prince von
Salm and of his sister was the natural consequence. A few months
after, the prince paid with his life the contemplated attempt to
migrate; his sister, the Princess von Hohenzollern, was saved from
the guillotine through accident.
Meanwhile, Josephine had at least her children safely returned, and,
in the quietude and solitude of Fontainebleau, she awaited with
beating heart the future developments of events; she saw increase
every day the dangers which threatened her, her family, and, above
all things, her husband.
Mayence was still besieged by the Austrian and Prussian forces.
General Beauharnais had not completed the organization of his army
so as to press onward to the rescue of the besieged, whose perils
increased every day. But whilst, in unwearied activity, he urged on
the preliminary operations, a courier arrived, who brought to the
general his appointment to the office of minister of war, and
required his immediate presence in Paris, there to assume his new
dignity.
Alexandre de Beauharnais had the courage to answer with a
declination the office. He entreated the Convention to make another
choice, for he considered himself more competent to serve his
country against the coalition of tyrants, among his companions-in-
arms, than to be minister of war amid revolution's storms.
The Convention pardoned his refusal for the sake of the patriotic
sentiments which he had expressed. But this refusal was to have, not
only for the general, but also for all the aristocracy of France,
the most fatal results. Some of the most fanatical members of the
Mountain party ever considered as an audacious resistance to the
commands of the Convention this refusal of Alexandre de Beauharnais,
to accept the office which the highest powers of the land offered
him.
It was a nobleman, an aristocrat, who had dared oppose the
democratic Convention, and hence the welcome pretext was found to
begin the long-wished-for conflict against the aristocrats. One of
the deputies of the Mountain made the motion to remove from all
public offices, from the army, from the cabinet, all noblemen.
Another accused General de Beauharnais, as well as all officers from
amongst the nobility, of moderate tendencies, and requested at the
same time that a list of all officers from the nobility, and now in
the army, should be laid before the Convention.
But on this very day a letter from the general reached the
Convention. In this letter he expressed the hope of a speedy rescue
of Mayence; he announced that he had completed the organization of
his forces and all his preparations, and that soon from the camps of
Vicembourg and Lauterburg he would advance against Mayence.
This letter was received by the Convention with loud acclamations,
and so took possession of all minds that they passed over the motion
of hostility against the nobility, to the order of the day.
Had General de Beauharnais accomplished his purpose - had he
succeeded in relieving the garrison besieged in Mayence, now sorely
pressed, and in delivering them, this horrible decree which caused
so much blood to flow, this decree against the nobility, would never
have appeared, and France would have been spared many scenes of
cruelty and horror.
Beauharnais hoped still to effect the rescue. Trusty messengers from
Mayence had brought him the news that the garrison held on
courageously and bravely, and that they could hold their ground a
few days longer. Dispatch was therefore necessary; and if in a few
days they could be re-enforced, then they would be saved, provided
the other generals should advance with their troops in time to
attack the Austrian and Prussian forces lying round about Mayence.
The French had already succeeded in obtaining some advantages over
the enemy; and General de Beauharnais could triumphantly announce to
the Convention that, on the 22d of July, a warm encounter with the
Prussians had taken place at St. Anna's chapel, and that he had
forced the Prussians to a retreat with considerable loss.
The Convention received this news with jubilant shouts, and already
trusted in the sure triumph of the French armies against the united
forces of Prussia and Austria. If in these days of joyous excitement
some one had dared renew the motion to dismiss Beauharnais from his
command because he was a nobleman, the mover would undoubtedly have
been considered an enemy of his country.
How much attention in these happy days was paid to the general's
wife - how busy were even the most fanatical republicans, the dreaded
ones of the Mountain, to flatter her, to give expression to their
enthusiastic praises of the general who was preparing for the arms
of the republic so glorious a triumph!
Josephine now came every day to be present in the gallery at the
sessions of the Convention, and her gracious countenance radiated a
cheerful smile when the minister of war communicated to the Assembly
the newly-arrived dispatches which announced fresh advantages or
closer approaches of General Beauharnais. By degrees a new
confidence filled the heart of Josephine, and the gloomy
forebodings, which so long had tormented her, began to fade away.
In the session of the 28th of July, Barrere, with a grave, solemn
countenance, mounted the tribune and with a loud, sad voice
announced to the Convention, in the name of the Committee of Safety,
that a courier had just arrived bringing the news that, on the 23d
of July, Mayence, in virtue of an unjust capitulation, had fallen.
A loud, piercing shriek, which issued from the gallery, broke the
silence with which the Assembly had received this news. It was
Josephine who had uttered this cry - Josephine who was carried away
fainting from the hall. She awoke from her long swoon only to shed a
torrent of tears, to press her children to her heart, as if desirous
to screen them from the perils of death, which now, said her own
forebodings, were pressing on from all sides.
Josephine was not deceived: this calamitous news, all at once,
changed the whole aspect of affairs, gave to the Convention and to
the republic another attitude, and threw its dark shadows over the
unfortunate general who had undertaken to save Mayence, and had not
been able to fulfil his word.
Surely this was not his fault, for General Dubayet had capitulated
before it had been possible for Beauharnais to accomplish the
rescue. No one therefore ventured to accuse him, but undeserved
misfortune always remains a misfortune in the eyes of those who had
counted upon success; and the Convention could never forgive the
generals from whom they had expected so much, and who had not met
these expectations.
These generals had all been men of the aristocracy. As there was no
reason to accuse them on account of their unsuccessful military
operations, it was necessary to attack them with other weapons, and
seek a spot where they could be wounded. This spot was their name,
their ancestors, who in the eyes of the republican Convention rose
up like embodied crimes behind their progeny, to accuse the guilty.
The Jacobin Club, a short time after the capture of Mayence, began
again in an infuriated session the conflict against the nobility,
and the fanatical Hebert moved:
"All the noblemen who serve in the army, in the magistracy, in any
public office, must be driven away and dismissed. The people must
require this, the people themselves! They must go in masses to the
Convention, and after exposing the crimes and the treachery of the
aristocrats, must insist on their expulsion. The people must not
leave the Convention, it must remain in permanent session, there
until it is assured that its will is carried out."
The multitude with loud, jubilant tones cried, "Yes. yes, that is
what we want, let us go to the Convention! No more nobility! the
nobles are our murderers!"
The next day, the Jacobins, accompanied by thousands of shouting
women and infuriated men, went to the Convention to make known its
will in the name of the people. The Convention received their
petition and decreed the exile and the dissolution of the nobility,
and delivered to the punishment of the law the guilty subject who
would dare use the name of noble.
General de Beauharnais saw full well the blow aimed at him, and at
all the officers from the nobility in the army; he foresaw that they