“One moment of bliss is not too dearly bought with death,” says
our great German poet, and he may be right; but a moment of bliss
purchased with a long lifetime full of trial and suffering is far
too costly.

And when did it come for her, this “moment of bliss?” When could
Hortense Beauharnais, in speaking of herself, declare, “I am happy?
Now, let suffering and sorrow come upon me, if they will; I have
tasted felicity, and, in the memories it has left me, it is
imperishable and eternal!”

Much, very much, had this daughter of an empress and mother of
an emperor to endure.

In her earliest youth she had been made familiar with misfortune
and with tears; and in her later life, as maiden, wife, and mother,
she was not spared.

A touchingly-beautiful figure amid the drama of the Napoleonic
days was this gentle and yet high-spirited queen, who, when she had
descended from the throne and had ceased to be a sovereign,
exhausted and weary of life, found refuge at length in the grave,
yet still survived among us as a queen–no longer, indeed, a queen
of nations, but the Queen of Flowers.

The flowers have retained their remembrance of Josephine’s
beautiful daughter; they did not, like so many of her own race,
deny her when she was no longer the daughter of the all-powerful
emperor, but merely the daughter of the “exile.” Among the flowers
the lovely Hortense continued to live on, and Gavarni, the great
poet of the floral realm, has reared to her, as Hortensia, the
Flower Queen, an enchanting monument, in his “Fleurs
Animées.” Upon a mound of Hortensias rests the image of
the Queen Hortense, and, in the far distance, like the limnings of
a half-forgotten dream, are seen the towers and domes of Paris.
Farther in the foreground lies the grave of Hortense, with the
carved likeness of the queenly sister of the flowers. Loneliness
reigns around the spot, but above it, in the air, hovers the
imperial eagle. The imperial mantle, studded with its golden bees,
undulates behind him, like the train of a comet; the dark-red
ribbon of the Legion of Honor, with the golden cross, hangs around
his neck, and in his beak he bears a full-blooming branch of the
crown imperial.

It is a page of world-renowned history that this charming
picture of Gavarni’s conjures up before us–an historical pageant
that sweeps by us in wondrous fantastic forms of light and shadow,
when we scan the life of Queen Hortense with searching gaze, and
meditate upon her destiny. She had known all the grandeur and
splendor of earth, and had seen them all crumble again to dust. No,
not all! Her ballads and poems remain, for genius needs no diadem
to be immortal.

When Hortense ceased to be a queen by the grace of Napoleon, she
none the less continued to be a poetess “by the grace of God.” Her
poems are sympathetic and charming, full of tender plaintiveness
and full of impassioned warmth, which, however, in no instance
oversteps the bounds of womanly gentleness. Her musical
compositions, too, are equally melodious and attractive to the
heart. Who does not know the song, “Va t’en, Guerrier,”
which Hortense wrote and set to music, and then, at Napoleon’s
request, converted into a military march? The soldiers of France
once left their native land, in those days, to the sound of this
march, to carry the French eagles to Russia; and to the same
warlike harmony they have marched forth more recently, toward the
same distant destination. This ballad, written by Hortense,
survived. At one time everybody sang it, joyously, aloud. Then,
when the Bourbons had returned, the scarred and crippled veterans
of the Invalides hummed it under their breath, while they
whispered secretly to each other of the glory of La Belle
France, as of a beautiful dream of youth, now gone forever.

To-day, that song rings out with power again through France, and
mounts in jubilee to the summit of the column on the Place
Vendôme. The bronze visage of the emperor seems to melt into
a smile as these tremulous billows of melody go sweeping around his
brow, and the Hortensias on the queen’s grave raise dreamingly
their heads of bloom, in which the dews of heaven, or the tears of
the departed one, glisten like rarest gems, and seem to look forth
lovingly and listen to this ditty, which now for France has won so
holy a significance–holy because it is the master-chant of a
religion which all men and all nations should revere–the “religion
of our memories.” Thus, this “Va t’en, Guerrier,” which
France now sings, resounds over the grave of the queen, like a
salute of honor over the last resting-place of some brave
soldier.

She had much to contend with–this hapless and amiable
queen–but she ever proved firm, and ever retained one kind of
courage that belongs to woman–the courage to smile through her
tears. Her father perished on the scaffold; her mother, the
doubly-dethroned empress, died of a broken heart; her step-father,
the Emperor Napoleon, pined away, liked a caged lion, on a lone
rock in the sea! Her whole family–all the dethroned kings and
queens–went wandering about as fugitives and pariahs, banished
from their country, and scarcely wringing from the clemency of
those to whom they had been clement, a little spot of earth,
where, far from the bustle and intercourse of the world, they might
live in quiet obscurity, with their great recollections and their
mighty sorrows. Their past lay behind them, like a glittering fairy
tale, which no one now believed; and only the present seemed, to
men and nations, a welcome reality, which they, with envenomed
stings, were eager to brand upon the foreheads of the dethroned
Napoleon race.

Yet, despite all these sorrows and discouragements, Hortensia
had the mental strength not to hate her fellow-beings, but, on the
contrary, to teach her children to love them and do good to them.
The heart of the dethroned queen bled from a thousand wounds, but
she did not allow these wounds to stiffen into callousness, nor her
heart to harden under the broad scars of sorrow that had ceased to
bleed. She cherished her bereavements and her wounds, and kept them
open with her tears; but, even while she suffered measureless woes,
it solaced her heart to relieve the woes and dry the tears of
others. Thus was her life a constant charity; and when she died she
could, like the Empress Josephine, say of herself, “I have wept
much, but never have I made others weep.”

Hortense was the daughter of the Viscount de Beauharnais, who,
against the wishes of his relatives, married the beautiful
Josephine Tascher de la Pagerie, a young Creole lady of Martinique.
This alliance, which love alone had brought about, seemed destined,
nevertheless, to no happy issue. While both were young, and both
inexperienced, passionate, and jealous, both lacked the strength
and energy requisite to restrain the wild impulses of their fiery
temperaments within the cool and tranquil bounds of quiet married
life. The viscount was too young to be not merely a lover and
tender husband, but also a sober counsellor and cautious instructor
in the difficult after-day of life; and Josephine was too innocent,
too artless, too sportive and genial, to avoid all those things
that might give to the watchful and hostile family of her husband
an opportunity for ill-natured suspicions, which were whispered in
the viscount’s ear as cruel certainties. It may readily be
conceived, then, that such a state of things soon led to violent
scenes and bitter grief. Josephine was too beautiful and amiable
not to attract attention and admiration wherever she went, and she
was not yet blasée and hackneyed enough to take no
pleasure in the court thus paid to her, and the admiration so
universally shown her, nor even to omit doing her part to win them.
But, while she was naive and innocent at heart, she required of her
husband that these trifling outside coquetries should not disquiet
him nor render him distrustful, and that he should repose the most
unshaken confidence in her. Her pride revolted against his
suspicions, as did his jealousy against her seeming frivolity; and
both became quite willing, at last, to separate, notwithstanding
the love they really bore each other at the bottom of their hearts,
had not their children rendered such a separation impossible. These
children were a son, Eugene, and a daughter, Hortense, four years
younger than the boy. Both parents loved these children with
passionate tenderness; and often when one of the stormy scenes at
which we have hinted took place in the presence of the young
people, an imploring word from Eugene or a caress from little
Hortense would suffice to reconcile their father and mother, whose
anger, after all, was but the result of excessive attachment.

But these domestic broils became more violent with time, and the
moment arrived when Eugene was no longer there to stand by his
little sister in her efforts to soothe the irritation of her
parents. The viscount had sent Eugene, who was now seven years of
age, to a boarding-school; and little Hortense, quite disheartened
by the absence of her brother, had no longer the means or the
courage to allay the quarrels that raged between her parents, but
would escape in terror and dismay, when they broke out, to some
lonely corner, and there weep bitterly over a misfortune, the
extent of which her poor little childish heart could not yet
estimate.

In the midst of this gloomy and stormy period, the young
viscountess received a letter from Martinique. It was from her
mother, Madame Tascher de la Pagerie, who vividly depicted to her
daughter the terrors of her lonely situation in her huge, silent
residence, where there was no one around her but servants and
slaves, whose singularly altered and insubordinate manner had, of
late, alarmed the old lady, and filled her with secret
apprehensions for the future. She, therefore, besought her daughter
to come to her, and live with her, so that she might cheer the last
few years of her mother’s existence with the bright presence of her
dazzling youth.

Josephine accepted this appealing letter from her mother as a
hint from destiny; and, weary of her domestic wrangles, and
resolved to end them forever, she took her little daughter,
Hortense, then scarcely four years old, and with her sailed away
from France, to seek beyond the ocean and in her mother’s arms the
new happiness of undisturbed tranquillity.

But, at that juncture, tranquillity had fled the world. The
mutterings and moanings of the impending tempest could be heard on
all sides. A subterranean rumbling was audible throughout all
lands; a dull thundering and outcry, as though the solid earth were
about to change into one vast volcano–one measureless crater–that
would dash to atoms, and entomb, with its blazing lava-streams and
fiery cinder-showers, the happiness and peace of all humanity. And,
finally, this terrific crater did, indeed, open and hurl
destruction and death on all sides, over the whole world,
uprooting, with demoniac fury, entire races and nations, and
silencing the merry laugh and harmless jest with the overpowering
echoes of its awful voice!

This volcano was the revolution. In France, the first and most
fearful explosion of this terrific crater occurred, but the whole
world shook and heaved with it, and, on all sides, the furious
masses from beneath overflowed on the surface, seeking to reverse
the order of things and place the lowest where the highest had
been. Even away in Martinique this social earthquake was felt,
which had already, in France, flung out the bloody guillotine from
its relentless crater. This guillotine had become the altar of the
so-called enfranchisement of nations, and upon this altar the
intoxicated, unthinking masses offered up to their new idol those
who, until then, had been their lords and masters, and by whose
death they now believed that they could purchase freedom for
evermore.

“Egalité! fraternité! liberté!” Such
was the battle-cry of this howling, murdering populace. Such were
the three words which burned in blood-red letters of fire above the
guillotine, and their mocking emblem was the glittering axe, that
flashed down, to sever from their bodies the heads of the
aristocrats whom, in spite of the new religion represented in those
three words, they would not recognize as brethren and equals, or
admit to the freedom of life and of opinion. And this battle-cry of
the murderous French populace had penetrated as far as Martinique,
where it had aroused the slaves from their sullen obedience to the
point of demanding by force that participation in freedom,
equality, and brotherhood, that had so long been denied them. They,
at last, rose everywhere in open insurrection against their
masters, and the firebrands which they hurled into the dwellings of
the whites served as the bridal torches to their espousal of
liberty.

The house of Madame Tascher de la Pagerie was one of the abodes
in which these firebrands fell.

One night Josephine was awakened by the blinding light of the
flames, which had already penetrated to her chamber. With a shriek
of terror, she sprang from her bed, caught up little Hortense in
her arms from the couch where the child lay quietly slumbering,
wrapped her in the bedclothes, and rushed, in her night-attire,
from the house. She burst, with the lion-like courage of a mother,
through the shouting, fighting crowds of soldiers and blacks
outside, and fled, with all the speed of mortal terror, toward the
harbor. There lay a French vessel, just ready to weigh anchor. An
officer, who at that moment was stepping into the small boat that
was to convey him to the departing ship, saw this young woman, as,
holding her child tightly to her bosom, she sank down, with one
last despairing cry, half inanimate, upon the beach. Filled with
the deepest compassion, he hastened to her, and, raising both
mother and child in his arms, he bore them to his boat, which then
instantly put out from land, and bounded away over the billows with
its lovely burden.

The ship was soon reached, and Josephine, still tightly clasping
her child to her breast, and happy in having saved this only jewel,
climbed up the unsteady ladder to the ship’s decks. Until this
moment all her thoughts remained concentrated upon her child, and
it was only when she had seen her little Hortense safely put to bed
in the cabin and free from all danger–only after she had fulfilled
all the duties of a mother, that the woman revived in her breast,
and she cast shamed and frightened glances around her. Only
half-clad, in light, fluttering night-clothes, without any other
covering to her beautiful neck and bosom than her superb, luxuriant
hair, which fell around her and partly hid them, like a thick black
veil, stood the young Viscountess Josephine de Beauharnais, in the
midst of a group of gazing men!

However, some of the ladies on the ship came to her aid, and, so
soon as her toilet had been sufficiently improved, Josephine
eagerly requested to be taken back to land, in order that she might
fly to her mother’s assistance.

But the captain opposed this request, as he was unwilling to
give the young fugitive over to the tender mercies of the assassins
who were burning and massacring ashore, and whose murderous yells
could be distinctly heard on board of the vessel. The entire coast,
so far as the eye could reach, looked like another sea–a sea,
though, of flame and smoke, which shot up its leaping billows in
long tongues of fire far against the sky. It was a terrible, an
appalling spectacle; and Josephine fled from it to the bedside of
her little sleeping daughter. Then, kneeling there by the couch of
her child, she uplifted to heaven her face, down which the tears
were streaming, and implored God to spare her mother.

But, meanwhile, the ship weighed anchor, and sped farther and
farther away from this blazing coast.

Josephine stood on the deck and gazed back at her mother’s
burning home, which gradually grew less to her sight, then
glimmered only like a tiny star on the distant horizon, and finally
vanished altogether. With that last ray her childhood and past life
had sunk forever in the sea, and a new world and a new life opened
for both mother and child. The past was, like the ships of Cortez,
burned behind her; yet it threw a magic light far away over into
her future, and as Josephine stood there with her little Hortense
in her arms, and sent her last farewell to the island where her
early days had been spent, she bethought her of the old
mulatto-woman who had whispered in her ear one day:

“You will go back to France, and, ere long after that, all
France will be at your feet. You will be greater there than a
queen.”

CHAPTER II.

THE PROPHECY.

It was toward the close of the year 1790 that Josephine, with
her little daughter, Hortense, arrived in Paris and took up her
residence in a small dwelling. There she soon received the
intelligence of the rescue of her mother, and of the
re-establishment of peace in Martinique. In France, however, the
revolution and the guillotine still raged, and the banner of the
Reign of Terror–the red flag–still cast its bloody shadow over
Paris. Its inhabitants were terror-stricken; no one knew in the
evening that he would still be at liberty on the following day, or
that he would live to see another sunset. Death lay in wait at
every door, and reaped its dread harvest in every house and in
every family. In the face of these horrors, Josephine forgot all
her earlier griefs, all the insults and humiliations to which she
had been subjected by her husband; the old love revived in her
breast, and, as it might well be that on the morrow death would
come knocking at her own door, she wished to devote the present
moment to a reconciliation with her husband, and a reunion with her
son.

But all her attempts in this direction were in vain. The
viscount had felt her flight to Martinique to be too grave an
injury, too great an insult, to be now willing to consent to a
reconciliation with his wife. Sympathizing friends arranged a
meeting between them, without, however, previously informing the
viscount of their design. His anger was therefore great when, on
entering the parlor of Count Montmorin, in response to that
gentleman’s invitation, he found there the wife he had so
obstinately and wrathfully avoided. He was about to retire hastily,
when a charming child rushed forward, greeted him tenderly in
silvery tones, and threw herself into his arms. The viscount was
now powerless to fly; he pressed his child, his Hortense, to his
heart, and when the child, with a winning smile, entreated him to
kiss her mamma as he had kissed her; when he saw the beautiful
countenance of Josephine wet with tears; when he heard his father’s
voice saying, “My son, reconcile yourself with my daughter!
Josephine is my daughter, and I would not call her so if she were
unworthy,” and when he saw his handsome son, Eugene, gazing at him
wistfully, his head resting on his mother’s shoulder, his heart
relented. Leading little Hortense by the hand, he stepped forward
to his wife, and, with a loud cry of joy and a blissful greeting of
love, Josephine sank on his bosom.

Peace was re-established, and husband and wife were now united
in a closer bond of love than ever before. The storms seemed to
have spent their rage, and the heaven of their happiness was clear
and cloudless. But this heaven was soon to be overcast with the
black shadow of the revolution.

Viscount Beauharnais, returned by the nobility of Blois to the
new legislative body, the Estates-General, resigned this position,
in order to serve his country with his sword instead of his tongue.
With the rank of adjutant-general, he repaired to the Army of the
North, accompanied by Josephine’s blessings and tears. A dread
premonition told her that she would never see the general again,
and this premonition did not deceive her. The spirit of anarchy and
insurrection not only raged among the people of Paris, but also in
the army. The aristocrats, who were given over to the guillotine in
Paris, were also regarded with distrust and hatred in the army, and
Viscount Beauharnais, who, for his gallantry on the battle-field of
Soissons, had been promoted to the position of commanding general,
was accused by his own officers of being an enemy of France and of
the new order of things. He was arrested, taken back to Paris, and
thrown into the prison of the Luxembourg, where so many other
victims of the revolution lay in confinement.

The sad intelligence of her husband’s misfortune soon reached
Josephine, and aroused her love to energetic action in his behalf.
She mentally vowed to liberate her husband, the father of her
children, or to die with him. She courageously confronted all
dangers, all suspicions, and was happy when she found him in his
prison, where she visited him, whispering words of consolation and
hope in his ear.

But at that time love and fidelity were also capital crimes, and
Josephine’s guilt was twofold: first, because she was an aristocrat
herself, and secondly, because she loved and wept for the fate of
an aristocrat, and an alleged traitor to his country. Josephine was
arrested and thrown into the prison of St. Pelagie.

Eugene and Hortense were now little better than orphans, for the
prisoners of the Luxembourg and St. Pelagie, at that time, only
left their prisons to mount the scaffold. Alone, deprived of all
help, avoided by all whom they had once known and loved, the two
children were threatened with misery, want, and even with hunger,
for the estate of their parents had been confiscated, and, in the
same hour in which Josephine was conducted to prison, the entrances
and doors of their dwelling were sealed, and the poor children left
to find a sheltering roof for themselves. But yet they were not
entirely helpless, not quite friendless, for a friend of Josephine,
a Madame Ho1stein, had the courage to come to the rescue, and take
the children into her own family.

But it was necessary to go to work cautiously and wisely, in
order to avoid exciting the hatred and vengeance of those who,
coming from the scum of the people, were now the rulers of France.
An imprudent word, a look, might suffice to cast suspicion upon,
and render up to the guillotine, this good Madame Ho1stein, this
courageous friend of the two children. It was in itself a capital
crime that she had taken the children of the accused into her
house, and it was therefore necessary to adopt every means of
conciliating the authorities. It was thought necessary that
Hortense should, in company with her protectress, attend the
festivals and patriotic processions, that were renewed at every
decade in honor of the one and indivisible republic, but she was
never required to take an active part in these celebrations. She
was not considered worthy to figure among the daughters of the
people; she had not yet been forgiven for being the daughter of a
viscount, of an imprisoned ci-devant. Eugene had been
apprenticed to a carpenter, and the son of the viscount was now
often seen walking through the streets in a blouse, carrying a
board on his shoulder or a saw under his arm.

While the children of the accused were thus enjoying temporary
security, the future of their parents was growing darker and
darker, and not only the life of the general, but also that of his
wife, was now seriously endangered. Josephine had been removed from
the prison of St. Pelagie to that of the Carmelites, and this
brought her a step nearer the scaffold. But she did not tremble for
herself, she thought only of her children and her husband; she
wrote affectionate letters to the former, which she bribed her
jailer to forward to their destination, but all her efforts to
place herself in communication with her husband were abortive. One
day she received the fearful intelligence that her husband had just
been conducted before the revolutionary tribunal. Josephine waited
for further intelligence in an agony of suspense. Had this tribunal
acquitted her husband, or had it condemned him to death? Was he
already free, or was he free in a higher sense–was he dead? If he
were free, he would have found means to inform her of the fact; and
if he were dead, his name would certainly have been mentioned in
the list of the condemned. In this agony of suspense, Josephine
passed the long day. Night came, but brought no rest for her and
her companions in misery–the other occupants of the prison–who
also looked death in the face, and who watched with her throughout
the long night.

The society assembled in this prison was brilliant and select.
There were the Dowager Duchess de Choiseul, the Viscountess de
Maille, whose seventeen-years-old daughter had just been
guillotined; there was the Marquise de Créqui, the
intellectual lady who has often been called the last marquise of
the ancien régime, and who in her witty memoirs wrote
the French history of the eighteenth century as viewed from an
aristocratic standpoint. There was Abbé Téxier, who,
when the revolutionists threatened him with the lantern, because he
had refused to take the oath of allegiance to the new constitution,
replied: “Will you see any better after having hung me to the
lantern?” And there was yet another, a M. Duvivier, a pupil of
Cagliostro, who, like his master, could read the future, and with
the assistance of a decanter full of water and a “dove,” that is,
an innocent young girl of less than seven, could solve the
mysteries of fate.

To him, to the Grand Cophta, Josephine now addressed herself
after this day of dread uncertainty, and demanded information of
the fate of her husband.

In the stillness of the night the gloomy, desolate hall of the
prison now presented a strange aspect. The jailer, bribed with an
assignat of fifty francs, then worth only forty sous, however, had
consented that his little six-years-old daughter should serve the
Grand Cophta as “dove,” and had made all other preparations. A
table stood in the middle of the hall, on which was a decanter
filled with clear, fresh water, around which were three candles in
the form of a triangle, and placed as near the decanter as
possible, in order that the dove should be able to see the better.
The little girl, just aroused from sleep and brought from her bed
in her night-gown, sat on a chair close to the table, and behind
her stood the earnest, sombre figure of the Grand Cophta. Around
the table stood the prisoners, these duchesses and marquises, these
ladies of the court of Versailles who had preserved their
aristocratic manners in the prison, and were even here so strictly
observant of etiquette, that those of them who had enjoyed the
honor of the tabouret in the Tuileries, were here accorded
the same precedence, and all possible consideration shown them.

On the other side of the table, in breathless suspense, her
large, dark eyes fastened on the child with a touching expression,
stood the unhappy Josephine, and, at some distance behind the
ladies, the jailer with his wife.

Now the Grand Cophta laid both hands on the child’s head and
cried in a loud voice, “Open your eyes and look!”

The child turned pale and shuddered as it fixed its gaze on the
decanter.

“What do you see?” asked the Grand Cophta, “I want you to look
into the prison of General Beauharnais. What do you see?”

“I see a little room,” said the child with vivacity. “On a cot
lies a young man who sleeps; at his side stands another man,
writing on a sheet of paper that lies on a large book.”

“Can you read?”

“No, citizen. Now the man cuts off his hair, and folds it in the
paper.”

“The one who sleeps?”

“No, the one who was just now writing. He is now writing
something on the back of the paper in which he wrapped the hair;
now he opens a little red pocket-book, and takes papers out of it;
they are assignats, he counts them and then puts them back in the
pocket-book. Now he rises and walks softly, softly.”

“What do you mean by softly? You have not heard the slightest
noise as yet, have you?”

“No, but he walks through the room on tiptoe.”

“What do you see now?”

“He now covers his face with his hands and seems to be
weeping.”

“But what did he do with his pocket-book?”

“Ah, he has put the pocket book and the package with the hair in
the pocket of the coat that lies on the sleeping man’s bed.”

“Of what color is this coat?”

“I cannot see, exactly; it is red or brown, lined with blue silk
and covered with shining buttons.”

“That will do,” said the Grand Cophta; “you can go to bed,
child.”

He stooped down over the child and breathed on her forehead. The
little girl seemed to awaken as from a trance, and hurried to her
parents, who led her from the hall.

“General Beauharnais still lives!” said the Grand Cophta,
addressing Josephine.

“Yes, he still lives,” cried she, sadly, “but he is preparing
for death [1].”

[1]
This scene is exactly as represented by the Marquise de
Créqui, who was present and relates it in her memoirs, vol.
vi., p. 238.

Josephine was right. A few days later Duchess d’Anville received
a package and a letter. It was sent to her by a prisoner in La
Force, named De Legrois. He had occupied the same cell with General
Beauharnais and had found the package and the letter, addressed to
the duchess, in his pocket on the morning of the execution of the
general.

In this letter the general conjured Duchess D’Anville to deliver
to Josephine the package which contained his hair and his last
adieus to wife and children.

This was the only inheritance which General Beauharnais could
bequeath to his Josephine and her unhappy children!

Josephine was so agitated by the sight of her husband’s hair and
his last fond words of adieu, that she fainted away, a stream of
blood gushing from her mouth.

Her companions in misfortune vied with each other in giving her
the most tender attention, and demanded of the jailer that a
physician should be called.

“Why a physician!” said the man, indifferently. “Death is the
best physician. He called the general to-day; in a few days he will
restore to him his wife.”

This prophecy was almost verified. Josephine, scarcely recovered
from her illness, received her citation from the Tribunal of
Terror. This was the herald of certain death, and she courageously
prepared for the grave, troubled only by thoughts of the children
she must leave behind.

A fortunate and unforeseen occurrence saved her. The men of the
revolution had now attained the summit of their power, and, as
there was no standing still for them, they sank into the abyss
which themselves had digged.

The fall of Robespierre opened the prisons and set at liberty
thousands of the already condemned victims of the revolution.

Viscountess Josephine left her prison; she was restored to
liberty, and could now hasten to her children, but she came back to
them as a poor widow, for the seals of the “one and indivisible
republic” were on hers and her children’s property as well as on
that of all other aristocrats.

CHAPTER III.

CONSEQUENCES OF THE REVOLUTION.

France drew a breath of relief; the Reign of Terror was at an
end, and a milder and more moderate government wielded the sceptre
over the poor land that had so lately lain in the agonies of death.
It was no longer a capital offence to bear an aristocratic name, to
be better dressed than the sans-culottes, to wear no
Jacobin-cap, and to be related to the emigrants. The guillotine,
which had ruled over Paris during two years of blood and tears, now
rested from its horrid work, and allowed the Parisians to think of
something else besides making their wills and preparing for
death.

Mindful of the uncertainty of the times, the people were
disposed to make the most of this release from the fear of
immediate death, and to enjoy themselves to the utmost while they
could.

They had so long wept, that they eagerly desired to laugh once
more; so long lived in sorrow and fear, that they now ardently
longed for amusement and relaxation. The beautiful women of Paris,
who had been dethroned by the guillotine, and from whose hands the
reins had been torn, now found the courage to grasp these reins
again, and reconquer the position from which the storm-wind of the
revolution had hurled them.

Madame Tallien, the all-powerful wife of one of the five
directors who now swayed the destinies of France; Madame
Récamier, the friend of all the eminent and distinguished
men of that period; and Madame de Staël, the daughter of
Necker, and the wife of the ambassador of Sweden, whose government
had recognized the republic–these three ladies gave to Paris its
drawing-rooms, its reunions, its fêtes, its fashions,
and its luxury. All Paris had assumed a new form, and, although the
Church had not yet again obtained official recognition, the belief
in a Supreme Being was already re-established. Robespierre had
already been bold enough to cause the inscription, “There is a
Supreme Being,” to be placed over the altars of the churches that
had been converted into “Temples of Reason.” Yes, there is a
Supreme Being; and Robespierre, who had first acknowledged its
existence, was soon to experience in himself that such was the
case. Betrayed by his own associates, and charged by them with
desiring to make himself dictator, and place himself at the head of
the new Roman-French Republic as a new Caesar, Robespierre fell a
prey to the Tribunal of Terror which he himself had called into
existence. While engaged in the Hôtel de Ville in signing
death-sentences which were to furnish fresh victims to the
guillotine, he was arrested by the Jacobins and National Guards,
who had stormed the gates and penetrated into the building, and the
attempt to blow out his brains with his pistol miscarried.
Bleeding, his jaw shattered by the bullet, he was dragged before
Fouquier-Tainville to receive his sentence, and to be conducted
thence to the scaffold. In order that the proceeding should be
attended with all formalities, he was, however, first conducted to
the Tuileries, where the Committee of Public Safety was then
sitting in the chamber of Queen Marie Antoinette. Into the
bedchamber of the queen whom Robespierre had brought to the
scaffold, the bleeding, half-lifeless dictator was now dragged.
Like a bundle of rags he was contemptuously thrown on the large
table that stood in the middle of the room. But yesterday
Robespierre had been enthroned at this table as almighty ruler over
the lives and possessions of all Frenchmen; but yesterday he had
here issued his decrees and signed the death-sentences, that lay on
the table, unexecuted. These papers were now the only salve the
ghastly, groaning man could apply to the wound in his face, from
which blood poured in streams. The death-sentences signed by
himself now drank his own blood, and he had nothing but a rag of a
tricolor, thrown him by a compassionate sans-culotte, with
which to bind up the great, gaping wound on his head. As he sat
there in the midst of the blood-saturated papers, bleeding,
groaning, and complaining, an old National Guard, with outstretched
arms, pointing to this ghastly object, cried: “Yes, Robespierre was
right. There is a Supreme Being!”

This period of blood and terror was now over; Robespierre was
dead; Théroigne de Méricourt was no longer the
Goddess of Reason, and Mademoiselle Maillard no longer Goddess of
Liberty and Virtue. Women had given up representing divinities, and
desired to be themselves again, and to rebuild in the drawing-rooms
of the capital, by means of their intellect and grace, the throne
which had gone down in the revolution.

Madame Tallien, Madame Récamier, and Madame de
Staël, reorganized society, and all were anxious to obtain
admission to their parlors. To be sure, these entertainments and
reunions still wore a sufficiently strange and fantastic
appearance. Fashion, which had so long been compelled to give way
to the carmagnole and red cap, endeavored to avenge its long
banishment by all manner of caprices and humors, and in doing so
assumed a political, reactionary aspect. Coiffures à la
Jacobine were now supplanted by coiffures à la
victime and au repentir. In order to exhibit one’s taste
for the fine arts, the draperies of the statues of Greece and
ancient Rome were now worn. Grecian fêtes were given,
at which the black soup of Lycurgus was duly honored, and Roman
feasts which, in splendor and extravagance, rivalled those of
Lucullus. These Roman feasts were particularly in vogue at the
palace of Luxembourg, where the directors of the republic had now
taken up their residence, and where Madame Tallien exhibited to the
new French society the new wonders of luxury and fashion. Too proud
to wear the generally-adopted costume of the Grecian republic,
Madame Tallien chose the attire of the Roman patrician lady; and
the gold-embroidered purple robes, and the golden tiara in her
black, shining hair, gave to the charming and beautiful daughter of
the republic the magnificence of an empress. She had also drawn
around her a splendid court. All eagerly pressed forward to pay
their respects to and obtain the good will of the mighty wife of
the mighty Tallien. Her house was the great point of attraction to
all those who occupied prominent positions in Paris, or aspired to
such. While in the parlors of Madame Récamier, who, despite
the revolution, had remained a zealous royalist, the past and the
good time of the Bourbons were whispered of, and witty and often
sanguinary bon mots at the expense of the republic
uttered–while in Madame de Staël’s parlors art and science
had found an asylum–Madame Tallien and court lived for the
present, and basked in the splendor with which she knew how to
invest the palace of the dictators of France.

In the mean while, Viscountess Josephine Beauharnais had been
living, with her children, in quiet retirement, a prey to sad
memories. A day came, however, when she was compelled to tear
herself from this last consolation of the unhappy, the brooding
over the sorrows and losses of the past, or see her children become
the victims of misery and want. The time had come when she must
leave her retirement, and step, as a petitioner, before those who
had the power to grant, as a favor, that which was hers by right,
and restore to her, at least in part, her sequestered estate.
Josephine had known Madame Tallien when she was still Madame de
Fontenay, and it now occurred to her that she might assist her in
her attempt to recover the inheritance of her father. Madame
Tallien, the “Merveilleuse de Luxembourg,” also called by her
admirers, “Notre-dame de Thermidor,” felt much nattered at being
called on by a real viscountess, who had filled a distinguished
position at the court of King Louis. She therefore received her
with great amiability, and endeavored to make the charming and
beautiful viscountess her friend. But Josephine found that estates
were more easily lost than recovered. The republic, one and
indivisible, was always ready to take, but not to give; and, even
with the kindly offices of Madame Tallien freely exerted in her
behalf, it was some time before Josephine succeeded in recovering
her estate. In the mean time, she really suffered want, and she and
her children were compelled to bear the hardships and
mortifications which poverty brings in its train. But true friends
still remained to her in her misery; friends who, with true
delicacy, furnished her with the prime necessities of life–with
food and clothing for herself and children. In general, it was
characteristic of this period that no one felt humiliated by
accepting benefits of this kind from his friends. Those who had
lost all had not done so through their own fault; and those who had
saved their property out of the general wreck could not attribute
their fortune to their own merit or wisdom, but merely to chance.
They therefore considered it a sacred duty to divide with those who
had been less fortunate; and the latter would point with pride to
the poverty which proved that they had been true to themselves and
principle, and accept what friendship offered. This was the result
of a kind of community of property, to which the revolution had
given birth. Those who had possessions considered it their duty to
divide with those who had not, and the latter regarded this
division rather as a right than as a benefit conferred.

Josephine could, therefore, accept the assistance of her friends
without blushing; she could, with propriety, allow Madame de
Montmorin to provide for the wardrobe of herself and daughter; and
she and Hortense could accept the invitation of Madame Dumoulin to
dine with her twice a week. There, at Madame Dumoulin’s, were
assembled, on certain days, a number of friends, who had been
robbed of their fortunes by the storms of the revolution. Madame
Dumoulin, the wife of a rich army-contractor, gave these dinners to
her friends, but each guest was expected to bring with him his own
white-bread. White-bread was, at that time, considered one of the
greatest dainties; for, there being a scarcity of grain, a law had
been proclaimed allotting to each section of Paris a certain amount
of bread, and providing that no individual should be entitled to
purchase more than two ounces daily. It had, therefore, become the
general custom to add the following to all invitations: “You are
requested to bring your white bread with you,” for the reason that
no more than the allotted two ounces could be had for money, and
that amount cost the purchaser dearly [2]. Josephine, however,
had not even the money to buy the portion allowed her by law. An
exception to this rule was, however, made in favor of Josephine and
Hortense; and at Madame Dumoulin’s dinners the hostess always
provided white bread for them, and for them alone of all her
guests. Viscountess Beauharnais was soon, however, to be freed from
this want. One day when she had been invited by Madame Tallien to
dinner, and had walked to the palace with Hortense, Tallien
informed her that the government had favorably considered her
petition, and was willing to make some concessions to the widow of
a true patriot who had sealed his devotion to principle with his
blood; that he had procured an ordinance from the administration of
domains, pursuant to which the seals were at once to be removed
from her furniture and other personal property, and that the
republic had remitted to her, through him, an order on the treasury
for her relief, until the sequestration of her landed estates
should be annulled, which he expected would soon take place.

[2]
Mémoires de Monsieur de Bourrienne sur Napoleon, etc., Vol.
i., p. 80.

Josephine found no words in which to express her thanks. She
pressed her daughter to her heart and cried out, her face bathed in
tears: “We shall at last be happy! My children shall no longer
suffer want!” This time the tears Josephine shed were tears of joy,
the first in long years.

Care and want were now over. Josephine could now give her
children an education suitable to their rank; she could now once
more assume the position in society to which her beauty, youth,
amiability, and name entitled her. She no longer came to Madame
Tallien’s parlor as a suppliant, she was now its ornament, and all
were eager to do homage to the adored friend of Madame Tallien, to
the beautiful and charming viscountess. But Josephine preferred the
quiet bliss of home-life in the circle of her children to the
brilliant life of society; she gradually withdrew from the noisy
circles of the outer world, in order that she might, in peaceful
retirement, devote herself to the cultivation of the hearts and
minds of her promising children.

Eugene was now a youth of sixteen years, and, as his personal
security no longer required him to deny his name and rank, he had
left his master’s carpenter-shop, and laid aside his blouse. He was
preparing himself for military service under the instruction of
excellent teachers, whom he astonished by his zeal and rare powers
of comprehension. The military renown and heroic deeds of France
filled him with enthusiasm; and one day, while speaking with his
teacher of the deeds of Turenne, Eugene exclaimed with sparkling
eyes and glowing countenance: “I too will become a gallant general,
some day!”

Hortense, now a girl of twelve years, lived with her mother, who
was scarcely thirty years old, in the sweet companionship of an
elder and younger sister. They were inseparable companions; Nature
had given Hortense beauty with a lavish hand; her mother gave to
this beauty grace and dignity. Competent teachers instructed her
daughter’s intellect, while the mother cultivated her heart. Early
accustomed to care and want, this child had not the giddy,
thoughtless disposition usually characteristic of girls of her age.
She had too early gained an insight into the uncertainty and
emptiness of all earthly magnificence, not to appreciate the
littleness of those things upon which young girls usually place so
high an estimate. Her thoughts were not occupied with the adornment
of her person, and she did not bend her young head beneath the yoke
of capricious fashion: for her, there were higher and nobler
enjoyments, and Hortense was never happier than when her mother
dispensed with her attendance at the entertainments at the house of
Madame Tallien or Madame Barras, and permitted her to remain at
home, to amuse herself with her books and harp in a better and more
useful, if not in a more agreeable manner, than she could have done
in the brilliant parlors to which her mother had repaired. Early
matured in the school of experience and suffering, the girl of
twelve had acquired a womanly earnestness and resolution, and yet
her noble and chaste features still wore the impress of childhood,
and in her large blue eyes reposed a whole heaven of innocence and
peace. When she sat with her harp at the window in the evening
twilight, the last rays of the setting sun gilding her sweet
countenance, and surrounding as with a halo her beautiful blond
hair, Josephine imagined she saw before her one of those
angel-forms of innocence and love which the poet and painter
portray. In a kind of trance she listened to the sweet sounds and
melodies which Hortense lured from her harp, and accompanied with
the silvery tones of her voice, in words composed by herself,
half-childish prayer, half rhapsody of love, and revealing the most
secret thoughts of the fair young being who stood on the threshold
of womanhood, bidding adieu to childhood with a blissful smile, and
dreaming of the future.

CHAPTER IV.

GENERAL BUONAPARTE.

While Josephine de Beauharnais, after the trials of these long
and stormy years, was enjoying blissful days of quiet happiness and
repose, the gusts of revolution kept bursting forth from time to
time in fits of fury, and tranquillity continued far from being
permanently restored. The clubs, those hot-beds of the revolution,
still exercised their pestilential influence over the populace of
Paris, and stirred the rude masses incessantly to fresh paroxysms
of discontent and disorder.

But already the man had been found who was to crush those wild
masses in his iron grasp, and dash the speakers of the clubs down
into the dust with the flashing master-glance of his resistless
eye.

That man was Napoleon Buonaparte. He was hardly twenty-nine
years of age, yet already all France was talking him as a hero
crowned with laurels, already had he trodden a brilliant career of
victory. As commander of a battalion he had performed prodigies of
valor at the recapture of Toulon; and then, after being promoted to
the rank of general, had gone to the army in Italy on behalf of the
republic. Bedecked with the laurels of his Italian campaign, the
young general of five-and-twenty had returned to France. There, the
government, being still hostile and ill-disposed toward him, wished
to remove him from Paris, and send him to La Vendée as a
brigadier-general. Buonaparte declined this mission, because he
preferred remaining in the artillery service, and, for that reason,
the government of the republic relieved him of his duties and put
him on half-pay.

So, Buonaparte remained in Paris and waited. He waited for the
brilliant star that was soon to climb the firmament for him, and
shed the fulness of its rays over the whole world. Perhaps, the
secret voices which whispered in his breast of a dazzling future,
and a fabulous career of military glory, had already announced the
rising of his star.

So Buonaparte lived on in Paris, and waited. He there passed
quiet, retired, and inactive days, associating with a few devoted
friends only, who aided him, with delicate tact, in his restricted
circumstances. For Buonaparte was poor; he had lost his limited
means in the tempests of the revolution, and all that he possessed
consisted of the laurels he had won on the battle-field, and his
half pay as a brigadier-general. But, like the Viscountess de
Beauharnais, Napoleon had some true friends who deemed it an honor
to receive him as a guest at their table, and also, like Josephine,
he was too poor to bring his wheaten loaf with him to the dinners
that he attended, as was then the prevailing custom. He often
dined, in company with his brother Louis, at the house of his
boyhood’s friend Bourrienne, and his future secretary was at that
time still his host, favored of the gods. The young general,
instead of, like his brother, bringing his wheaten loaf, brought
only his ration, which was rye-bread, and this he always abandoned
to his brother Louis, who was very fond of it, while Madame
Bourrienne took care that he should invariably find his supply of
white, bread at his plate. She had managed to get some flour
smuggled into Paris from her husband’s estate, and had white-bread
made of it secretly, at the pastry-cook’s. Had this been
discovered, it would inevitably have prepared the way for all of
them to the scaffold.

Thus, then, young General Buonaparte, or, as he subsequently
wrote the name himself, “Bonaparte,” passed quiet days of
expectation, hoping that, should the existing government, so
hostile to him, be suppressed by another, his wishes might be at
last fulfilled. These wishes were, by the way, of a rather
unpretending character. “If I could only live here quietly, at
Paris,” he once remarked to his friend Bourrienne, “and rent that
pretty little house yonder, opposite to my friends, and keep a
carriage besides, I should be the happiest of men!”

He was quite seriously entertaining the idea of renting the
“pretty little house” in common with his uncle Fesch afterward the
cardinal, when the important events that soon shook Paris once more
prevented him, and the famous 13th Vendémiaire, 1795, again
summoned the famous general away from his meditations to stern
practical activity. It was on that day, the 13th Vendémiaire
(October 5th), that there came the outburst of the storm, the
subterranean rumblings of which had been so long perceptible. The
sections of Paris rose against the National Convention which had
given France a new constitution, and so fixed it that two thirds of
the members of the Convention should reappear in the new
legislative body. The sections of Paris, however, were prepared to
accept the new constitution only when it provided that the
legislative body should spring from fresh elections entirely. The
Convention, thus assailed in its ambitious hankering for power, was
resolved to stand its ground, and called upon the representatives
who commanded the armed forces, to defend the republic of their
creation. Barras was appointed the first general commanding the
Army of the Interior, and Bonaparte the second. It was not long
before a ferocious conflict broke out in the streets between the
army and the insurgent sections. At that time the populace were not
always so ready, as they have been since then, to tear up the
pavements for barricades, and the revolters, put to flight by the
terrible fire and the fierce onset of the artillery, made the
Church of St. Roch and the Palais Royal their defensive points; but
they were driven from them also; the struggle in the streets
recommenced, and streams of blood had to flow ere it was over.

After the lapse of two days order was restored, and Barras
declared to the triumphant National Convention that the victory
over the insurgents was chiefly due to the comprehensive and
gallant conduct of General Bonaparte.

The National Convention, as a token of gratitude, conferred upon
the latter the permanent position of second general of the Army of
the Interior, which had been allotted to him temporarily, only on
the day of peril. From that moment, Bonaparte emerged from
obscurity; his name had risen above the horizon!

He now had a position, and he could better comprehend the
whispering voices that sang within his bosom the proud, triumphant
song of his future career. He was now already conscious that he had
a shining goal before his gaze–a goal to which he dared not yet
assign a title, that flitted about him like a dazzling fairy tale,
and which he swore to make reality at last.

One day, there came to the headquarters of the young
general-in-chief a young man who very pressingly asked to see him.
Bonaparte had him admitted, and the dignified form, the courageous,
fiery glance, the noble, handsome countenance of the stranger, at
once prepossessed him in the young man’s favor, and he forthwith
questioned him in gentle, friendly tones, concerning the object of
his visit.

“General,” said the young man, “my name is Eugene Beauharnais,
and I have served the republic on the Rhine. My father was
denounced before the Committee of Public Safety as a
suspect, and given over to the Revolutionary Tribunal, who
had him murdered, three days before the fall of Robespierre.”

“Murdered!” exclaimed Bonaparte, in threatening tones.

“Yes, general, murdered!” repeated Eugene, with resolution. “I
come now to request, in the name of my mother, that you will have
the kindness to bring your influence to bear upon the committee, to
induce them to give me back my father’s sword. I will faithfully
use it in fighting the enemies of my country and defending the
cause of the republic.”

These proud and noble words called up a gentle, kindly smile to
the stern, pale face of the young general, and the fiery flash of
his eyes grew softer.

“Good! young man, very good!” he said. “I like this spirit, and
this filial tenderness. The sword of your father–the sword of
General Beauharnais–shall be restored to you. Wait!”

“With this, he called one of his adjutants, and gave him the
necessary commands. A short time only had elapsed, when the
adjutant returned, bringing with him the sword of General
Beauharnais.

Bonaparte himself handed it to Eugene. The young overwhelmed
with strong emotion, pressed the weapon–the sole, dear possession
of his father–to his lips and to his heart, and tears of sacred
emotion started into his eyes.

Instantly the general stepped to his side, and his slender white
hand, which knew so well how to wield the sword, and yet was as
soft, as delicate, and as transparent as the hand of a duchess,
rested lightly on Eugene’s shoulder.

“My young friend,” said he, in that gentle tone which won all
hearts to him, “I should be very happy could I do anything for you
or your family.”

Eugene gazed at him with an expression of childish amazement.
“Good general!” he managed to say; “then mamma and my sister will
pray for you.”

This ingenuousness made the general smile; and, with a friendly
nod, he desired Eugene to offer his respects to his mother, and to
call upon him soon again.

This meeting of Eugene and General Bonaparte was the
commencement of the acquaintanceship between Bonaparte and
Josephine. The sword of the guillotined General Beauharnais placed
an imperial crown upon the head of his widow, and adorned the brows
of his son and his daughter with royal diadems.

CHAPTER V.

THE MARRIAGE.

A few days after this interview between Bonaparte and Eugene,
Josephine met Bonaparte at one of the brilliant
soirées given by Barras, the first general-in-chief.
She asked Barras to introduce her to the young general, and then,
in her usual frank manner, utterly the opposite of all prudery, yet
none the less delicate and decorous, extending her hand to
Bonaparte, she thanked him, with the tender warmth of a mother, for
the friendliness and kindness he had manifested to her son.

The general looked with wondering admiration at this young and
beautiful woman, who claimed to be the mother of a lad grown up to
manhood. Her enchanting face beamed with youth and beauty, and a
sea of warmth and passion streamed from her large, dark eyes, while
the gentle, love-enticing smile that played around her mouth
revealed the tender feminine gentleness and amiability of her
disposition. Bonaparte had never mastered the art of flattering
women in the light, frivolous style of the fashionable coxcomb; and
when he attempted it his compliments were frequently of so unusual
and startling a character that they might just as well contain an
affront as a tribute of eulogy.

“Ah! ah! How striking that looks!” he once said, while he was
emperor, to the charming Duchess de Chevreuse. “What remarkable red
hair you have!”

“Possibly so, sire,” she replied, “but this is the first time
that a man ever told me so.”

And the duchess was right; for her hair was not red, but of a
very handsome blond [3].

[3]
The Duchess de Chevreuse was shortly afterward banished to Tours,
because she refused to serve us a lady of honor to the Queen of
Spain.

To another lady, whose round, white arms pleased him, he once
said: “Ah, good Heavens, what red arms you have!” Then, again, to
another: “What beautiful hair you have; but what an ugly head-dress
that is! Who could have put it up for you in such ridiculous
style?”

Bonaparte, as I have said, did not know how to compliment women
with words; but Josephine well understood the flattering language
that his eyes addressed to her. She knew that she had, in that very
hour, conquered the bold young lion, and she felt proud and happy
at the thought; for the unusually imposing appearance of the young
hero had awakened her own heart, which she had thought was dead, to
livelier palpitations.

From that time forth they saw each other more frequently, and,
ere long, Josephine heard from Bonaparte’s own lips the glowing
confession of his love. She reciprocated it, and promised him her
hand. In vain her powerful friends, Tallien and Barras, endeavored
to dissuade her from marrying this young, penniless general; in
vain did they remind her that he might be killed in the very next
battle, and that she might thus again be left a reduced widow.
Josephine shook her handsome curls with a peculiar smile. Perhaps
she was thinking of the prophecy of the negress at Martinique;
perhaps she had read in the fiery glances of Bonaparte’s eye, and
on his broad, thoughtful brow, that he might be the very man to
bring that prophecy to its consummation; perhaps she loved him
ardently enough to prefer an humble lot, when shared with him, to
any richer or more brilliant alliance. The representations of her
friends did not frighten her away, and she remained firm in her
determination to become the wife of the young general, poor as he
was. Their wedding-day was fixed, and both hastened with joyous
impatience to make their modest little preparations for their new
housekeeping establishment. Yet Bonaparte had not been able to
complete his dream of happiness; he possessed neither house nor
carriage, and Josephine, too, was without an equipage.

Thus both of them often had to content themselves with going on
foot through the streets, and it may be that, in this halcyon
period of their felicity, they regarded the circumstance rather as
a favor than as a scurvy trick of Fortune. Their tender and
confidential communications were not disturbed by the loud rattle
of the wheels, and they were not obliged to interrupt their sweet
interchange of sentiment while getting into and out of a vehicle.
Arm-in-arm, they strolled together along the promenades, he smiling
proudly when the passers-by broke out in spontaneous exclamations
of delight at Josephine’s beauty, and she happy and exultant as she
overheard the whispered admiration and respect with which the
multitude everywhere greeted Bonaparte, as she pressed with the
general through the throng.

One day, Bonaparte accompanied the viscountess on a visit to
Ragideau, the smallest man but the greatest lawyer in Paris. He had
been the business attorney of the Beauharnais family for a long
time, and Josephine now wished to withdraw from his hands, for her
own disposal, a sum of money belonging to her that had been
deposited with him. Bonaparte remained in the anteroom while
Josephine went into the adjoining apartment, which was Ragideau’s
office.

“I have come to tell you that I am going to marry again,” said
Josephine, with her winning smile, to Ragideau.

The little attorney gave a friendly nod, as he replied: “You do
well, and I congratulate you with all my heart, viscountess, for I
am satisfied that you have made no other than a worthy choice.”

“Undoubtedly, a very worthy choice,” exclaimed Josephine, with
the proud and happy look of a person really in love. “My future
husband is General Bonaparte!”

The little great man (of a lawyer) fairly started with alarm.
“How?” said he, “You!–the Viscountess Beauharnais, you–marry this
little General Bonaparte, this general of the republic, which has
already deposed him once, and may depose him again to-morrow, and
throw him back into insignificance?”

Josephine’s only reply was this: “I love him.”

“Yes you love him, now,” exclaimed Ragideau, warmly. “But you
are wrong in marrying him, and you will one day, rue it. You are
committing a folly, viscountess, for you want to marry a man who
has nothing but his hat and his sword.”

“But who also has a future,” said Josephine, gayly, and then,
turning the conversation, she began to speak of the practical
matters that had brought her thither.

When her business with the notary had been concluded, Josephine
returned to the anteroom where Bonaparte was waiting for her. He
came, smiling, to meet her, but, at the same moment, he gave the
notary, who was with her, so fierce and wrathful a glance that the
latter shrank back in consternation. Josephine also remarked that
Bonaparte’s countenance was paler that day than usual, and that he
was less communicative and less disposed to chat with her; but she
had already learned that it was not advisable to question him as to
the cause of his different moods. So, she kept silent on that
score, and her cheerfulness and amiability soon drove away the
clouds that had obscured the general’s brow.

The nuptials of Bonaparte and Josephine followed, on the 9th of
March, 1796; and the witnesses, besides Eugene and Hortense,
Josephine’s children, were Barras, Jean Lemarois, Tallien,
Calmelet, and Leclerq. The marriage-contract contained, along with
the absolutely requisite facts of the case, a very pleasant piece
of flattery for Josephine, since, in order to establish an equality
of ages between the two parties, Bonaparte had himself put down a
year older, and Josephine four years younger, than they really
were. Bonaparte was not, as the contract states, born on the 5th of
February, 1768 but on the 15th of August, 1769; and Josephine not,
as the document represents, on the 23d of July, 1767, but on the
23d of June, 1763 [4].

[4]
Bourrienne, vol. i, p. 350.

Josephine acknowledged this gallant act of her young spouse in
queenly fashion, for she brought him, as her wedding-gift, his
appointment to the command of the Italian army, which Barras and
Tallien had granted to her, at her own request.

But, before the young bridegroom repaired to his new scene of
activity, there to win fresh laurels and renown, he passed a few
happy weeks with his lovely wife and his new family, in the small
residence in the Rue Chautereine, which he had purchased a short
time before his marriage, and which Josephine had fitted up with
that elevated and refined good taste that had always distinguished
her.

One-half of Bonaparte’s darling wish was at length fulfilled. He
had his house, which was large enough to receive his friends. There
was now only a carriage to be procured in order to make the general
the “happiest of men.”

But, as the wishes of men always aspire still farther the
farther they advance, Bonaparte was no longer content with the
possession of a small house in Paris. He now wanted an
establishment in the country also.

“Look me up a little place in your beautiful valley of the
Yonne,” he wrote about this time to Bourrienne, who was then living
on his property near Sens; “and as soon as I get the money, I will
buy it. Then I will retire to it. Now, don’t forget that I do not
want any of the national domains [5].”

[5]
Bourrienne, vol. i, p. 103.

As for the carriage, the peace of Campo Formio brought the
victorious General Bonaparte a magnificent team of six gray horses,
which was a present to the general of the French Republic from the
Emperor of Austria, who did not dream that, scarcely ten years
later, he would have him for a son-in-law.

These superb grays, however, were–excepting the laurels of
Arcola, Marengo, and Mantua, the only spoils of war that Bonaparte
brought back with him from his famous Italian campaign–the only
gift which the general had not refused to accept.

It is true that the six grays could not be very conveniently
hitched to a simple private carriage, but they had an imposing look
attached to the gilded coach of state in which, a year later, the
first consul made his solemn entry into the Tuileries.

CHAPTER VI.

BONAPARTE IN ITALY.

Josephine, now the wife of General Bonaparte, had but a few
weeks in which to enjoy her new happiness, and then remained alone
in Paris, doubly desolate, because she had to be separated, not
only from her husband, but from her children. Eugene accompanied
his young step-father to Italy, and Hortense went as a pupil to
Madame Campan’s boarding-school. The former, lady-in-waiting to
Queen Marie Antoinette, had, at that time, opened an establishment
for the education of young ladies, at St. Germain, and the greatest
and most eminent families of newly-republicanized France liked to
send their daughters to it, so that they might learn from the
former court-lady the refined style and manners of old royalist
times.

Hortense was, therefore, sent to that boarding-school, and
there, in the society of her new Aunt Caroline–the sister of
Bonaparte, and afterward Queen of Naples–and the young Countess
Stephanie Beauharnais, her cousin, passed a few happy years of
work, of varied study, and of youthful maiden-dreams.

Hortense devoted herself with iron diligence, and untiring
enthusiasm, to her studies, which consisted, not only in the
acquisition of languages, in music, and drawing, history and
geography, but still more in the mastering the so-called bon
ton and that aristocratic savoir vivre of which Madame
Campan was a very model. While Hortense was thus receiving
instruction on the harp from the celebrated Alvimara, in painting
from Isabey, dancing from Coulon, and singing from Lambert, and was
playing on the stage of the amateur theatre at the boarding-school
the parts of heroines and lady-loves; while she was participating
in the balls and concerts that Madame Campan gave in order to show
off the talent of her pupils to the friends she invited; while, in
a word, Hortense was thus being trained up to the accomplishments
of a distinguished woman of the world, she did not dream how useful
all these little details, so trivial, apparently, at the time,
would one day be to her, and how good a thing it was that she had
learned to play parts at Madame Campan’s, and to appear in society
as a great lady.

Meanwhile, Josephine was passing days of gratified pride and
exulting triumph at Paris, for the star of her hero was ascending,
brighter and brighter in its effulgence, above the horizon; the
name of Bonaparte was echoing in louder and louder volume through
the world, and filling all Europe with a sort of awe-inspired fear
and trembling, as the sea becomes agitated when the sun begins to
rise. Victory after victory came joyfully heralded from Italy, as
ancient states fell beneath the iron tread of the victor, and new
ones sprang into being. The splendid old Republic of Venice, once
the terror of the whole world, the victorious Queen of the
Adriatic, had to bow her haughty head, and her diadem fell in
fragments at the feet of her triumphant conqueror. The lion of St.
Mark’s no longer made mankind tremble at his angry roar, and the
slender monumental pillars on the Piazzetta were all that remained
to the shattered and fallen Venetian Republic of her conquests in
Candia, Cyprus, and the Morea. But, from the dust and ashes of the
old commonwealth, there arose, at Bonaparte’s command, a new state,
the Cisalpine Republic, as a new and youthful daughter of the
French Republic; and, when the last Doge of Venice, Luigi Manin,
laid his peaked crown at the feet of Bonaparte, and then fainted
away, another Venetian, Dandolo, the son of a family that had given
Venice the greatest and most celebrated of her doges, stepped to
the front at the head of the new republic–that Dandolo of whom
Bonaparte had said that he was “a man.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Bonaparte one day to Bourrienne, “how
seldom one meets men in the world! In Italy there are
eighteen millions of inhabitants, but I have found only two
men among them all–Dandolo and Melzi [6].”

[6]
Bourrienne, vol. i, p. 139.

But, while Bonaparte was despairing of men, in the very
midst of his victories, he cherished the warmest, most impassioned
love for his wife, to whom he almost daily wrote the tenderest and
most ardent letters, the answers to which he awaited with the most
impatient longing.

Josephine’s letters formed the sole exception to a very unusual
and singular system that Bonaparte had adopted during a part of his
campaign in Italy. This was to leave a11 written communications,
excepting such as came to him by special couriers, unread for three
weeks. He threw them all into a large basket, and opened them only
on the twenty-first day thereafter. Still, General Bonaparte was
more considerate than Cardinal Dubois, who immediately consigned
all the communications he received to the flames,
unread, and–while the fire on his hearth was consuming the
paper on which, perchance, was written the despairing appeal of a
mother, imploring pardon for her son; of a disconsolate wife,
beseeching pity for her husband; or the application of an ambitious
statesman, desiring promotion–would point to them with a sardonic
smile, and say, “There’s my correspondence!” Bonaparte, at
least, gave the letters a perusal, three weeks after they reached
him, indeed; but those three weeks saved him and his secretary,
Bourrienne, much time and labor, for, when they finally went to
work on them, time and circumstances had already disposed of four
fifths of them, and thus only one fifth required answers–a result
that made Bonaparte laugh heartily, and filled him with justifiable
pride in what he termed his “happy idea.”

Josephine’s letters, however, had not an hour or a minute to
wait ere they were read. Bonaparte always received them with his
heart bounding with delight, and invariably answered them, in such
impassioned, glowing language as only his warm southern temperament
could suggest, and contrasted with which even Josephine’s missives
seemed a little cool and passionless.

Ere long Bonaparte ceased to be satisfied with merely getting
letters from his Josephine. He desired to have her, in person, with
him; and hardly had the tempest of war begun to lull, ere the
general summoned his beloved to his side at Milan. She obeyed his
call with rapture, and hastened to Italy to join him. Now came
proud days of triumph and gratified affection. All Italy hailed
Bonaparte as the conquering hero; all Italy did homage to the woman
who bore his name, and whose incomparable fascination and
amiability, gracefulness and beauty, won all hearts. Her life now
resembled a magnificent, glorified, triumphal pageant; a dazzling
fairy festival; a tale from the “Arabian Nights” that had become
reality, with Josephine for its enchanted heroine, sparkling with
stars, and gleaming with golden sunshine.

CHAPTER VII.

VICISSITUDES OF DESTINY.

Resplendent was the triumphal procession with which Bonaparte
made his proud entry into Paris, on his return from Italy. In the
front courtyard of the Luxembourg, the palace occupied by the
Corps Législatif, was erected a vast amphitheatre, in
which sat all the high authorities of France; in the centre of the
amphitheatre stood the altar of the country, surmounted by three
gigantic statues, representing Freedom, Equality, and Peace. As
Bonaparte stepped into this space, all the dense crowd that
occupied the seats of the amphitheatre rose to their feet with
uncovered heads, to hail the conqueror of Italy, and the windows of
the palace were thronged with handsomely dressed ladies, who waved
welcome to the young hero with their handkerchiefs. But suddenly
this splendid festival was marred by a serious mischance. An
officer of the Directory, who, the better to satisfy his curiosity,
had clambered up on the scaffolding of the right-side wing of the
palace, then undergoing extension, fell from it, and struck the
ground almost at Napoleon’s feet. A shout of terror burst almost
simultaneously from a thousand throats, and the ladies turned pale
and shrank back, shuddering, from the windows. The palace, which a
moment before had exhibited such a wealth of adornment in these
living flowers, now stood there bare, with empty, gaping casements.
A perceptible thrill ran through the ranks of the Corps
Législatif, and here and there the whisper passed that
this fall of an officer portended the early overthrow of the
Directory itself, and that it, too, would soon, like the
unfortunate victim of the accident, be lying in its death agonies
at the feet of General Bonaparte.

But the Directory, nevertheless, hastened to give the victor of
Arcola new fêtes every day; and when these
fêtes were over, and Bonaparte, fatigued with the
speeches, the festivities, the toasts, etc., would be on his way
returning homeward, there was the populace of Paris, who beset his
path in crowds, to greet him with hearty cheers; and these
persistent friends he had to recognize, with smiles and shakings of
the hand, or with a nod and a pleasant glance.

A universal jubilee of delight had seized upon the French. Each
individual saw in Bonaparte renown and greatness reflected on
himself. Every one regarded him as the most brilliant impersonation
of his own inner personality, and, therefore, felt drawn toward him
with a sort of reverential exultation.

Josephine gave herself up with her whole soul to the enjoyment
of these glorious occasions. While Bonaparte, almost completely
overwhelmed and disturbed, could have held aloof from these
ovations of the people of Paris, they, on the contrary, filled the
heart of his wife with pride and joy. While in the theatre, he
shrank back, abashed, behind his wife’s chair when the audience,
learning his presence, filled their noisy plaudits and clamored to
have a glimpse at him, Josephine would thank the crowd on his
behalf with a bewitching smile, and eyes swelling with tears for
this proof of their regard, which to her seemed but a natural and
appropriate tribute to her Achilles, her lion-hearted hero. But
Bonaparte did not allow himself to be blinded by these
demonstrations; and one day, when popular enthusiasm seemed as
though it would never end, and the crowd were untiring in their
cries of “Vive Bonaparte!” while Josephine turned her face
toward him, glowing with delight, and called out, exultingly–“See,
how they love you, these good people of Paris!” he replied, with an
almost melancholy expression “Bah! The crowd would be just as
numerous and noisy if they were conducting me to the scaffold!”

However, these festivals and demonstrations at length subsided,
and his life resumed its more tranquil course.

Bonaparte could now once more spend a few secluded days of rest
and calm enjoyment in his (by this time more richly-decorated)
dwelling in the Rue Chautereine, the name of which the city
authorities had changed to Rue de la Victoire, in honor of
the conqueror at Arcola and Marengo. He could, after so many
battles and triumphs, afford to repose a while in the arms of love
and happiness.

Nevertheless, this inactivity soon began to press heavily on his
restless spirit. He longed for new exploits, for fresh victories.
He felt that he was only at the commencement, and not at the end of
his conquering career; he constantly heard ringing in his ears the
notes of the battle-clarion, summoning him to renewed triumphs and
to other paths of glory. Love could only delight his heart, but
could not completely satisfy it. Repose he deemed but the beginning
of death.

“If I remain here inactive any longer, I am lost,” said he.
“They retain the resemblance of nothing whatever in Paris; one
celebrity blots out another in this great Babylon; if I show myself
much oftener to the public, they will cease to look at me, and if I
do not soon undertake something new, they will forget me.”

And he did undertake something new, something unprecedented,
that filled all Europe with astonishment. He left the shores of
France with an army to conquer, for the French Republic, that
ancient land of Egypt, on whose pyramids the green moss of
long-forgotten ages was flourishing.

Josephine did not accompany him. She remained behind in Paris;
but she needed consolation and encouragement to enable her to
sustain this separation, which Bonaparte himself had confessed to
her might be just as likely to last six years as six months. And
what could afford better consolation to a heart so tender as
Josephine’s than the presence of her beloved daughter? She had
willingly given up her son to her husband, and he had accompanied
the latter to Egypt, but her daughter remained, and her she would
not give up to any one, not even to Madame Campan’s
boarding-school.

Besides, the education of Hortense was now completed. She who
had come to St. Germain as a child, left the boarding-school, after
two years’ stay, a handsome, blooming young lady, adorned with all
the charms of innocence, youth, grace, and refinement.

Although she was now a young lady of nearly sixteen, she had
retained the thoughts and ways of her childhood. Her heart was as a
white sheet of paper, on which no profane hand had ventured to
write a mortal name. She loved nothing beyond her mother, her
brother, the fine arts, and flowers. She entertained a profound but
speechless veneration for her young step-father. His burning gaze
made her uneasy and timorous; his commanding voice made her heart
throb anxiously; in fine, she reverenced him with adoring but too
agitated an impression of awe to find it possible to love him. He
was for her at all times the hero, the lord and master, the father
to whom she owed implicit obedience, but she dared not love him;
she could only look up to and honor him from a distance.

Hortense loved nothing but her mother, her brother, the fine
arts, and flowers. She still looked out, with the expectant eyes of
a child, upon the world which seemed so beautiful and inviting to
her, and from which she hoped yet to obtain some grand dazzling
piece of good fortune without having any accurate idea in what it
was to consist. She still loved all mankind, and believed in their
truth and rectitude. No thorn had yet wounded her heart; no
disenchantment, no bright illusion dashed to pieces, had yet left
its shadow on that clear, lofty brow of transparent whiteness. The
expression of her large blue eyes was still radiant and undimmed,
and her laugh was so clear and ringing, that it almost made her
mother sad to hear it, for it sounded to her like the last echo of
some sweet, enchanting song of childhood, and she but too well knew
that it would soon be hushed.

But Hortense still laughed, still sang with the birds, rivalling
their melodies; the world still lay before her like an early
morning dream, and she still hoped for the rising of the sun.

Such was Hortense when her mother took her from Madame Campan’s
boarding-school, to accompany her to the baths of
Plombières. But there it was that Hortense came near
experiencing the greatest sorrow of her life, in nearly losing her
mother.

She was with Josephine and some other ladies in the drawing-room
of the house they occupied at Plombières. The doors facing
the balcony were open, to let in the warm summer air. Hortense was
sitting by the window painting a nosegay of wild flowers, that she
had gathered with her own hands on the hills of Plombières.
Josephine found the atmosphere of the room too close, and invited
some ladies to step out with her upon the balcony. A moment
afterward there was heard a deafening crash, followed by piercing
shrieks of terror; and when Hortense sprang in desperate fright to
the front entrance, she found that the balcony on which her mother
and the other ladies had stood had disappeared. Its fastenings had
given way, and they had been precipitated with it into the street.
Hortense, in the first impulse of her distress and horror, would
have sprung down after her beloved mother, and could only be held
back with the greatest difficulty. But this time fate had spared
the young girl, and refrained from darkening the pure, unclouded
heaven of her youth. Her mother escaped with no other injury than
the fright, and a slight wound on her arm, while one of the ladies
had both legs broken.

Josephine’s time to die had not yet come, for the prophecy of
the fortune-teller had not yet been fulfilled. Josephine was,
indeed, the wife of a renowned general, but she was not yet
“something more than a queen.”

CHAPTER VIII.

BONAPARTE’S RETURN FROM EGYPT.

Bonaparte had got back from Egypt. His victory at Aboukir had
adorned his brows with fresh laurels, and all France hailed the
returning conqueror with plaudits of exulting pride. For the first
time, Hortense was present at the festivities which the city of
Paris dedicated to her step-father; for the first time she saw the
homage that men and women, graybeards and children alike, paid to
the hero of Italy and Egypt. These festivities and this homage
filled her heart with a tremor of alarm, and yet, at the same time,
with joyous exultation. In the midst of these triumphs and these
ovations which were thus offered to her second father, the young
girl recalled the prison in which her mother had once languished,
the scaffold upon which the head of her own father had fallen; and
frequently when she glanced at the rich gold-embroidered uniform of
her brother, she reminded him with a roguish smile of the time when
Eugene went in a blue blouse, as a carpenter’s apprentice, through
the streets of Paris with a long plank on his shoulder.

These recollections of the first terrible days of her youth kept
Hortense from feeling the pride and arrogance of good fortune,
preserved to her modest, unassuming tone of mind, prevented her
from entertaining any overweening or domineering propensity in her
day of prosperity, or from seeming cast down and hopeless when
adversity came. She never lulled herself with the idea of good
fortune that could not pass away, but her remembrances kept her
eyes wide open, and hence, when misfortune came, it did not take
her by surprise, but found her armed and ready to confront it.

Nevertheless, she drank in the pleasure of these prosperous days
in full draughts, delighted as she was to see the mother, of whom
she was so fond, surrounded by such a halo of glory and gratified
love; and in the name of her murdered father she thanked General
Bonaparte with double fervor, from the bottom of her heart, for
having been the means of procuring for her mother, who had suffered
so deeply in her first wedded life, so magnificent a glow of
splendor and happiness in her second marriage.

In the mean while, new days of storm and tumult were at hand to
dispel this brief period of tranquil enjoyment. A fresh revolution
convulsed all France, and, ere long, Paris was divided into two
hostile camps, burning to begin the work of mutual annihilation. On
one side stood the democratic republicans, who looked back with
longing regret to the days of terrorism and bloodshed, perceiving,
as they did, that tranquillity and protracted peace must soon wrest
the reins of power from their grasp, and therefore anxiously
desiring to secure control through the element of intimidation.
This party declared that liberty was in danger, and the
Constitution threatened; they summoned the sans-culottes and
the loud-mouthed republicans of the clubs to the armed defence of
the imperilled country, and pointed with menacing hands at
Bonaparte as the man who wished to overthrow the republic, and put
France once more in the bonds of servitude.

On the other side stood the discreet friends of the country, the
republicans by compulsion, who denounced terrorism, and had sworn
fidelity to the republic, only because it was under this reptile
disguise alone that they could escape the threatening knife of the
guillotine. On this side were arrayed the men of mind, the artists
and poets who hopefully longed for a new era, because they knew
that the days of terror and of the tyrannical democratic republic
had brought not merely human beings, but also the arts and
sciences, to the scaffold. With them, too, were arrayed the
merchants and artisans, the bankers, the business-men, the
property-owners, all of whom wanted to see the republic at least
established upon a more moderate and quiet foundation, in order to
have confidence in its durability and substantial character, and to
commence the works of peace with a better assurance of success. And
at the head of these moderate republicans stood Bonaparte.

The 18th Brumaire of the year 1798 was the decisive day. It was
a fearful struggle that then began afresh–a struggle, however, in
which little blood was spilt, and not men but principles were
slaughtered.

The Council of Elders, the Council of the Five Hundred, the
Directory, and the Constitution of the year III., fell together,
and from the ruins of the bloody and ferocious democratic republic
arose the moderate, rational republic of the year 1798. At its head
were the three consuls, Bonaparte, Cambacères, and
Lebrun.

On the day following, the 18th Brumaire, these three consuls
entered the Luxembourg, amid the plaudits of the people, and slept,
as conquerors, in the beds of the Directory of yesterday.

From that day forward a new world began to take shape, and the
forms of etiquette which, during the ascendency of the democratic
republic, had slunk away out of sight into the darkest recesses of
the Luxembourg and the Tuileries, began to reappear, slowly and
circumspectly, ’tis true, in broad daylight. People were no longer
required, in accordance with the spirit of equality, to ignore all
distinctions of condition and culture, by the use of the words
“citizen” and “citizeness;” or, in the name of brotherhood, to
endure the close familiarities of every brawling street ruffian;
or, in the name of liberty, to let all his own personal liberty and
inclination be trampled under foot.

Etiquette, as I have said, crept forth from the dark corners
again; and the three consuls, who had taken possession of the
Luxembourg, whispered the word “monsieur” in each other’s ears, and
greeted Josephine and her daughter, who were installed in the
apartments prepared for them in the palace on the next day, with
the title of “madame.” Yet, only a year earlier, the two words
“monsieur” and “madame” had occasioned revolt in Paris, and brought
about bloodshed. A year earlier General Augereau had promulged the
stern order of the day in his division, that, “whoever should use
the word ‘monsieur’ or ‘madame,’ orally or in writing, on pretext
whatever, should be deprived of his rank, and declared incapable of
ever again serving in the army of the republic [7].”

[7]
Bourrienne, vol. i., p. 229.

Now, these two proscribed words made their triumphant entry,
along with the three consuls, into the palace of the Luxembourg,
which had been delivered from its democratic tyrants.

Josephine was now, at least, “Madame” Bonaparte, and Hortense
was “Mademoiselle” Beauharnais. The wife of Consul Bonaparte now
required a larger retinue of servants, and a more showy
establishment. Indeed, temerity could not yet go so far as to speak
of the court of Madame Bonaparte and the court ladies
of Mademoiselle Hortense; they had still to be content with the
limited space of the diminutive Luxembourg, but they were soon to
be compensated for all this, and, if they still had to call each
other monsieur and madame, they could, a few years
later, say “your highness,” “your majesty,” and “monseigneur,” in
the Tuileries.

The Luxembourg Palace was soon found to be too small for the
joint residence of the three consuls, and too confined for the
ambition of Bonaparte, who could not brook the near approach of the
other two men who shared the supreme control of France with him.
Too it was also for the longings that now spoke with ever louder
and stronger accents in his breast, and pushed him farther and
farther onward in this path of splendor and renown which, at first,
had seemed to him but as the magic mirage of his dreams, but which
now appeared as the glittering truth and reality of his waking
hours. The Luxembourg was then too small for the three consuls, but
they had to go very circumspectly and carefully to work to prepare
the way to the old royal palace of the Bourbons. It would not do to
oust the representatives of the people, who held their sessions
there, too suddenly; the distrustful republicans must not be made
to apprehend that there was any scheme on foot to revolutionize
France back into monarchy, and to again stifle the many-headed
monster of the republic under a crown and a sceptre. It was
necessary, before entering the Tuileries, to give the French people
proof that men might still be very good republicans, even although
they might wish to be housed in the bedchamber of a king.

Hence, before the three consuls transferred their quarters to
the Tuileries, the royal palace had to be transformed to a
residence worthy of the representatives of the republic. So, the
first move made was to set up a handsome bust of the elder
Brutus–a war-trophy of Bonaparte’s, which he had brought with him
from Italy–in one of the galleries of the Tuileries; and then
David had to carve out some other statues of the republican heroes
of Greece and Rome and place them in the saloons. A number of
democratic republicans, who were defeated and exiled on the 13th
Vendémiaire, were permitted to return to France, and news of
the death of WASHINGTON, the noblest and wisest of all republicans,
arriving just at that time, Bonaparte ordered that the whole army
should wear the badge of mourning for ten days. Black bands were
worn on the arm, and sable streamers waved from the standards, in
honor of the deceased republican hero.

However, when these ten days were past, and France and her army
had sufficiently expressed their regret, the three consuls entered
the Tuileries through the grand portal, on the two sides of which
towered aloft two liberty-poles that still bore the old inscription
of the republic of 1792. On the tree to the right was the legend
“August 10, 1792,” and on the one to the left, “Royalty in France
is overthrown and will never rise again.” It was between these two
significant symbols that Bonaparte first strode into the Tuileries.
It was a very long and imposing procession of carriages which moved
that day toward the palace, through the streets of the capital.
They only lacked the outward pomp and magnificence which rendered
the latter fêtes of the empire so remarkable. With the
exception of the splendid vehicle in which the three consuls rode,
and which was drawn by the six grays presented by the Emperor of
Austria, there were but few good equipages to be seen. France of
the new day had not had the opportunity to build any state-coaches,
and those of old France had been too shamefully misused to admit of
their ever serving again; for it would be out of the question to
employ, in this solemn procession of the three consuls, the
state-carriages of the old aristocracy, that had served as the
vehicles in which the democratic republic had transported dead dogs
to their place of deposit. Such had been the fact in the September
days of the year 1793.

The unclaimed dogs of the fugitive or slaughtered aristocracy at
that time wandered without masters, by thousands, through the
streets and slaked their thirst with the blood which flowed down
from the guillotine and dyed the ground with the purple of the new
system of popular liberty.

The smell of the fresh blood and the ghastly sustenance which
the guillotine yielded them had restored the animals to their
original savage propensities, and hence those who had been so
fortunate as to escape the murderous axe of the
sans-culottes had now to apprehend the danger of falling a
victim to the sharp teeth of these wild blood-hounds; and as the
ferocious brutes knew no difference between aristocrats and
republicans, but fell upon both with equal fury, it became
necessary, at last, to annihilate these new foes of the republic.
So, the Champs Elysées were surrounded with troops, and the
dogs were driven into the Rue Royale and the Place Royale, where
they were mowed down by musketry. On that one day the dead
carcasses of more than three thousand dogs lay about in the streets
of Paris, and there they continued to fester for three days longer,
because a dispute had arisen among the city officials as to whose
duty it was to remove them. At length the Convention undertook that
task, and intrusted the work to representative Gasparin, who was
shrewd enough to convert the removal of the dead animals into a
republican ceremony. These were the dogs of the ci-devants
and aristocrats that were to be buried, and it was quite proper,
therefore, that they should receive aristocratic honors.

Gasparin, acting upon this idea, caused all the coaches of the
fugitive and massacred aristocracy to be brought from their
stables, and the carcasses of the dogs were flung into these
emblazoned and escutcheoned vehicles of old France. Six grand
coaches that had belonged to the king opened the procession, and
the tails, heads, bodies and legs of the luckless quadrupeds could
be seen behind the glittering glass panels heaped together in wild
disorder [8].

[8]
Mémoires of the Marchioness de Créqui, vol. viii., p.
10.

After this public canine funeral celebration of the one and
indivisible republic, the gilded state-coaches could not be
consistently used for any human and less mournful occasion, and
hence it was that the consular procession to the Tuileries was so
deficient in carriages, and that public hacks on which the numbers
were defaced had to be employed.

“With the entry of Bonaparte into the Tuileries the revolution
was at an end. He laid his victorious sword across the gory,
yawning chasm which had drunk the blood of both aristocrats and
democrats; and of that sword he made a bridge over which society
might pass from one century to the other, and from the republic to
the empire.

View of the Tuileries.

As Bonaparte was walking with Josephine and Hortense through the
Diana Gallery on the morning after their entry into the Tuileries,
and was with them admiring the statuary he had caused to be placed
there, both of the ladies possessing much artistic taste, he paused
in front of the statue of the younger Brutus, which stood close to
the statue of Julius Caesar. He gazed long and earnestly at both of
the grave, solemn faces; but, suddenly, as though just awaking from
a deep dream, he sharply raised his head, and, laying his hand with
an abrupt movement upon Josephine’s shoulder, as he looked up at
the statue of Brutus with blazing, almost menacing glances, said in
a voice that made the hearts of both the ladies bound within their
bosoms:

“It is not enough to be in the Tuileries: one must remain there.
And whom has not this palace held? Even street thieves and
conventionists have occupied it! Did not I see with my own eyes how
the savage Jacobins and cohorts of sans-culottes surrounded
the palace and led away the good King Louis XVI. as a prisoner! Ah!
never mind, Josephine; have no fear for the future! Let them but
dare to come hither once more [9]!”

[9]
Bourrienne, vol. vi., p. 3.

And, as Bonaparte stood there and thus spoke in front of the
statues of Brutus and Julius Caesar, his voice re-echoed like angry
thunder through the long gallery, and made the figures of the
heroes of the dead republic tremble on their pedestals.

Bonaparte lifted his arm menacingly toward the statue of Brutus,
as though he would, in that fierce republican who slew Caesar,
challenge all republican France, whose Caesar and Augustus in one
he aspired to be, to mortal combat.

The revolution was closed. Bonaparte had installed himself in
the Tuileries with Josephine and her two children. The son and
daughter of General Beauharnais, whom the republic had murdered,
had now found another father, who was destined to avenge that
murder on the republic itself.

The revolution was over!

BOOK II.

THE QUEEN OF HOLLAND.

CHAPTER I.

A FIRST LOVE.

With the entry of Bonaparte into the Tuileries, the revolution
closed, and blissful days of tranquillity and gay festivity
followed. Josephine and Hortense were the cynosure of all these
festivals, for they were, likewise, the animating centre whence the
grace and beauty, the attractive charm, and the intellectual
significance of them all, proceeded.

Hortense was passionately fond of dancing, and no one at “the
court of Josephine” tripped it with such gracefulness and such
enchanting delicacy as she. Now, as the reader will observe, people
already began to speak of the “court” of Madame Bonaparte, the
powerful wife of the First Consul of France. Now, also,
audiences were held, and Josephine and Hortense already had
a court retinue who approached them with the same subserviency and
humility as though they had been princesses of the blood.

Madame Bonaparte now rode with her daughter through the streets
of Paris in a richly-gilded coach, under a military escort, and
wherever the populace caught a glimpse of them they greeted the
wife and daughter of the first consul with applauding shouts.

Bonaparte’s coachmen and servants had now a livery, and made
their appearance in green coats with gold embroidery and galloons.
There were chamberlains and lackeys, grooms and outriders; splendid
dinners and evening parties were given, and the ambassadors of
foreign powers were received in solemn audience; for, now, all the
European states had recognized the French Republic under the
consulate, and, as Bonaparte had concluded peace with England and
Austria, these two great powers also sent envoys to the court of
the mighty consul.

Instead of warlike struggles, the Tuileries now witnessed
contentions of the toilet, and powder or no powder was one
of the great questions of etiquette in which Josephine gave the
casting vote when she said that “every one should dress as seemed
best and most becoming to each, but yet endeavor to let good taste
pervade the selection.”

For some time, meanwhile, Hortense had participated with less
zest than formerly in the amusements and parties of the day; for
some time she had seemed to prefer being alone more than in
previous years, and held herself aloof in the quiet retirement of
her own apartments, where the melancholy, tender, and touching
melodies which she drew from her harp in those lonely hours seemed
to hold her better converse than all the gay and flattering remarks
that she was accustomed to hear in her mother’s grand saloons.

Hortense sought solitude, for to solitude alone could she
confide what was weighing on her heart; to it alone could she
venture to confess that she was in love, and with all the innocent
energy, all the warmth and absolute devotion of a first attachment.
How blissful were those hours of reverie, of expectant peering into
the future, which seemed to promise the rising of another sun of
happiness to her beaming gaze! For this young girl’s passion had
the secret approbation of her mother and her step-father, and both
of them smilingly pretended not to be, in the least degree, aware
of the tender understanding that subsisted between Hortense and
General Duroc, Bonaparte’s chief adjutant; only that, while
Josephine took it to be the first tender fluttering of a young
girl’s heart awaking to the world, Bonaparte ascribed a more
serious meaning to it, and bestowed earnest thought upon the idea
of a union between Hortense and his friend. He was anxious, above
all other things, to give Duroc a more important and imposing
status, and therefore sent him as ambassador to St. Petersburg, to
convey to the Emperor Alexander, who had just ascended his father’s
throne, the congratulations and good wishes of the First Consul of
France.

The poor young lovers, constantly watched as they were, and as
constantly restrained by the rules of an etiquette which was now
becoming more and more rigid, had not the consolation accorded to
them of exchanging even one last unnoticed pressure of the hand,
one last tender vow of eternal fidelity, when they took leave of
each other. But they hoped in the future, and looked forward to
Duroc’s return, and to the precious recompense that Bonaparte had
significantly promised to his friend. That recompense was the hand
of Hortense Until then, they had to content themselves with that
sole and sweetest solace of all parted lovers, the letters that
they interchanged, and which Bourrienne, Bonaparte’s secretary,
faithfully and discreetly transmitted.

“Nearly every evening,” relates Bourrienne, in his
Mémoires, “I played a game of billiards with Mademoiselle
Hortense, who was an adept at it. “When I said, in a low tone to
her, ‘I have a letter,’ the game would cease at once, and she would
hasten to her room, whither I followed her, and took the letter to
her. Her eyes would instantly fill with tears of emotion and
delight, and it was only after a long lapse of time that she would
go down to the saloon whither I had preceded her [10].”

[10] Bourrienne, vol. iv., p. 319.

Hortense, thus busied only with her young lover and her innocent
dreams of the future, troubled herself but little concerning what
was taking place around her, and did not perceive that others were
ready to make her young heart the plaything of domestic and
political intrigue.

Bonaparte’s brothers, who were jealous of the sway that the
beautiful and fascinating Josephine still exerted over the first
consul, as in the first days of their wedded life, were anxious, by
separating Hortense from her mother, to deprive Josephine of one of
the strongest supports of her influence, and thus, by isolating
Josephine, bring themselves nearer to their brother. They well knew
the affection which Bonaparte, who was particularly fond of
children, entertained for those of his wife, and they also knew
that Eugene and Hortense had, one day, not by their entreaties or
their tears, but by their mere presence, prevented Josephine and
Bonaparte from separating.

This was at the time when the whisperings of his brothers and of
Junot had succeeded in making Bonaparte jealous on his return from
Egypt.

At that time, Bonaparte had resolved to separate from a woman,
against whom, however, his anger was thus fiercely aroused, simply
because he was so strongly attached to her; and when Bourrienne
implored him, at least, to hear Josephine before condemning her,
and to see whether she could not clear herself, or he could not
forgive her, he had replied:

“I forgive her? Never! Were I not sure of myself this time, I
would tear my heart out and throw it into the fire!” And, as
Bonaparte spoke, his voice trembling the while with rage, he
clutched his breast with his hand as though he would indeed rend it
to pieces. This scene occurred in the evening, but, when Bourrienne
came into the office next morning, Bonaparte stepped forward to
meet him with a smile on his face, and a little confused.

“Now, Bourrienne,” said he, “you will be content–she is here!
Don’t suppose that I have forgiven her–no not at all! No, I
reproached her vehemently, and sent her away. But, what would you
have?–when she left me, weeping, I went after her, and, as she
descended the stairs with her head drooping, I saw Eugene and
Hortense, who went with her, sobbing violently. I have not the
heart to look unmoved on any one in tears. Eugene had accompanied
me to Egypt, and I have accustomed myself to regard him as my
adopted son; he is so gallant, so excellent a young man. Hortense
is just coming out into the world of society, and every one who
knows her speaks well of her. I confess, Bourrienne, that the sight
of her moved me deeply, and the sobbing of those two poor children
made me sad as well. I said to myself, ‘Shall they be the victims
of their mother’s fault?’ I called Eugene back. Hortense turned
round and, along with Josephine, followed her brother. I saw the
movement, and said nothing. What could I do? One cannot be a mortal
man without having his hours of weakness!”

“Be assured, general,” exclaimed Bourrienne, “that your adopted
children will reward you for it!”

“They must do so, Bourrienne–they must do so; for it is a great
sacrifice that I have made for them [11]!”

[11] Bourrienne, vol. iv., p. 119.

This sacrifice, however, had its recompense immediately, for
Josephine had been able to set herself right, and Bonaparte had
joyfully become convinced that the accusations of his jealous
brothers had been unjust.

Hence it was that Bonaparte’s brothers wished to re move
Hortense, since they knew that she was her mother’s main stay; that
she, with her gentle, amiable disposition, her tact and good sense,
her penetrating and never-failing sagacity, stood like a wise young
Mentor at the side of her beautiful, attractive, impulsive,
somewhat vain, and very extravagant mother.

It would be easier to set Josephine aside were Hortense first
removed; and Josephine they wanted to get out of the way because
she interfered with the ambitious designs of Bonaparte’s brothers.
Since they could not become great and celebrated by their own
merits, they desired to be so through their illustrious brother;
and, in order that they might become kings, Bonaparte must, above
all things, wear a crown. Josephine was opposed to this project;
she loved Bonaparte enough to fear the dangers that a usurpation of
the crown must bring with it, and she had so little ambition as to
prefer her present brilliant and peaceful lot to the proud but
perilous exaltation to a throne.

For this reason, then, Josephine was to be removed, and
Bonaparte must choose another wife–a wife in whose veins there
should course legitimate royal blood, and who would, therefore, be
content to see a crown upon the head of her consort.

CHAPTER II.

LOUIS BONAPARTE AND DUROC.

The brothers of Bonaparte went diligently to work then, above
all things, to get Hortense out of the way. They told Bonaparte of
the burning love of the young couple, of the letters which they
sent to each other, and proposed to him that Duroc should be
transferred to the Italian army with a higher command, and that
Hortense should then be given to him. They persuaded the
unsuspecting, magnanimous hero, who was easy to deceive in these
minor matters and thus easy because he was occupied with grand
designs and grand things; they persuaded him to keep the proposed
union a secret for the present, and then on Duroc’s early return to
surprise the young couple and Josephine alike.

But Josephine had, this time, seen through the plans of her
hostile brothers-in-law. She felt that her whole existence, her
entire future, was imperilled, should she not succeed in making
friends and allies in the family of Bonaparte itself. There was
only one of Bonaparte’s brothers who was not hostile to her, but
loved her as the wife of his brother, to whom he was, at that time,
still devoted with the most enthusiastic and submissive
tenderness.

This one was Bonaparte’s brother Louis, a young man of serious
and sedate disposition, more of a scholar than a warrior, more a
man of science than fit for the council-chamber and the
drawing-room. His was a reserved, quiet, somewhat timid character,
which, notwithstanding its apparent gentleness, developed an
inflexible determination and energy at the right, decisive moment,
and then could not be shaken by either threats or entreaties. His
external appearance was little calculated to please, nay, was even
somewhat sinister, and commanded the respect of others only in
moments of excitement, through the fierce blaze of his large blue
eyes, that seemed rather to look inward than outward.

Louis Bonaparte was one of those deep, self-contained,
undemonstrative, and by no means showy natures which are too rarely
understood, because, in the noisy bustle of life, we have not the
time and do not take the pains to analyze them. Only a sister or a
mother is in a position to comprehend and love men of this stamp,
because the confidential home relations of long years have revealed
to them the hidden bloom of these sensitive plants which shrink
back and close their leaves at every rude contact of the world. But
rarely, however, do they find a loving heart outside, for, since
their own hearts are too timid to seek for love, no one gives
himself the trouble to discover them.

The young brother of her husband, now scarcely twenty-four, was
the one who seemed destined in Josephine’s eyes to afford her a
point of support in the Bonaparte family.

Madame Letitia loved him more tenderly than she did any of them,
next to her Napoleon, since he was the petted darling of the whole
family of brothers, who had no fear of him, because he was neither
egotistical nor ambitious enough to cross their plans, but quietly
allowed them to have their way, and only asked that they would also
leave him undisturbed to follow out his own quiet and unobtrusive
inclinations. He was the confidant of his young and beautiful
sisters, who were always sure to find in him a discreet counsellor,
and never a betrayer. Finally, he was the one of the whole circle
of brothers toward whom Napoleon felt the sincerest and warmest
inclination, because he could not help esteeming him for his noble
qualities, and because he was never annoyed by him as he was by his
other brothers; for the ambition and the avarice of Jerome, Joseph,
and Lucien, were even then a source of displeasure and chagrin to
Bonaparte.

“Were any one to hear with what persistency my brothers demand
fresh sums of money from me, every day, he would really think that
I had consumed from them the inheritance their father left,” said
Bonaparte, one day, to Bourrienne, after a violent scene between
him and Jerome, which had ended, as they all did, in Jerome getting
another draft on the private purse of the first consul.

Louis, however, never asked for money, but always appeared
thankfully content with whatever Bonaparte chose to give him,
unsolicited, and there never were any wranglings with tradesmen on
his account, or any debts of his to pay.

This last circumstance was what filled Josephine with a sort of
respectful deference for her young step-brother. He understood how
to manage his affairs so well as never to run up debts, and this
was a quality that was so sorely lacking in Josephine, that she
could never avoid incurring debt. How many bitter annoyances, how
much care and anxiety had not her debts cost her already; how often
Bonaparte had scolded her about them; how often she had promised to
do differently, and make no more purchases until she should be in a
condition to pay at once!

But this reform was to her thoughtless and magnanimous nature an
impossibility; and however greatly she may have feared the flashing
eyes and thundering voice of her husband when he was angered, she
could not escape his wrath in this one point, for in that point
precisely was it that the penitent sinner continually fell into
fresh transgression–and again ran into debt!

Louis, however, never had debts. He was as cautious and regular
as her own Hortense, and therefore, thought Josephine, these two
young, careful, thoughtful temperaments would be well adapted to
each other, and would know how to manage their hearts as discreetly
as they did their purses.

So she wished to make a step-son of Louis Bonaparte, in order to
strengthen her own position thereby. Josephine already had a
premonitory distrust of the future, and it may sometimes have
happened that she took the mighty eagle that fluttered above her
head for a bird of evil omen whose warning cry she frequently
fancied that she heard in the stillness of the night.

The negress at Martinique had said to her, “You will be more
than a queen.” But now, Josephine had visited the new
fortune-teller, Madame Villeneuve, in Paris, and she had said to
her, “You will wear a crown, but only for a short time.”

Only for a short time! Josephine was too young, too happy, and
too healthful, to think of her own early death. It must, then, be
something else that threatened her–a separation, perhaps. She had
no children, yet Bonaparte so earnestly desired to have a son, and
his brothers repeated to him daily that this was for him a
political necessity.

Thus Josephine trembled for her future; she stretched out her
hands for help, and in the selfishness of her trouble asked her
daughter to give up her own dreams of happiness, in order to secure
the real happiness of her mother.

Yet Hortense was in love; her young heart throbbed painfully at
the thought of not only relinquishing her own love, but of marrying
an unloved man, whom she had never even thought of, and had
scarcely noticed. She deemed it impossible that she could be asked
to sacrifice her own beautiful and blessed happiness, to a
cold-blooded calculation, an artificial family intrigue; and so,
with all the enthusiasm of a first love, she swore rather to perish
than to forego her lover.

“But Duroc has no fortune and no future to offer you,” said
Josephine. “What he is, he is only through the friendship of
Bonaparte. He has no estate, no importance, no celebrity. Were
Bonaparte to abandon him he would fall back into nothingness and
obscurity again.”

Hortense replied, smiling through her tears: “I love him, and
have no other ambition than to be his wife.”

“But he? Do you think that he too has no other ambition than to
become your husband? Do you think that he loves you for your own
sake alone?”

“I know it,” said the young girl, with beaming eyes; “Duroc has
told me that he loved me, and me only. He has sworn eternal
fidelity and love to me. Both of us ask for nothing more than to
belong to each other.”

Josephine shrugged her shoulders almost compassionately.

“Suppose,” she rejoined, “that I were to affirm that Duroc is
willing to marry you, only because he is ambitious, and thinks that
Bonaparte would then advance him the more rapidly?”

“It is a slander–it is impossible!” exclaimed Hortense, glowing
with honest indignation; “Duroc loves me, and his noble soul is far
from all selfish calculation.”

“And if I were to prove the contrary to you?” asked Josephine,
irritated by her daughter’s resistance, and made cruel by her alarm
for her own fortunes.

Hortense turned pale, and her face, which had been so animated,
so beautiful, a moment before, blanched as though the icy chill of
death had passed over it.

“If you can prove to me,” she said, in a hollow tone, “that
Duroc loves me only through ambitious motives, I am ready to give
him up, and marry whom you will.”

Josephine triumphed. “Duroc gets back to-day from his journey,”
she replied, “and in three days more I will give you the proof that
he does not love you, but the family alliance which you
present.”

Hortense had heard only the first of her mother’s words: “Duroc
returns to-day.” What cared she for all the rest? She should see
him again–she should read consolation and love’s assurance in his
handsome manly face; not that she needed this to confirm her
confidence, for she believed in him, and not the shadow of a doubt
obscured her blissful greeting.

Meanwhile, Josephine’s pretty hands were busy drawing the meshes
of this intrigue tighter every moment. She absolutely required a
supporting ally in the family, against the family itself;
and for this reason Louis must become the husband of Hortense.

Bonaparte himself was against this union, and was quite resolved
to marry Duroc to his step-daughter. But Josephine managed to shake
his resolve, by means of entreaties, representations, caresses, and
little endearments, and even succeeded in such eloquent argument to
show that Duroc did not cherish any love whatever for Hortense, but
wanted to make an ambitious speculation out of her, that Bonaparte
resolved, at least, to put his friend to the test, and, if
Josephine turned out to be right, to marry Hortense to his own
brother.

After this last interview with Josephine, Bonaparte went back
into his office, where he found Bourrienne, as ever, at the
writing-desk.

“Where is Duroc?” he hastily asked.

“He has gone out–to the opera, I think.”

“So soon as he returns tell him that I have promised him
Hortense–that he shall marry her. But I want the wedding to take
place in two days, at the farthest. I give Hortense five hundred
thousand francs, and I appoint Duroc to the command of the eighth
military division. On the day after his wedding he shall start with
his wife for Toulon, and we shall live apart. I will not have a
son-in-law in my house; and, as I want to see these matters brought
to an end, at last, let me know to-day whether Duroc accepts my
propositions.”

“I don’t think that he will, general.”

“Very good! Then, in that case, Hortense shall marry my brother
Louis.”

“Will she consent?”

“She will have to consent, Bourrienne.”

Duroc came in at a late hour that evening, and Bourrienne told
him, word for word, the ultimatum of the first consul.

Duroc listened to him attentively; but, as Bourrienne went on
with his communication, his countenance grew darker and darker.

“If such be the case,” he exclaimed at last, when Bourrienne had
got through, “if Bonaparte will do nothing more than that for his
son-in-law, I must forego a marriage with Hortense, however painful
it may be to do so: and then, instead of going to Toulon, I can
remain in Paris.” And, as he ceased to speak, Duroc took up his
hat, without a trace of excitement or concern, and departed.

That same evening, Josephine received from her husband his full
consent to the marriage of her daughter to Louis Bonaparte.

On that very evening, too, Josephine informed her daughter that
Duroc had not withstood the test, and that he had now relinquished
her, through ambition, as, through ambition, he had previously
feigned to love her.

Hortense gazed at her mother with tearless eyes. She had not a
word of complaint or reproach to utter; she was conscious merely
that a thunder-bolt had just fallen, and had forever dashed to
atoms her love, her hopes, her future, and her happiness.

But she no longer had the strength and the will to escape the
evil that had flung its meshes around her; she submitted meekly to
it. She had been betrayed by love itself; and what cared she now
for her future, her embittered, bloomless, scentless life, when
he had deceived her —he, the only one whom she had
loved?

The next morning Hortense stepped, self-possessed and smiling,
into Josephine’s private cabinet, and declared that she was ready
to fulfil her mother’s wishes and marry Louis Bonaparte.

Josephine clasped her in her arms, with exclamations of delight.
She little knew what a night of anguish, of wailing, of tears, and
of despair, Hortense had struggled through, or that her present
smiling unconcern was nothing more than the dull hopelessness of a
worn-out heart. She did not see that Hortense smiled now only in
order that Duroc should not observe that she suffered. Her love for
him was dead, but her maidenly pride had survived, and it dried her
tears, and conjured up a smile to her struggling lips; it, too,
enabled her to declare that she was ready to accept the husband
whom her mother might present to her.

Thus, Josephine had accomplished her purpose; she had made one
of Bonaparte’s brothers her son. Now there remained the question
whether she should attain her other aim through that son, and
whether she should find in him a support against the intrigues of
the other brothers of the first consul.

CHAPTER III.

CONSUL AND KING.

There was only two days’ interval between the betrothal of the
young couple and their wedding; and on the 7th of January, 1802,
Hortense was married to Louis Bonaparte, the youngest brother but
one of the first consul. Bonaparte, who contented himself with the
civil ceremony, and had never given his own union with Josephine
the sanction of the Church, was less careless and unconcerned with
regard to this youthful alliance, which had, indeed, great need of
the blessing of Heaven, in order to prove a source of any good
fortune to the young couple. Perhaps he reasoned that the
consciousness of the indissoluble character of their union would
lead them to an honorable and upright effort for a mutual
inclination; perhaps it was because he simply wished to render
their separation impossible. Cardinal Caprara was called into the
Tuileries, after the civil ceremony concluded, and had to bestow
the blessing of God and of the Church upon the bride and
bridegroom.

Yet, not one word or one glance had thus far been interchanged
by the young couple. It was in silence that they stepped, after the
ceremonies were over, into the carriage that bore them to their new
home, in the same small residence in the Rue de la Victoire which
her mother had occupied in the first happy weeks of her youthful
union with Bonaparte.

Now, another young, newly-married pair were making their entry
into this dwelling, but love did not enter with them; affection and
happiness did not shine in their faces, as had been the case with
Bonaparte and Josephine. The eyes of Hortense were dimmed with
tears, and the countenance of her young husband was dark and
gloomy. For, on his side, he, too, felt no love for this young
woman; and, as she never forgave him for having accepted her hand,
although he knew that she loved another, he, in like manner, could
never forgive her having consented to be his wife, although he had
not been the one to solicit it, and although he had never told her
that he loved her. Both had bowed to the will of him who gave the
law, not merely to all France, but also to his own family, and who
had already become the lord and master of the republic. Both had
married through obedience, not for love; and the consciousness of
this compulsion rose like an impassable wall between these two
otherwise tender and confiding young hearts. In the consciousness
of this compulsion, too, they would not even try to love one
another, or find in each other’s society the happiness that they
were forbidden to seek elsewhere.

Pale and mournful, in splendid attire, but with a heavy heart,
did Hortense make her appearance at the fêtes which
were given in honor of her marriage; and it was with a beclouded
brow and averted face that Louis Bonaparte received the customary
congratulations. While every one around them exhibited a cheerful
and joyous bearing, while parties were given in their honor, and
people danced and sang, the young couple only, of all present, were
dull and sad. Louis avoided speaking to Hortense, and she turned
her gaze away from him, possibly so that he might not read in it
her deep and angry aversion.

But she had to accept her lot; and, since she was thus
indissolubly bound up with another, she had to try to live with
that other. Hortense, externally so gentle and yielding, so full of
maiden coyness and delicacy, nevertheless possessed a strong and
resolute soul, and, in the noble pride of her wounded heart, was
unwilling to give any one the right to pity her. Her soul wept, but
she restrained her tears and still tried to smile, were it only
that Duroc might not perceive the traces of her grief upon her
sunken cheeks. She had torn this love from her heart, and she
rebuked herself that it had left a wound. She laid claim to
happiness no more; but her youth, her proud self-respect, revolted
at the idea of continuing to be the slave of misfortune henceforth,
and so she formed her firm resolve, saying to herself, with a
melancholy smile, “I must manage to be happy, without happiness.
Let me try!”

And she did try. She once more arrayed herself in smiles, and
again took part in the festivities which now were filling the halls
of St. Cloud, Malmaison, and the Tuileries, and which, too, were
but the dying lay of the swan of the republic, or, if you will, the
cradle-song of reviving monarchy.

For things were daily sweeping nearer and nearer to that great
turning-point, at which the French people would have to choose
between a seeming republic and a real monarchy. France was already
a republic but in name; the new, approaching monarchy was, indeed,
but a new-born, naked infant as yet, but only a bold hand was
wanting, that should possess the determined courage to clothe it
with ermine and purple, in order to transform the helpless babe
into a proud, triumphant man.

That courage Bonaparte possessed; but he had, also, the higher
courage to advance carefully and slowly. He let the infant of
monarchy, that lay there naked and helpless at his feet, shiver
there a little longer; but, lest it should freeze altogether, he
threw over it, for the time being, the mantle of his “consulship
for life.” Beneath it, the babe could slumber comfortably a few
weeks longer, while waiting for its purple robes.

Bonaparte was now, by the will of the French people, consul for
life. He stood close to the steps of a throne, and it depended only
upon himself whether he would mount those steps, or whether, like
General Monk, he would recall the fugitive king, and restore to him
the sceptre of his forefathers. The brothers of Bonaparte desired
the first; Josephine implored Heaven for the latter alternative.
She was too completely a loving woman only, to long for the chilly
joys of mere ambition; she was too entirely occupied with her
personal happiness, not to fear every danger that menaced it.
Should Bonaparte place a crown upon his head, he would also have to
think of becoming the founder of a dynasty; and in order to
strengthen and fortify his position, he would have to place a
legitimate heir by his side. Josephine had borne her husband no
children; and she knew that his brothers had, more than once,
proposed to him to dissolve his childless union, and replace it
with the presence of a young wife. Hence, Bonaparte’s assumption of
royal dignity meant a separation from her; and Josephine still
loved him too well, and too much with a young wife’s love, to take
so great a sacrifice upon her.

Moreover, Josephine was at heart a royalist, and considered the
Count de Lille, who, after so many agitations and wanderings, had
found an asylum at Hartwell, in England, the legitimate King of
France.

The letters which the Count de Lille (afterward King Louis
XVIII.) had written to Bonaparte, had filled Josephine’s heart with
emotion, and, with a kind of apprehensive foreboding, she had
conjured her husband to, at least, give the brother of the beheaded
king a mild and considerate answer. Yes, she had even ventured to
beseech Bonaparte to comply with the request that Louis had made,
and give him back the throne of his ancestors. But Bonaparte had
laughed at this suggestion, as he would at some childish joke; for
it had never entered into his head that any one could seriously ask
him to lay his laurels and his trophies at the foot of a throne,
which not he, but a member of that Bourbon family whom France had
banished forever, should ascend.

Louis had written to Bonaparte: “I cannot believe that the
victor at Lodi, Castiglione, and Arcola–the conqueror of Italy and
Egypt–would not prefer real glory to mere empty celebrity.
Meanwhile, you are losing precious time. We can secure the
glory of France; I say we, because I have need of Bonaparte
in the work, and because he cannot complete it without me.”

But Bonaparte already felt strong enough to say, not “we,” but
“I,” and to complete his work alone. Therefore, he replied to the
Count de Lille: “You cannot desire your return to France, for you
would have to enter it over a hundred thousand corpses; sacrifice
your personal interests to the tranquillity and happiness of
France. History will pay you a grateful acknowledgment.”

Louis had said in his letter to Bonaparte, “Choose your own
position, and mark out what you want for your friends.” And
Bonaparte did choose his position; but unfortunately for the Count
de Lille, it was the very one which the latter had wished to
reserve for himself.

Josephine would have been glad to vacate the king’s place for
him, could she but have retained her husband by so doing. She had
no longings for a diadem which, by-the-way, her beautiful head did
not require in order to command admiration.

“You cannot avoid being a queen or an empress, one of these
days,” said Bourrienne to her, on a certain occasion.

Josephine replied, with tears: “Mon Dieu! I am far from
cherishing any such ambition. So long as I live, to be the wife of
Bonaparte–of the first consul–is the sum total of my wishes! Tell
him so; conjure him not to make himself king [12].”

[12] Bourrienne, vol. v., p. 47.

But Josephine did not content herself with requesting Bourrienne
to tell her husband this; she had the courage to say so to him
herself.

One day she went into Napoleon’s cabinet, and found him at
breakfast, and unusually cheerful and good-humored. She had entered
without having been announced, and crept up on tiptoe to her
husband, who sat with his back turned toward her, and had not yet
noticed her. Lightly throwing her arm around his neck, and letting
herself sink upon his breast, and then stroking his pale cheeks and
glossy brown hair, with an expression of unutterable love and
tenderness, she said:

“I implore you, Bonaparte, do not mount the throne. Your wicked
brother Lucien will urge you to it, but do not listen to him.”

Bonaparte laughed. “You are a little goose, poor Josephine,” he
said. “It’s the old dowagers of the Faubourg St. Germain, and your
La Rochefoucauld, more than all the rest, who tell you these
wonderful stories; but you worry me to death with them. Come, now,
don’t bother me about them any more!”

Bonaparte had put off Josephine with a laugh and a jesting word,
but he nevertheless conversed earnestly and seriously with his most
intimate personal friends on the subject of his assuming the crown.
In the course of one of these interviews, Bourrienne said to
him:

“As first consul, you are the leading and most famous man in all
Europe; whereas, if you place the crown upon your head, you will be
only the youngest in date of all the kings, and will have to yield
precedence to them.”

Bonaparte’s eyes blazed up with fiercer fire, and, with that
daring and imposing look which was peculiar to him in great and
decisive moments, he responded:

“The youngest of the kings! Well, then, I will drive all
the kings from their thrones, and found a new dynasty: then, they
will have to recognize me as the oldest prince of all.”

CHAPTER IV.

THE CALUMNY.

The union of Hortense with Bonaparte’s brother had not been
followed by such good results for her as Josephine had anticipated.
She had made a most unfortunate selection, for Louis Bonaparte was,
of all the first consul’s brothers, the one who concerned himself
the least about politics, and was the least likely to engage in any
intrigue. Besides, this alliance had materially diminished the
affection which Louis had always previously manifested for
Josephine. He blamed her, in the depths of his noble and upright
heart, for having been so egotistic as to sacrifice the happiness
of her daughter to her own personal welfare; he blamed her, too,
for having forced him into a marriage which love had not concluded,
and, although he never sided with her enemies, Josephine had, at
least, lost a friend in him.

The wedded life of this young couple was something unusually
strange. They had openly confessed the repulsion they felt for each
other, and reciprocally made no secret of the fact that they had
been driven into this union against their own wishes. In this
singular interchange of confidence, they went so far as to
commiserate each other, and to condole with one another as friends,
over the wretchedness they endured in their married bondage.

They said frankly to each other that they could never love; that
they detested one another: but they so keenly felt a mutual
compassion, that out of that very compassion–that very hatred
itself–love might possibly spring into being.

Louis could already sit for hours together beside his wife,
busied with the effort to divert her with amusing remarks, and to
drive away the clouds that obscured her brow; already, too,
Hortense had come to regard it as her holiest and sweetest duty to
endeavor to compensate her husband, by her kindly deportment toward
him, and the delicate and attentive respect that distinguished her
bearing, for the unhappiness he felt beside her; already had both,
in fine, begun to console each other with the reflection that the
child which Hortense now bore beneath her heart would, one day, be
to them a compensation for their ill-starred marriage and their
lost freedom.

“When I present you with a son,” said Hortense, smiling, “and
when he calls you by the sweet name of ‘father,’ you will forgive
me for being his mother.”

“And when you press that son to your heart–when you feel that
you love him with boundless affection,” said Louis, “you will
pardon me for being your husband, and you will cease to hate me, at
least, for I will be the father of your darling child.”

Had sufficient time been allotted to these young, pure, and
innocent hearts, to comprehend one another, they would have
overcome their unhappiness, and love would have sprung up at last
from hatred. But the world was pitiless to them; it had no
compassion for their youth and their sufferings; with cruel hands
it dashed away this tender blossoming of nascent affection, which
was beginning to expand in their hearts. Josephine had wedded
Hortense to her brother-in-law in order to secure in him an ally in
the family, and to keep her daughter by her side; and now that
daughter was made the target of insidious attacks and malicious
calumnies–now another plan was adopted in order to remove Hortense
from the scene. The conspirators had not succeeded in their designs
by means of a matrimonial alliance, so they would now try the
effect of calumny.

They went about whispering from ear to ear that Bonaparte had
married his step-daughter to his brother, simply because he was
attached to her himself, and had been jealous of Duroc.

These slanders were carried so far as to hint that the child
whose birth Hortense expected was more nearly related to Bonaparte
than merely through the fact that his step-daughter was his
brother’s wife.

This was an infernal but skilfully-planned calumny; for those
who devised it well knew how Bonaparte detested the merest
suspicion of such immorality, how strict he was in his own
principles, and how repulsive it therefore would be to him to find
himself made the object of such infamous slanders.

The conspirators calculated that, in order to terminate these
evil rumors, the first consul would send his brother and Hortense
away to a distance, and that the fated Josephine, being thus
isolated, could also be the more readily removed. Thus Bonaparte,
being separated from his guardian angel, would no longer hear her
whispering:

“Bonaparte, do not ascend the throne! Be content with the glory
of the greatest of mankind! Place no diadem upon thy brows; do not
make thyself a king!”

In Paris, as I have said, these shameful calumnies were but very
lightly whispered, but abroad they were only the more loudly heard.
Bonaparte’s enemies got hold of the scandalous story, and made a
weapon of it with which to assail him as a hero.

One morning Bonaparte was reading an English newspaper which had
always been hostile to him, and which, as he well knew, was the
organ of Count d’Artois, then residing at Hartwell. As he continued
to read, a dark shadow stole over his face, and he crumpled the
paper in his clinched fist with a sudden and vehement motion. Then
as suddenly again his countenance cleared, and a proud smile
flitted across it. He had his master of ceremonies summoned to his
presence, and bade him issue the necessary invitations for a court
ball to be given, on the evening of the next day, at St. Cloud. He
then went to Josephine to inform her in person of the projected
fête, and to say that he wished her to tell Hortense,
who had been ailing for some time, that he particularly desired her
to be present.

Hortense had been too long accustomed to obey her step-father’s
requests, to venture a refusal. She rose, therefore, from her couch
on which she had been in the habit, for weeks past, of reclining,
busied with her own dreams and musings, and bade her waiting women
prepare her attire for the ball. Still she felt unwell, and
seriously burdened by this festive attire, which harmonized so
little with her feelings, and was so far from becoming to her
figure, for she was only a few weeks from her confinement; but with
her gentle and yielding disposition she did not venture, even in
thought, to murmur at the compulsion imposed upon her by her
step-father’s command. She therefore repaired, at the appointed
hour, to the ball at St. Cloud. Bonaparte stepped forward to meet
her with a friendly smile, and, instead of thanking her for coming
at all, earnestly urged her to dance.

Hortense gazed at him with amazement. She knew that hitherto
Bonaparte had always sought to avoid the sight of a woman in her
condition; he had frequently said that he thought there was nothing
more indecent than for a female to join in the dance under such
circumstances, and now it was he who asked her to do that very
thing.

For this reason Hortense hesitated at first to comply, but
Bonaparte grew only the more pressing and vehement in his
request.

“You know how I like to see you dance, Hortense,” he said, with
his irresistible smile; “so do this much for me, even if you take
the floor only once, and that for but a single
contredance.”

And Hortense, although most reluctant, although blushing with
shame at the idea of exposing herself in such unseemly shape to the
gaze of all, obeyed and joined the dances.

This took place in the evening–how greatly surprised, then, was
Hortense when next morning she found, in the paper that she usually
read, a poem, extolling her performance in words of ravishing
flattery, and referring to the fact that, notwithstanding her
advanced state of pregnancy, she had consented to tread a measure
in the contredance, as a peculiar trait of amiability!

Hortense, however, far from feeling flattered by this very
emphatic piece of verse, took it as an affront, and hastened at
once to the Tuileries, to complain to her mother, and to ask her
how it was possible that, so early as the very next morning, there
could be verses published in the newspapers concerning what had
taken place at the ball on the preceding evening.

Bonaparte, who happened to be with Josephine when Hortense came
in, and was the first to be questioned by her, gave her only an
evasive and jocose reply, and withdrew. Hortense then turned to her
mother, who was leaning over on the divan, her eyes reddened with
weeping and her heart oppressed with grief. To her, Bonaparte had
given no evasive answer, but had told the whole truth, and
Josephine’s heart was at that moment too full of wretchedness, too
overladen with this fresh and bitter trouble, for her possibly to
retain it within her own breast.

Hortense insisted upon an explanation, and her mother gave it.
She told her that Bonaparte had got the poet Esmenard to write the
verses beforehand, and that it was for this reason that he had
urged her to dance; that he had ordered the ball for no other
purpose than to have her dance, and have the poem that complimented
her and referred to her pregnancy published in the next day’s
paper.

Then, when Hortense, in terror, begged to be informed of the
ground for all these proceedings, Josephine had the cruel courage
to tell her of the slanders that had been circulated in reference
to herself and Bonaparte, and to say that he had arranged the poem,
the ball, and her participation in the dance, because, on the
preceding day, he had read in an English journal the calumnious
statement that Madame Louis Bonaparte had safely given birth to a
vigorous and healthy child some weeks previously, and he wished in
this manner to refute the malicious statement.

Hortense received this fresh wound with a cold smile of scorn.
She had not a word of anger or indignation for this unheard-of
injury, this shameless slander; she neither wept nor complained,
but, as she rose to take leave of her mother, she swooned away, and
it required hours of exertion to restore her to consciousness.

A few weeks later, Hortense was delivered of a dead male infant,
and so passed away her last dream of happiness; for thus was
destroyed the hope of a better understanding between her and her
husband.

Hortense rose from her sick-bed with a firm, determined heart.
In those long, lonely days that she had passed during her
confinement, she had the time and opportunity to meditate on many
things, and keenly to estimate her whole present position and
probable future. She had now become a mother, without having a
child; yet the resolute energy of a mother remained to her. The
youthful, gentle, dreamy, enthusiastic girl had now become
transformed into a determined, active, energetic woman, that would
no longer bow submissively to the blows of fortune, but would meet
them with an open and defiant brow. Since her fate could not be
changed, she accepted it, all the while resolved no longer to bend
to its yoke, but to subdue it, and try to be happy by force of
resolution; and, since a charming, peaceful, and harmonious
fireside at home was denied her, to at least make her house a
pleasant gathering-point for her friends–for men of scientific and
artistic attainments, for poets and singers, for painters and
sculptors, and for men of learning. Ere long, all Paris was talking
about Madame Louis Bonaparte’s drawing-rooms, the agreeable and
elegant entertainments that were given there, and the concerts
there arranged, in which the first singers of the day executed
pieces that Hortense had composed, and Talma recited, with his
wonderful, sonorous voice, the poems that she had written. Every
one was anxious for admission to these entertainments, in which the
participants not merely performed their parts, but greatly enjoyed
themselves as well; where the guests indulged in no backbiting or
abuse, but found more worthy and elevated subjects of conversation;
where, in fine, they could admire the works of poets and artists,
and enjoy the newly, awakened intellectual spirit of the age.

Hortense had firmly made up her mind that, since she had
resigned herself to accept the burden of existence, she would
strive to render it as agreeable as possible, and not to see any of
its hateful and repulsive features, but to turn away from them with
a noble and disdainful pride. She had never even referred to the
frightful calumnies which her mother had privately made known to
her, nor had she deemed any defence or proof of her innocence at
all necessary. She felt that there were certain accusations against
which to even undertake defence is to admit their possibility, and
which, therefore, could only be combated by silence. The slanders
that had been flung at her lay in a plane so far beneath her, that
they could not rise high enough to reach her, but fell powerless at
her feet, whence she did not deem it even worth her while to thrust
them.

But Bonaparte continued to feel outraged and wounded by this
vile story, and it annoyed him deeply to learn that these rumors
were still spread abroad, and that his foes still bestirred
themselves to keep him ever on the alert, and, if possible, to dim
the lustre of his gloriously-won laurels by the shadow of an
infamous crime.

“There are still rumors abroad of a liaison between me
and Hortense,” said he one day to Bourrienne. “They have even
invented the most repulsive stories concerning her first infant. At
the time, I thought that these calumnies were circulated among the
public because the latter go earnestly desired that I might have a
child to inherit my name. But it is still spoken of, is it
not?”

“Yes, general, it is still spoken of; and I confess that I did
not believe this calumny would be so long continued.”

“This is really abominable!” exclaimed Bonaparte, his eyes
flashing with anger. “You, Bourrienne, you best know what truth
there is in it. You have heard and seen all; not the smallest
circumstance could escape you. You were her confidant in her
love-affair with Duroc. I expect you to clear me of this infamous
reproach if you should some day write my history. Posterity shall
not associate my name with such infamy. I shall depend on you,
Bourrienne, and you will at least admit that you have never
believed in this abominable calumny?”

“No, never, general.”

“I shall rely on you, Bourrienne, not only on my own account,
but for the sake of poor Hortense. She is, without this, unhappy
enough, as is my brother also. I am concerned about this, because I
love them both, and because this very circumstance gives color to
the reports which idle chatterboxes have circulated regarding my
relations to her. Therefore, bear this in mind when you write of me
hereafter.”

“I shall do so, general; I shall tell the truth, but,
unfortunately, I can not compel the world to believe the
truth.”

Bourrienne has, at all events, kept his word, and spoken the
truth. With deep indignation he spurns the calumny with which it
has been attempted to sully the memory of Bonaparte and Hortense,
even down to our time; and, in his anger, he even forgets the
elegant and considerate language of the courteous diplomat, which
is elsewhere always characteristic of his writings.

“He lies in his throat,” says Bourrienne, “who asserts that
Bonaparte entertained other feelings for Hortense than those a
step-father should entertain for his step-daughter! Hortense
entertained for the first consul a feeling of reverential fear. She
always spoke to him tremblingly. She never ventured to approach him
with a petition. She was in the habit of coming to me, and I then
submitted her wishes; and only when Bonaparte received them
unfavorably did I mention the name of the petitioner. ‘The silly
thing!’ said the first consul; ‘why does she not speak to me
herself? Is she afraid of me?’ Napoleon always entertained a
fatherly affection for her; since his marriage, he loved her as a
father would have loved his child. I, who for years was a witness
of her actions in the most private relations of life, I declare
that I have never seen or heard the slightest circumstance that
would tend to convict her of a criminal intimacy. One must consider
this calumny as belonging to the category of those which malice so
willingly circulates about those persons whose career has been
brilliant, and which credulity and envy so willingly believe. I
declare candidly that, if I entertained the slightest doubt with
regard to this horrible calumny, I would say so. But Bonaparte is
no more! Impartial history must not and shall not give countenance
to this reproach; she should not make of a father and friend a
libertine! Malicious and hostile authors have asserted, without,
however, adducing any proof, that a criminal intimacy existed
between Bonaparte and Hortense. A falsehood, an unworthy falsehood!
And this report has been generally current, not only in France, but
throughout all Europe. Alas! can it, then, be true that calumny
exercises so mighty a charm that, when it has once taken possession
of a man, he can never be freed from it again?”

CHAPTER V.

KING OR EMPEROR.

Josephine’s entreaties had been fruitless, or Bonaparte had, at
least, only yielded to them in their literal sense. She had said:
“I entreat you, do not make yourself a king!” Bonaparte did not
make himself king, he made himself emperor. He did not take up the
crown that had fallen from the head of the Bourbons; he created a
new one for himself–a crown which the French people and Senate
had, however, offered him. The revolution still stood a threatening
spectre behind the French people; its return was feared, and, since
the discovery of the conspiracy of Georges, Moreau, and Pichegru,
the people anxiously asked themselves what was to become of France
if the conspirators should succeed in murdering Bonaparte; and when
the republic should again be sent adrift, without a pilot, on the
wild sea of revolution. The people demanded that their institutions
should be securely established and maintained, and believed that
this could only be accomplished by a dynasty–by a monarchical form
of government. The consulate for life must therefore be changed
into an hereditary empire. Had not Bonaparte himself said: “One can
be emperor of a republic, but not king of a republic; these two
terms are incompatible!” They desired to make Napoleon emperor,
because they flattered themselves that in so doing they should
still be able to preserve the republic.

On the 18th of May, of the year 1804, the plan that had been so
long and carefully prepared was carried into execution. On the 18th
of May, the Senate repaired to St. Cloud, to entreat Bonaparte, in
the name of the people and army, to accept the imperial dignity,
and exchange the Roman chair of a consul for the French throne of
an emperor.

Cambacérès, the late second consul of the
republic, stood at the head of the Senate, and upon him devolved
the duty of imparting to Bonaparte the wishes of the French people.
Cambacérès–who, as a member of the Convention, had
voted for the condemnation of Louis XVI., in order that royalty
should be forever banished from French soil–this same
Cambacérès, was now the first to salute Bonaparte
with “imperial majesty,” and with the little word, so full of
significance, “sire.” He rewarded Cambacérès, for
this by writing to him on the game day, and appointing him high
constable of the empire, as the first act of his imperial rule. In
this letter, the first document in which Bonaparte signed himself
merely Napoleon, the emperor retained the republican style of
writing. He addressed Cambacérès, as “citizen
consul,” and followed the revolutionary method of reckoning time,
his letter being dated “the 20th Floréal, of the year
12.”

The second act of the emperor, on the first day of his new
dignity, was to invest the members of his family also with new
dignities, and to confer upon them the rank of Princes of France,
with the title “imperial highness.” Moreover, he made his brother
Joseph prince elector, and his brother Louis connétable. On
the same day it devolved upon Louis, in his new dignity, to present
the generals and staff officers to the emperor, and then to conduct
them to the empress–the Empress Josephine.

The prophecy of the negress of Martinique was now fulfilled.
Josephine was “more than a queen.” But Josephine, in the midst of
the splendor of her new dignity, could only think, with an anxious
heart, of the prophecy of the clairvoyante of Paris, who had told
her, “You will wear a crown, but only for a short time.” She felt
that this wondrous fortune could not last long–that the new
emperor would have to do as the kings or old had done, and
sacrifice his dearest possession to Fate, in order to appease the
hungry demons of vengeance and envy; and that he would, therefore,
sacrifice her, in order to secure the perpetuity of his fortune and
dynasty.

It was this that weighed down the heart of the new empress, and
made her shrink in alarm from her new grandeur. It was, therefore,
with a feeling of deep anxiety that she took possession of the new
titles and honors that Fate had showered upon her, as from an
inexhaustible horn of plenty. With a degree of alarm, and almost
with shame, she heard herself addressed with the titles with which
she had addressed the Queen of France years before, in these same
halls, when she came to the Tuileries as Marquise de Beauharnais,
to do homage to the beautiful Marie Antoinette. She had died on the
scaffold and now Josephine was the “majesty” that sat enthroned in
the Tuileries, her brilliant court assembled around her, while in a
retired nook of England the legitimate King of France was leading a
lonely and gloomy life.

Josephine, as we have said, was a good royalist; and, as
empress, she still mourned over the fate of the unfortunate
Bourbons, and esteemed it her sacred duty to assist and advise
those who, true to their principles and duties, had followed the
royal family, or had emigrated, in order that they might, at least,
not be compelled to do homage to the new system. Her purse was
always at the service of the emigrants; and, if Josephine
continually made debts, in spite of her enormous monthly allowance,
her extravagance was not alone the cause, but also her kindly,
generous heart; for she was in the habit of setting apart the half
of her monthly income for the relief of poor emigrants, and, no
matter how great her own embarrassment, or how pressing her
creditors, she never suffered the amount devoted to the relief of
misfortune and the reward of fidelity to be applied to any other
purpose [13].

[13] Mémoires sur la reine Hortense, par
le Baron van Schelten, vol. i., p. 145.

Now that Josephine was an empress, her daughter, the wife of the
High Constable of France, took the second position at the brilliant
court of the emperor. The daughter of the beheaded viscount was now
a “Princess of France,” an “imperial highness,” who must be
approached with reverence, who had her court and her maids of
honor, and whose liberty and personal inclinations, as was also the
case with her mother, were confined in the fetters of the strict
etiquette which Napoleon required to be observed at the new
imperial court.

But neither Josephine nor Hortense allowed herself to be blinded
by this new splendor. A crown could confer upon Josephine no
additional happiness; glittering titles could neither enhance
Hortense’s youth and beauty, nor alleviate her secret misery. She
would have been contented to live in retirement, at the side of a
beloved husband; her proud position could not indemnify her for her
lost woman’s happiness.

But Fate seemed to pity the noble, gentle being, who knew how to
bear misery and grandeur with the same smiling dignity, and offered
her a recompense for the overthrow of her first mother’s hope–a
new hope–she promised to become a mother again.

Josephine received this intelligence with delight, for her
daughter’s hope was a hope for her too. If Hortense should give
birth to a son, the gods might be reconciled, and misfortune be
banished from the head of the empress. With this son, the dynasty
of the new imperial family would be assured; this son could be the
heir of the imperial crown, and Napoleon could well adopt as his
own the child who was at the same time his nephew and his
grandson.

Napoleon promised Josephine that he would do this; that he would
rather content himself with an adopted son, in whom the blood of
the emperor and of the empress was mixed, than be compelled to
separate himself from her, from his Josephine. Napoleon still loved
his wife; he still compared with all he thought good and beautiful,
the woman who shed around his grandeur the lustre of her grace and
loveliness.

When the people greeted their new emperor with loud cries of joy
and thunders of applause, Napoleon, his countenance illumined with
exultation, exclaimed: “How glorious a music is this! These
acclamations and greetings sound as sweet and soft as the voice of
Josephine! How proud and happy I am, to be loved by such a
people [14]!”

[14] Bourrienne, vol. iv., p. 288.

But his proud ambition was not yet sated. As he bad once said,
upon entering the Tuileries as first consul, “It is not enough to
be in the Tuileries; one must also remain there”–he
now said: “It is not enough to have been made emperor by the French
people; one must also have received his consecration as emperor
from the Pope of Rome.”

And Napoleon was now mighty enough to give laws to the world;
not only to bend France, but also foreign sovereigns, to his
will.

Napoleon desired for his crown the papal consecration; and the
Pope left the holy city and repaired to Paris, to give the new
emperor the blessing of the Church in the Cathedral of Notre-Dame.
This was a new halo around Napoleon’s head–a new, an unbounded
triumph, which he celebrated over France, over the whole world and
its prejudices, and over all the dynasties by the “grace of God.”
The Pope came to Paris to crown the emperor. The German emperors
had been compelled to make a pilgrimage to Rome, to receive the
papal benediction, and now the Pope made a pilgrimage to Paris to
crown the French emperor, and acknowledge the son of the Revolution
as the consecrated son of the Church. All France was intoxicated
with delight at this intelligence; all France adored the hero, who
made of the wonders of fiction a reality, and converted even the
holy chair at Rome into the footstool of his grandeur. Napoleon’s
journey with Josephine through France, undertaken while they
awaited the Pope’s coming, was, therefore, a single, continuous
triumph. It was not only the people who received him with shouts of
joy, but the Church also sang to him, everywhere, her sanctus,
sanctus, and the priests received him at the doors of their
churches with loud benedictions, extolling him as the savior of
France. Everywhere, the imperial couple was received with universal
exultation, with the ringing of bells, with triumphal arches, and
solemn addresses of welcome, the latter partaking sometimes of a
transcendental nature.

“God created Bonaparte,” said the Prefect of Arras, in his
enthusiastic address to the emperor–“God created Bonaparte, and
then He rested.” And Count Louis of Narbonne, at that time not yet
won over by the emperor, and not yet grand-marshal of the imperial
court, whispered, quite audibly: “God would have done better had He
rested a little sooner!”

Finally, the intelligence overran all France, that the wonder,
in which they had not yet dared to believe, had become reality, and
that Pope Pius VII. had crossed the boundaries of France, and was
now approaching the capital. The Holy Father of the Church, that
had now arisen victoriously from the ruins of the revolution, was
everywhere received by the people and authorities with the greatest
honor. The old royal palace at Fontainebleau had, by order of the
emperor, been refurnished with imperial magnificence, and, as a
peculiarly delicate attention, the Pope’s bedchamber had been
arranged in exact imitation of his bedchamber in the Quirinal at
Home. The emperor, empress, and their suite, now repaired to
Fontainebleau, to receive Pope Pius VII. The whole ceremony had,
however, been previously arranged, and understanding had with the
Pope concerning the various questions of etiquette. In conformity
with this prearranged ceremony, when the couriers announced the
approach of the Pope, Napoleon rode out to the chase, to give
himself the appearance of meeting the Pope accidentally on his way.
The equipages and the imperial court had taken position in the
forest of Nemours. Napoleon, however, attired in hunting-dress,
rode, with his suite, to the summit of a little hill, which the
Pope’s carriage had just reached. The Pope at once ordered a halt,
and the emperor also brought his suite to a stand with a gesture of
his hand. A brief interval of profound silence followed. All felt
that a great historical event was taking place, and the eyes of all
were fastened in wondering expectation on the two chief figures of
this scene–on the emperor, who sat there on his horse, in his
simple huntsman’s attire; and on the Pope, in his gold-embroidered
robes, leaning back in his equipage, drawn by six horses.

As Napoleon dismounted, the Pope hastened to descend from his
carriage, hesitating a moment, however, after he had already placed
his foot on the carriage-step; but Napoleon’s foot had already
touched the earth. Pius could, therefore, no longer hesitate; he
must make up his mind to step, in his white, gold-embroidered satin
slippers, on the wet soil, softened by a shower of rain, that had
fallen on the previous day. The emperor’s hunting-boots were
certainly much better adapted to this meeting in the mud than the
Pope’s white satin slippers.

Emperor and Pope approached and embraced each other tenderly;
then, through the inattention of the coachmen, seemingly, the
imperial equipage was set in motion, and, in its rapid advance,
interrupted this tender embrace. It seemed to be the merest
accident that the emperor stood on the right, and the Pope on the
left side of the equipage, that had now been brought to a stand
again. The two doors of the carriage were simultaneously thrown
open by the lackeys; at the same time, the Pope entered the
carriage on the left, and the emperor on the right side, both
seating themselves side by side at the same time. This settled the
question of etiquette. Neither had preceded the other, but the
emperor occupied the seat of honor on the Pope’s right.

The coronation of the imperial pair took place on the 2d of
December, 1804, in the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. Not only all Paris,
but all France, was in motion on this day. An immense concourse of
people surged to and fro in the streets; the windows of all the
houses were filled with richly-adorned and beautiful women, the
bells were ringing in all the churches, and joyous music,
intermixed with the shouts of the people, was heard in every
direction. For a moment, however, these shouts were changed into
laughter, and that was when the papal procession approached, headed
by an ass led by the halter, in accordance with an ancient custom
of Rome. While the Pope, with the high dignitaries of the Church,
repaired to the cathedral to await there the coming of the imperial
couple, Napoleon was putting on the imperial insignia in the
Tuileries, enveloping himself in the green velvet mantle, bordered
with ermine, and thickly studded with brilliants, and arraying
himself in the whole glittering paraphernalia of his new dignity.
When already on the point of leaving the Tuileries with his wife,
who stood at his side in her imperial attire, Bonaparte suddenly
gave the order that the notary Ragideau should be called to the
palace, as he desired to see him at once.

A messenger was at once sent, in an imperial equipage, to bring
him from his dwelling, and in a quarter of an hour the little
notary Ragideau entered the cabinet of the empress, in which the
imperial pair were alone, awaiting him in their glittering
attire.

His eyes beaming, a triumphant smile on his lips, Napoleon
stepped forward to meet the little notary. “Well, Master Ragideau,”
said he, gayly, “I have had you called, merely to ask you whether
General Bonaparte really possesses nothing besides his hat and his
sword, or whether you will now forgive Viscountess Beauharnais for
having married me;” and, as Ragideau looked at him in astonishment,
and Josephine asked the meaning of his strange words, Bonaparte
related how, while standing in Ragideau’s antechamber on a certain
occasion, he had heard the notary advising Josephine not to marry
poor little Bonaparte; not to become the wife of the general, who
possessed nothing but his hat and his sword.

The notary’s words had entered the ambitious young man’s heart
like a dagger, and had wounded him deeply. But he had uttered no
complaint, and made no mention of it; but to-day, on the day of his
supreme triumph, to-day the emperor remembered that moment of
humiliation, and, arrayed with the full insignia of the highest
earthly dignity, he accorded himself the triumph of reminding the
little notary that he had once advised Josephine not to marry him,
because of his poverty.

The poor General Bonaparte had now transformed himself into the
mighty Emperor Napoleon. Then he possessed nothing but his hat and
his sword, but now the Pope awaited him in the cathedral of
Notre-Dame, to place the golden imperial crown on his head.

CHAPTER VI.

NAPOLEON’S HEIR.

Hortense had not been able to take any part in the festivities
of the coronation; but another festivity had been prepared for her
in the retirement of her apartments. She had given birth to a son;
and in this child the happy mother found consolation and a new
hope.

Josephine, who had assumed the imperial crown with a feeling of
foreboding sadness, received the intelligence of the birth of her
grandson with exultation. It seemed to her that the clouds that had
been gathering over her head were now dissipated, and that a day of
unclouded sunshine now smiled down upon her. Hortense had assured
her mother’s future; she had given birth to a son, and had thus
given a first support to the new imperial dynasty. There was now no
longer a reason why Napoleon should entertain the thoughts of a
separation, for there was a son to whom he could one day bequeath
the imperial throne of France.

The emperor also seemed to be disposed to favor Josephine’s
wishes, and to adopt his brother’s son as his own. Had he not
requested the Pope to delay his departure for a few days, in order
to baptize the child? The Pope performed this sacred rite at St.
Cloud, the emperor holding the child, and Madame Letitia standing
at his side as second witness. Hortense now possessed an object
upon which she could lavish the whole wealth of love that had until
now lain concealed in her heart. The little Napoleon Charles was
Hortense’s first happy love; and she gave way to this intoxicating
feeling with the most intense delight.

Josephine’s house was now her home in the fullest sense of the
word; she no longer shared her home with her husband, and could now
bestow her undivided love and care upon her child. Louis Napoleon,
the Grand-Constable of France, had been appointed Governor of
Piedmont by Napoleon; and Hortense, owing to her delicate health,
had not been compelled to accompany him, but had been permitted to
remain in her little house in Paris, which she could exchange when
summer came for her husband’s new estate, the castle of
Saint-Leu.

But the tranquillity which Josephine enjoyed with her child in
this charming country-resort was to be of short duration. The
brother and sister-in-law of the emperor could not hope to be
permitted to lead a life of retirement. They were rays of the sun
that now dazzled the whole world; they must fulfil their destiny,
and contribute their light to the ruling sun.

An order of Napoleon recalled the constable, who had returned
from Piedmont a short time before, and repaired to Saint-Leu to see
his son, to Paris. Napoleon had appointed his brother to a
brilliant destiny; the Constable of France was to become a king.
Delegates of the Republic of Batavia, the late Holland, had arrived
in Paris, and requested their mighty neighbor, the Emperor
Napoleon, to give them a king, who should unite them with the
glittering empire, through the ties of blood. Napoleon intended to
fulfil their wishes, and present them with a king, in the person of
his brother Louis.

But Louis was rather appalled than dazzled by this offer, and
refused to accept the proposed dignity. In this refusal he was also
in perfect harmony with his wife, who did all in her power to
strengthen his resolution. Both felt that the crown which it was
proposed to place on their heads would be nothing more than a
golden chain of dependence; that the King of Holland could be
nothing more than the vassal of France; and their personal
relations to each other added another objection to this political
consideration.

In Paris, husband and wife could forget the chain that bound
them together; there they were in the circle of their friends, and
could avoid each other. The great, glittering imperial court served
to separate and reconcile the young couple, who had never forgiven
themselves for having fettered each other in this involuntary
union. In Paris they had amusements, friends, society; while in
Holland they would live in entire dependence on each other, and
hear continually the rattling of the chain with which each had
bound the other to the galley of a union without love.

Both felt this, and both were, therefore, united in the endeavor
to ward off this new misfortune that was suspended over their
heads, in the form of a kingly crown.

But how could they resist successfully the iron will of
Napoleon? Hortense had never had the courage to address Napoleon
directly on the subject of her wishes and petitions, and Josephine
already felt that her wishes no longer exercised the power of
earlier days over the emperor. She therefore avoided interceding
where she was not sure of being successful.

At the outset, Louis had the courage to resist his brother
openly; but Napoleon’s angry glance annihilated his opposition, and
his gentle, yielding nature was forced to succumb. In the presence
of the deputation of the Batavian Republic, that so ardently longed
for a sceptre and crown, Napoleon appealed to his brother Louis to
accept the crown which had been freely tendered him, and to be to
his country a king who would respect and protect its liberties, its
laws, and its religion.

With emotion, Louis Bonaparte declared himself ready to accept
this crown, and to be a good and true ruler to his new country.

And to keep this oath faithfully was from this time the single
and sacred endeavor to which he devoted his every thought and
energy. The people of Holland having chosen him to be their king,
he was determined to do honor to their choice; having been
compelled to give up his own country and nationality, he determined
to belong to his new country with his whole heart and being–to
become a thorough Hollander, as he could no longer remain a
Frenchman.

This heretofore so gentle and passive nature now developed an
entirely new energy; this dreamer, this pale, silent brother of the
emperor, was now suddenly transformed into a bold, self-reliant man
of action, who had fixed his gaze on a noble aim, and was ready to
devote all the powers of his being to its attainment. As King of
Holland, he desired, above all, to be beloved by his subjects, and
to be able to contribute to their welfare and happiness. He studied
their language with untiring diligence, and made himself acquainted
with their manners and customs, for the purpose of making them his
own. He investigated the sources of their wealth and of their
wants, and sought to develop the former and relieve the latter. He
was restless in his efforts to provide for his country, and to
merit the love and confidence which his subjects bestowed on
him.

His wife also exerted herself to do justice to her new and
glittering position, and to wear worthily the crown which she had
so unwillingly accepted. In her drawing-rooms she brought together,
at brilliant entertainments, the old aristocracy and the new
nobility of Holland, and taught the stiff society of that country
the fine, unconstrained tone, and the vivacious intellectual
conversation of Parisian society. It was under Hortense’s fostering
hand that art and science first made their way into the
aristocratic parlors of Holland, giving to their social reunions a
higher and nobler importance.

And Hortense was not only the protectress of art and science,
but also the mother of the poor, the ministering angel of the
unhappy, whose tears she dried, and whose misery she
alleviated–and this royal pair, though adored and blessed by their
subjects, could not find within their palaces the least reflection
of the happiness they so well knew how to confer upon others
without its walls. Between these two beings, so gentle and yielding
to others, a strange antipathy continued to exist, and not even the
birth of a second, and of a third, son could fill up the chasm that
separated them.

And this chasm was soon to be broadened by a new blow of
destiny. Hortense’s eldest, the adopted son of Napoleon, the
presumptive heir to his throne, the child that Napoleon loved so
dearly that he often played with him for hours on the terraces of
St. Cloud, the child Josephine worshipped, because its existence
seemed to assure her own happiness, the child that had awakened the
first feeling of motherly bliss in Hortense’s bosom, the child that
had often even consoled Louis Bonaparte for the unenjoyable present
with bright hopes for the future–the little Napoleon Charles died
in the year 1807, of the measles.

This was a terrific blow that struck the parents, and the
imperial pair of France with equal force. Napoleon’s eyes filled
with tears when this intelligence was brought him, and a cry of
horror escaped Josephine’s lips.

“Now I am lost!” she murmured in a low voice; “now my fate is
decided. He will put me away.”

But after this first egotistical outburst of her own pain, she
hastened to the Hague to weep with her daughter, and bring her away
from the place associated with her loss and her anguish. Hortense
returned with the empress to St. Cloud; while her husband, who had
almost succumbed to his grief, was compelled to seek renewed health
in the baths of the Pyrenees. The royal palace at the Hague now
stood desolate again; death had banished life and joy from its
halls; and, though the royal pair were subsequently compelled to
return to it, joy and happiness came back with them no more.

King Louis had returned from the Pyrenees in a more gloomy and
ill-natured frame of mind than ever; a sickly distrust, a repulsive
irritability, had taken possession of his whole being, and his
young wife no longer had the good-will to bear with his caprices,
and excuse his irritable disposition. They were totally different
in their views, desires, inclinations, and aspirations; and their
children, instead of being a means of reuniting, seemed to estrange
them the more, for each insisted on considering them his or her
exclusive property, and in having them educated according to his or
her views and wishes.

But Hortense was soon to forget her own household troubles and
cares, in the greater misery of her mother. A letter from
Josephine, an agonized appeal to her daughter for consolation,
recalled Hortense to her mother’s side, and she left the Hague and
hastened to Paris.

CHAPTER VII.

PREMONITIONS.

Josephine’s fears, and the prophecies of the French
clairvoyante, were now about to be fulfilled. The crown which
Josephine had reluctantly and sorrowfully accepted, and which she
had afterward worn with so much grace and amiability, with such
natural majesty and dignity, was about to fall from her head.
Napoleon had the cruel courage, now that the dreamed-of future had
been realized, to put away from him the woman who had loved him and
chosen him when he had nothing to offer her but his hopes for the
future. Josephine, who, with smiling courage and brave fidelity,
had stood at his side in the times of want and humiliation, was now
to be banished from his side into the isolation of a glittering
widowhood. Napoleon had the courage to determine that this should
be done, but he lacked the courage to break it to Josephine, and to
pronounce the word of separation himself. He was determined to
sacrifice to his ambition the woman he had so long called his “good
angel;” and he, who had never trembled in battle, trembled at the
thought of her tears, and avoided meeting her sad, entreating
gaze.

But Josephine divined the whole terrible misfortune that hung
threateningly over her head. She read it in the gloomy, averted
countenance of the emperor, who, since his recent return from
Vienna, had caused the door that connected his room with that of
his wife to be locked; she read it in the faces of the courtiers,
who dared to address her with less reverence, but with a touch of
compassionate sympathy; she heard it in the low whispering that
ceased when she approached a group of persons in her parlors; it
was betrayed to her in the covert, mysterious insinuations of the
public press, which attached a deep and comprehensive significance
to the emperor’s journey to Vienna.

She knew that her destiny must now be fulfilled, and that she
was too weak to offer any resistance. But she was determined to act
her part as wife and empress worthily to the end. Her tears should
not flow outwardly, but inwardly to her grief-stricken heart; she
suppressed her sighs with a smile, and concealed the pallor of her
cheeks with rouge. But she longed for a heart to whom she could
confide her anguish, and show her tears, and therefore called her
daughter to her side.

How painful was this reunion of mother and daughter, how many
tears were shed, how bitter were the lamentations Josephine
whispered in her daughter’s ear!

“If you knew,” said she, “in what torments I have passed the
last few weeks, in which I was no longer his wife, although
compelled to appear before the world as such! What glances,
Hortense, what glances courtiers fasten upon a discarded woman! In
what uncertainty, what expectancy more cruel than death, have I
lived and am I still living, awaiting the lightning stroke that has
long glowed in Napoleon’s eyes [15]!”

[15] Josephine’s own words.–Bourrienne, vol.
viii., p. 243.

Hortense listened to her mother’s lamentations with a heart full
of bitterness. She thought of how she had been compelled to
sacrifice her own happiness to that of her mother, of how she had
been condemned to a union without love, in order that the happiness
of her mother’s union might be established on a firm basis. And now
all had been in vain; the sacrifice had not sufficed to arrest the
tide of misfortune now about to bear down her unhappy mother.
Hortense could do nothing to avert it. She was a queen, and yet
only a weak, pitiable woman, who envied the beggar on the street
her freedom and her humble lot. Both mother and daughter stood on
the summit of earthly magnificence, and yet this empress and this
queen felt themselves so poor and miserable, that they looked back
with envy at the days of the revolution–the days in which they had
led in retirement a life of poverty and want. Then, though
struggling with want and care, they had been rich in hopes, in
wishes, in illusions; now, they possessed all that could adorn
life; now millions of men bowed down to them, and saluted them with
the proud word “majesty,” and yet empress and queen were now poor
in hopes and wishes, poor in the illusions that lay shattered at
their feet, and rejoicing only in the one happiness, that of being
able to confide their misery to each other.

A few days after her arrival, the emperor caused Hortense to be
called to his cabinet. He advanced toward her with vivacity, but
before the gaze of her large eyes the glance of the man before whom
the whole world now bowed, almost quailed.

“Hortense,” said he, “we are now called on to decide an
important matter, and it is our duty not to recoil. The nation has
done so much for me and my family, that I owe them the sacrifice
which they demand of me. The tranquillity and welfare of France
require that I shall choose a wife who can give the country an heir
to the throne. Josephine has been living in suspense and anguish
for six months, and this must end. You, Hortense, are her dearest
friend and her confidante; she loves you more than all else in the
world. Will you undertake to prepare your mother for this step? You
would thereby relieve my heart of a heavy burden.”

Hortense had the strength to suppress her tears, and fasten her
eyes on the emperor’s countenance in a firm, determined gaze. His
glance again quailed, as the lion recoils from the angry glance of
a pure, innocent woman. Hortense had the courage to positively
refuse the emperors request.

“How, Hortense!” exclaimed Napoleon with emotion. “You then
refuse my request?”

“Sire,” said she, hardly able longer to restrain her tears,
“sire, I have not the strength to stab my mother to the
heart [16].”

[16] Schelten, vol. ii., p. 45.

And regardless of etiquette, Hortense turned away and left the
emperor’s cabinet, the tears pouring in streams from her eyes.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DIVORCE.

Napoleon made one other attempt to impart to Josephine, through
a third person, the distressing tidings of his determination with
regard to herself. He begged Eugene, the Viceroy of Italy, to come
to Paris, and on his arrival informed him of his intentions and of
his wish. Eugene, like his sister, received this intelligence in
silent submissiveness, but like his sister, he refused to impart to
his mother, tidings that must destroy her happiness forever.

The emperor had finally to make up his mind to impart the
distressing tidings in person.

It was on the 30th of November, 1809. The emperor and empress
dined, as usual, at the same table. His gloomy aspect on entering
the room made Josephine’s heart quake; she read in his countenance
that the fatal hour had come. But she repressed the tears which
were rushing to her eyes, and looked entreatingly at her daughter,
who sat on the opposite side of the table, a deathly pallor on her
countenance.

Not a word was spoken during this gloomy, ominous dinner. The
sighs and half-suppressed moaning that escaped Josephine’s heaving
breast were quite audible. Without, the wind shrieked and howled
dismally, and drove the rain violently against the window-panes;
within, an ominous, oppressive silence prevailed. The commotion of
Nature contrasted, and yet, at the same time, harmonized strangely
with this human silence. Napoleon broke this silence but once, and
that was when, in a harsh voice, he asked the lackey, who stood
behind him, what time it was. Then all was still as before.

At last Napoleon gave the signal to rise from the table, and
coffee was then taken standing. Napoleon drank hastily, and then
set the cup down with a trembling hand, making it ring out as it
touched the table. With an angry gesture he dismissed the
attendants.

“Sire, may Hortense remain?” asked Josephine, almost
inaudibly.

“No!” exclaimed the emperor, vehemently. Hortense made a
profound obeisance, and, taking leave of her mother with a look of
tender compassion, left the room, followed by the rest.

The imperial pair were now alone. And how horrible was this
being left alone under the circumstances; how sad the silence in
which they sat opposite each other! How strange the glance which
the emperor fastened on his wife!

She read in his excited, quivering features the struggle that
moved his soul, but she also read in them that her hour was
come!

As he now approached her, his outstretched hand trembled, and
Josephine shudderingly recoiled.

Napoleon took her hand in his, and laid it on his heart,
regarding her with a long and sorrowful farewell-glance.

“Josephine,” said he, his voice trembling with emotion, “my good
Josephine, you know that I have loved you! To you, and to you
alone, do I owe the only moments of happiness I have enjoyed in
this world. Josephine, my destiny is stronger than my will. My
dearest desires must yield to the interests of France [17].”

[17] The emperor’s own words. See Bourrienne,
vol. iii., p. 344.

“Speak no further,” cried Josephine, withdrawing her hand
angrily–“no, speak no further. I understand you, and I expected
this, but the blow is not the less deadly.”

She could speak no further, her voice failed. A feeling of
despair came over her; the long-repressed storm of agony at last
broke forth. She wept, she wrung her hands; groans escaped her
heaving breast, and a loud cry of anguish burst from her lips. She
at last fainted away, and was thus relieved from a consciousness of
her sufferings.

When she awoke she found herself on her bed, and Hortense and
her physician Corvisart at her side. Josephine stretched out her
trembling arms toward her daughter, who threw herself on her
mother’s heart, sobbing bitterly. Corvisart silently withdrew,
feeling that he could be of no further assistance. It had only been
in his power to recall Josephine to a consciousness of her misery;
but for her misery itself he had no medicine; he knew that her
tears and her daughter’s sympathy could alone give relief.

Josephine lay weeping in her daughter’s arms, when Napoleon came
in to inquire after her condition. As he seated himself at her
bedside, she shrank back with a feeling of horror, her tears ceased
to flow, and her usually so mild and joyous eyes now shot glances
of anger and offended love at the emperor. But love soon conquered
anger. She extended her tremulous hand to Napoleon; the sad, sweet
smile, peculiar to woman, trembled on her lips, and, in a gentle,
touching voice, she said: “Was I not right, my friend, when I
shrank back in terror from the thought of becoming an
empress [18]?”

[18] Josephine’s own narrative. See Bourrienne,
vol. iii., p. 342, et seq.

Napoleon made no reply. He turned away and wept. But these
farewell tears of his love could not change Josephine’s fate; the
emperor had already determined it irrevocably. His demand of the
hand of the Archduchess Marie Louise had already been acceded to in
Vienna. Nothing now remained to be done but to remove Josephine
from the throne, and elevate a new, a legitimate empress, to the
vacant place!

The emperor could not and would not retrace his steps. He
assembled about him all his brothers, all the kings, dukes, and
princes, created by his mighty will, and in the state-chambers of
the Tuileries, in the presence of his court and the Senate, the
emperor appeared; at his side the empress, arrayed for the last
time in all the insignia of the dignity she was about to lay aside
forever.

In a loud, firm voice the emperor declared to the assembly his
determination to divorce himself from his wife; and Josephine, in a
trembling voice, often interrupted by tears, repeated her husband’s
words. The arch-chancellor, Cambacérès, then caused
the appropriate paragraph of the Code Civile to be read,
applied it to the case under consideration, in a short, terse
address, and pronounced the union of the emperor and empress
dissolved.

This ended the ceremony, and satisfied the requirements of the
law. Josephine had now only to take leave of her husband and of the
court, and she did this with the gentle, angelic composure, in the
graceful, sweet manner, which was hers in a degree possessed by few
other women.

As she bowed profoundly to Napoleon, her pale face illumined by
inward emotion, his lips murmured a few inaudible words, and his
iron countenance quivered for an instant with pain. As she then
walked through the chamber, her children, Hortense and Eugene, on
either side, and greeted all with a last soft look, a last
inclination of the head, nothing could be heard but weeping, and
even those who rejoiced over her downfall, because they hoped much
from the new empress and the new dynasty, were now moved to tears
by this silent and yet so eloquent leave-taking.

The sacrifice was accomplished. Napoleon had sacrificed his
dearest possession to ambition; he had divorced himself from
Josephine.

On the same day she left the Tuileries to repair to Malmaison,
her future home–to Malmaison, that had once been the paradise, and
was now to be the widow’s seat, of her love.

Josephine left the court, but the hearts of those who
constituted this court did not leave her. During the next few weeks
the crowds of the coming and going on the road from Paris to
Malmaison presented the appearance of a procession; the equipages
of all the kings and princes who were sojourning in Paris, and of
all the nobles and dignitaries of the new France, were to be seen
there. Even the Faubourg St.-Germain, that still preserved its
sympathy for the Bourbons, repaired to the empress at Malmaison.
And this pilgrimage was made by the poor and humble, as well as by
the rich and great. All wished to say to the empress that they
still loved and honored her, and that she was still enthroned in
their hearts, although her rule on the throne was at an end.

The whole people mourned with Josephine and her children. It was
whispered about that Napoleon’s star would now grow pale; that,
with Josephine, his good angel had left him, and that the future
would avenge her tears.

CHAPTER IX.

THE KING OF HOLLAND.

While Josephine was weeping over her divorce at Malmaison,
Hortense was seeking one for herself. A divorce which her mother
lamented as a misfortune, because she still loved her husband,
would have conferred happiness upon Hortense, who never had loved
her husband. Once again in harmony with her husband, Hortense
entreated the emperor to permit them to be divorced, and the king
united his entreaties with those of the queen.

But Napoleon was unrelenting. His family should not appear
before the people as disregarding the sanctity of the marriage
bond. For state reasons he had separated from his wife, and for
state reasons he could not give his consent to the dissolution of
the union of his brother and step-daughter. They must, therefore,
continue to drag the chain that united them; and they did, but with
angry hearts.

Louis returned to Holland in a more depressed state of mind than
ever; while Hortense and her two children, in obedience to
Napoleon’s express command, remained in Paris for some time. They
were to attend the festivities that were soon to take place at the
imperial court in honor of the marriage of the emperor with the
Archduchess Marie Louise of Austria. The daughter of the divorced
empress, with the emperor’s sisters, had been selected to carry the
train of the new empress on the marriage-day. Napoleon wished to
prove to France and to all Europe that there was no other law in
his family than his will, and that the daughter of Josephine had
never ceased to be his obedient daughter also. Napoleon wished,
moreover, to retain near his young wife, in order that she might
have at her side a gentle and tender mentor, the queen who had
inherited Josephine’s grace and loveliness, and who, in her noble
womanhood, would set a good example to the ladies of his court.
Hortense mutely obeyed the emperor’s command; on the 1st of April,
1810, the day of the union of Marie Louise with the emperor, she,
together with his sisters, bore the train of the new empress. She
alone did this without making any resistance, while it was only
after the most violent opposition to Napoleon’s command that his
sisters, Queen Caroline of Naples, the Duchess Pauline of
Guastalla, and the Grand-duchess Elise of Tuscany, consented to
undergo the humiliation of walking behind their new sovereign as
humble subjects. And the emperor’s sisters were not the only
persons who regarded the imperial pair with displeasure on the day
of the marriage celebration. Only a small number of the high
dignitaries of the Church had responded to the invitation of the
grand-master of ceremonies, and attended the marriage celebration
in the chapel in the Tuileries.

The emperor, who did not wish to punish his sisters for their
opposition, could at least punish the absence of the cardinals, and
he did this on the following day. He exiled those cardinals who had
not appeared in the chapel, forbade them to appear in their red
robes thenceforth, and condemned them to the black penitent’s
dress.

The people of Paris also received the new empress with a languid
enthusiasm. They regarded the new “Austrian” with gloomy
forebodings; and when, on the occasion of the ball given by Prince
Schwartzenberg in honor of the imperial marriage, a short time
afterward, the fearful fire occurred that cost so many human lives
and destroyed so much family happiness, the people remembered with
terror that other misfortune that had occurred on the day of the
entry of Marie Antoinette into Paris, and called this fire an
earnest of the misfortunes which the “Austrian” would bring upon
France and the emperor.

While Hortense was compelled to attend the festivities given in
honor of the new empress in Paris, a dark storm-cloud was gathering
over her husband’s head, that was soon to threaten his life and his
crown.

When Louis, at the emperor’s command, accepted the crown of
Holland, he had solemnly sworn to be a faithful ruler to his new
people, and to devote his whole being to their welfare. He was too
honest a man not to keep this oath sacredly. His sole endeavor was
to make such arrangements, and provide such laws, as the welfare
and prosperity of Holland seemed to require, without in the least
considering whether these laws were conducive to the interests of
France or not. He would not regard Holland as a province dependent
upon France, of which he was the governor, but as an independent
land that had chosen him to be its free and independent king. But
Napoleon did not view the matter in the same light; in his eyes it
was sacrilege for the kingdom of Holland to refuse to conform
itself in every respect to the interests of its powerful neighbor,
France.

When Napoleon invested his brother with the crown of Holland, he
had charged him “to be a good king to his people, but at the same
time to remain a good Frenchman, and protect the interests of
France.” Louis had, however, endeavored to become a good Hollander;
and when the interests of France and Holland came into conflict,
the king took the side of his new country, and acted as a
Hollander. He was of the opinion that the welfare of Holland
depended on its commerce and industry only, and that it could only
be great through its commercial importance; he therefore reduced
the army and navy, making merchantmen of the men-of-war, and
peaceful sailors of their warlike seamen.

Napoleon, however, regarded this conversion with dismay, and
angrily reproached the King of Holland for “disarming whole
squadrons, discharging seamen, and disorganizing the army, until
Holland was without power, both on land and water, as though
warehouses and clerks were the material elements of power.”
Napoleon reproached the king still more bitterly, however, for
having re-established commercial relations with England, for having
raised the blockade for Holland which France had established
against England, and for having permitted the American ships, that
had been banished from the ports of France, to anchor quietly in
those of Holland.

The emperor demanded of the King of Holland that he should
conform himself to his will and to the interests of France
unconditionally; that he should immediately break off all
commercial relations between Holland and England; that he should
re-establish a fleet, of forty ships-of-the-line, seven frigates,
and seven brigs, and an army of twenty-five thousand men, and that
he should abolish all the privileges of the nobility that were
contrary to the constitution.

King Louis had the courage to resist these demands, in the name
of Holland, and to refuse to obey instructions, the execution of
which must necessarily have affected the material interests of
Holland most injuriously.

Napoleon responded to this refusal with a declaration of war.
The ambassador of Holland received his passport, and a French army
corps was sent to Holland, to punish the king’s insolence.

But the misfortune that threatened Holland had called the king’s
whole energy into activity, and Napoleon’s anger and threats were
powerless to break his resolution. As the commander of the French
troops, the Duke of Reggio, approached Amsterdam, to lay siege to
that city and thereby compel the king to yield, Louis determined
rather to descend from his throne than to submit to the unjust
demands of France. He, therefore, issued a proclamation to his
people, in which he told them that he, convinced that he could do
nothing more to promote their welfare, and, on the contrary,
believing that he was an obstacle in the way of the restoration of
friendly relations between his brother and Holland, had determined
to abdicate in favor of his two sons, Napoleon Louis and Charles
Louis Napoleon. Until they should attain their majority the queen,
in conformity with the constitution, was to be regent. He then took
leave of his subjects, in a short and touching address. He now
repaired, in disguise, and under the name of Count de St. Leu,
through the states of his brother Jerome, King of Westphalia, and
through Saxony to Töplitz.

Here he learned that Napoleon, far from respecting and
fulfilling the conditions of his abdication, had united the kingdom
of Holland with the empire. The king published a protest against
this action of the emperor, in which, in the name of his son and
heir, Napoleon Louis, he denounced this act of the emperor as a
totally unjustifiable act of violence, and demanded that the
kingdom of Holland should be re-established, in all its integrity,
declaring the annexation of Holland to France to be null and void,
in the name of himself and his sons.

Napoleon responded to this protest by causing the king to be
informed by the French ambassador in Vienna that unless he returned
to France by the 1st of December, 1810, he should be regarded and
treated as a rebel, who dared to resist the head of his family and
violate the constitution of the empire.

Louis neither answered nor conformed to this threat. He repaired
to Grätz, in Styria, and lived there as a private gentleman,
beloved and admired, not only by those who came in contact with him
there, but enjoying the esteem of all Europe, which he had won by
the noble and truly magnanimous manner in which he had sacrificed
his own grandeur to the welfare of his people. Even his and
Napoleon’s enemies could not withhold from the King of Holland the
tribute of their respect, and even Louis XVIII. said of him: “By
his abdication, Louis Bonaparte has become a true king; in
renouncing his crown, he has shown himself worthy to wear it. He is
the first monarch who has made so great a sacrifice but of pure
love for his people; others have also relinquished their thrones,
but they did it when weary of power. But in this action of the King
of Holland there is something truly sublime–something that was not
duly appreciated at first, but which will be admired by posterity,
if I mistake not, greatly [19].”

[19] Mémoires d’une Femme de
Qualité, vol. v., p. 47.

In Grätz, Louis Bonaparte, Count de St. Leu, lived a few
peaceful, tranquil years, perhaps the first years of happiness he
had enjoyed in his short and hitherto stormy life. Occupied with
work and study, he easily forgot his former grandeur and
importance. As it had once been his ambition to become a good king,
it was now his ambition to become a good writer. He published his
romance Marie, and, encouraged by the success which it met with in
his circle of friends, he also gave his poems to the public–poems
whose tender and passionate language proved that this so often
misunderstood, so often repulsed, and, therefore, so timid and
distrustful heart, could warm with a tenderness of love that Marie
Pascal, the beautiful artist of the harp, could hardly have had the
cruelty to withstand.

But a day came when Louis Bonaparte closed his ear to all these
sweet voices of happiness, of peace, and of love, to listen only to
the voice of duty, that appealed to him to return to France, to his
brother’s side. While the sun of fortune shone over Napoleon, the
king, who had voluntarily descended from a throne, remained in
obscurity; but when the days of misfortune came upon the emperor,
there could be but one place for his brave and faithful brother,
and that was at Napoleon’s side.

Madame de St. Elme, who was at Grätz at this time, and who
witnessed the farewell scene between Louis Bonaparte and the
inhabitants of Grätz, says: “On the day when Austria so
unexpectedly sundered its alliance with France, King Louis felt the
necessity of abandoning an asylum, for which he would henceforth
have been indebted to the enemies of France, and hastened to claim
of the great unjust man who had repulsed him, the only place
commensurate with the dignity of his character, the place at his
side.

“This was a subject of profound sorrow and regret for the
inhabitants of Grätz, and of all Styria, for there was not a
pious or useful institution, or a poor family in Styria, that had
not been the object of his beneficence, and yet it was well known
that the king who had descended from his throne so hastily, and
with so little preparation, had but small means, and denied himself
many of the enjoyments of life, in order that he might lend a
helping hand to others. He was entreated, conjured with tears, to
remain, but he held firm to his resolution. And when the horses,
that they had at first determined to withhold from him, were at
last, at his earnest and repeated solicitation, provided, the
people unharnessed these horses from his carriage, in order that
they might take their places, and accompany him to the gates of the
city with this demonstration of their love. This departure had the
appearance of a triumphal procession; and this banished king,
without a country, was greeted with as lively plaudits on leaving
his place of exile as when he mounted his throne [20].”

[20] Mémoires d’une contemporaine, vol.
iv., p. 377.

CHAPTER X.

JUNOT, THE DUKE D’ABRANTES.

While the faithful were rallying around Napoleon to render
assistance to the hero in his hour of peril–while even his brother
Louis, forgetting the mortifications and injuries he had sustained
at the emperor’s hands, hastened to his side, there was one of the
most devoted kept away from him by fate–one upon whom the emperor
could otherwise have depended in life and death.

This one was his friend and comrade-in-arms, Junot, who,
descended from an humble family, had by his merit and heroism
elevated himself to the rank of a Duke d’Abrantes. He alone failed
to respond when the ominous roll of the war-drum recalled all
Napoleon’s generals to Paris. But it was not his will, but fate,
that kept him away.

Junot–the hero of so many battles, the chevalier without fear
and without reproach, the former governor of Madrid, the present
governor of Istria and Illyria–Junot was suffering from a
visitation of the most fearful of all diseases–his brain was
affected! The scars that covered his head and forehead, and
testified so eloquently to his gallantry, announced at the same
time the source of his disease. His head, furrowed by
sabre-strokes, was outwardly healed, but the wounds had affected
his brain.

The hero of so many battles was transported into a madman. And
yet, this madman was still the all-powerful, despotic ruler of
Istria and Illyria. Napoleon, in appointing him governor of these
provinces, had invested him with truly royal authority. Knowing the
noble disposition, fidelity, and devotion of his brother-in-arms,
he had conferred upon him sovereign power to rule in his stead.
There was, therefore, no one who could take the sceptre from his
hand, and depose him from his high position. Napoleon had placed
this sceptre in his hand, and he alone could demand it of him. Even
the Viceroy of Italy–to whom the Chambers of Istria appealed for
help in their anxiety–even Eugene, could afford them no relief. He
could only say to them: “Send a courier to the emperor, and await
his reply.”

But at that time it was not so easy a matter to send couriers a
distance of a thousand miles; then there were no railroads, no
telegraphs. The Illyrians immediately sent a courier to the
emperor, with an entreaty for their relief, but the Russian
proverb, “Heaven is high, and the emperor distant,” applied to them
also! Weeks must elapse before the courier could return with the
emperor’s reply; until then, there was no relief; and until then,
there was no authority to obey but the Duke d’Abrantes, the poor
madman!

No other authority, no institution, had the right to place
itself in his stead, or to assume his prerogatives for an instant
even, without violating the seal of sovereignty that Napoleon had
impressed on the brow of his governor!

Napoleon, whose crown was already trembling on his head, who was
already so near his own fall, still possessed such gigantic power
that its reflection sufficed to protect, at a distance of a
thousand miles from the boundaries of France, the inviolability of
a man who had lost his reason, and no longer had the power of
reflection and volition.

How handsome, how amiable, how chivalrous, had Junot been in his
earlier days! How well he had known how to charm beautiful women in
the drawing-rooms, soldiers on the battle-field, and knights at the
tourney! In all knightly accomplishments he was the master–always
and everywhere the undisputed victor and hero. These
accomplishments had won the heart of Mademoiselle de Premont. The
daughter of the proud baroness of the Faubourg St. Germain had
joyfully determined, in spite of her mother’s dismay, to become the
wife of the soldier of the republic, of Napoleon’s comrade-in-arms.
Although Junot had no possession but his pay, and no nobility but
his sword and his renown, this nevertheless sufficed to win him the
favor of the daughter of this aristocratic mother–of the daughter
who was yet so proud of being the last descendant of the Comneni.
Napoleon, who loved to see matrimonial alliances consummated
between his generals and his nobility and the old legitimist
nobility of France, rewarded the daughter of the Faubourg St.
Germain richly for the sacrifice she had made for his
comrade-in-arms, in giving up her illustrious name, and her
coat-of-arms, to become the wife of a general without ancestors and
without fortune. He made his friend a duke, and the Duchess
d’Abrantes had no longer cause to be ashamed of her title; the
descendant of the Comneni could content herself with the homage
done her as the wife of the governor of Lisbon, contented with the
laurels that adorned her husband’s brow–laurels to which he added
a new branch, but also new wounds, on every battle-field.

The consequences of these wounds had veiled the hero’s laurels
with mourning-crape, and destroyed the domestic happiness of the
poor duchess forever. She had first discovered her husband’s sad
condition, but she had known how to keep it a secret from the rest
of the world. She had, however, refused to accompany the duke to
Illyria, and had remained in Paris, still hoping that the change of
climate and associations might restore him to health.

But her hopes were not to be realized. The attacks of madness,
that had hitherto occurred at long intervals only, now became more
frequent, and were soon no longer a secret. All Illyria knew that
its governor was a madman, and yet no one dared to oppose his will,
or to refuse to obey his commands; all still bowed to his will, in
humility and silent submissiveness, hopefully awaiting the return
of the courier who had been dispatched to Napoleon at Paris.

“But heaven is high, and the emperor distant!” And much evil
could happen, and did happen, before the courier returned to
Trieste, where Junot resided. The poor duke’s condition grew worse
daily; his attacks of madness became more frequent and more
dangerous, and broke out on the slightest provocation.

On one occasion a nightingale, singing in the bushes beneath his
window, had disturbed his rest; on the following morning he caused
the general alarm to be sounded, and two battalions of Croats to be
drawn up in the park, to begin a campaign against the poor
nightingale, who had dared to disturb his repose.

On another occasion, Junot fancied he had discovered a grand
conspiracy of all the sheep of Illyria; against this conspiracy he
brought the vigilance of the police, all the means of the
administration, and the whole severity of the law, into requisition
for its suppression.

At another time, he suddenly became desperately enamoured of a
beautiful Greek girl, who belonged to his household. Upon her
refusal to meet his advances favorably, a passionate desperation
took possession of Junot, and he determined to set fire to his
palace, and perish with his love in the flames. Fortunately, his
purpose was discovered, and the fire he had kindled stifled at
once.

He would suddenly be overcome with a passionate distaste for the
grandeur and splendor that surrounded him, and long to lay aside
his brilliant position, and fly to the retirement of an humble and
obscure life.

It was his dearest wish to become a peasant, and be able to live
in a hut; and, as there was no one who had the right to divest him
of his high dignities and grant his desire, he formed the
resolution to divest himself of this oppressive grandeur, by the
exercise of his own fulness of power, and to withdraw himself from
the annoyances imposed upon him by his high position.

Under the pretence of visiting the provinces, he left Trieste,
to lead for a few weeks an entirely new life–a life that seemed,
for a brief period, to soothe his excited mind. He arrived, almost
incognito, in the little city of Gorizia, and demanded to be
conducted to the most unpretending establishment to which humble
and honest laborers were in the habit of resorting for refreshment
and relaxation. He was directed to an establishment called the
Ice-house, a place to which poor daily laborers resorted, to repose
after the labors of the day, and refresh themselves with a glass of
beer or wine.

In this Ice-house the governor of Illyria now took up his abode.
He seldom quitted it, either by day or night; and here, like
Haroun-al-Raschid, he took part in the harmless merriment of happy
and contented poverty. And here this poor man was to find a last
delight, a last consolation; here he was to find a last friend.

This last friend of the Duke d’Abrantes–this Pylades of the
poor Orestes–was–a madman!–a poor simpleton, of good family, who
was so good-humored and harmless that he was allowed to go at
large, and free scope given to his innocent freaks. He, however,
possessed a kind of droll, pointed wit, which he sometimes brought
to bear most effectively, sparing neither rank nor position. The
half-biting, half-droll remarks of this Diogenes of Istria was all
that now afforded enjoyment to the broken-down old hero. It was
with intense delight that he heard the social grandeur and
distinctions that had cost him so dear made ridiculous by this
half-witted fellow, whose peculiar forte it was to jeer at the pomp
that surrounded the governor, and imitate French elegance in a
highly-burlesque manner; and when he did this, his poor princely
friend’s delight knew no bounds.

On one occasion, after the poor fellow had been entertaining him
in this manner, the Duke d’Abrantes threw himself, in his
enthusiasm, in his friend’s arms, and invested him with the
insignia of the Legion of Honor, by hanging around his neck the
grand-cross of this order hitherto worn by himself. The emperor had
given Junot authority to distribute this order to the deserving
throughout the provinces of Illyria and Istria, and the governor
himself having invested this mad Diogenes with the decoration,
there was no one who was competent to deprive him of it. For weeks
this mad fool was to be seen in the streets of Gorizia, parading
himself like a peacock, with the grand-cross of the honorable order
of the Emperor Napoleon, and, at the same time, uttering the most
pointed and biting bon mots at the expense of his own
decoration. The duke often accompanied him in his wanderings
through the town, sometimes laughing loudly at the fool’s jests,
sometimes listening with earnest attention, as though his
utterances were oracles. Thus this strange couple passed the time,
either lounging through the streets together, or seated side by
side on a stone by the way, engaged in curious reflections on the
passers-by, or philosophizing over the emptiness of all glory and
grandeur, and over the littleness and malice of the world,
realizing the heart-rending, impressive scenes between Lear and his
fool, which Shakespeare’s genius has depicted.

After weeks of anxious suspense, the imperial message, relieving
Junot of his authority, and placing the Duke of Otranto in his
place, at last arrived. The poor Duke d’Abrantes left Illyria, and
returned to France, where, in the little town of Maitbart, after
long and painful struggles, he ended, in sadness and solitude, a
life of renown, heroism, and irreproachable integrity.

CHAPTER XI.

LOUIS NAPOLEON AS A VENDER OF VIOLETS.

Gradually, the brilliancy of the sun that had so long dazzled
the eyes of all Europe began to wax pale, and the luminous star of
Napoleon to grow dim among the dark clouds that were gathering
around him. Fortune had accorded him all that it could bestow upon
a mortal. It had laid all the crowns of Europe at his feet, and
made him master of all the monarchies and peoples. Napoleon’s
antechamber in Erfurt and in Dresden had been the rendezvous of the
emperors, kings, and princes of Europe, and England alone had never
disguised its hostility beneath the mask of friendship, and bent
the knee to a hated and feared neighbor. Napoleon, the master of
Europe, whom emperors and kings gladly called “brother,” could now
proudly remember his past; he had now risen so high that he no
longer had cause to deny his humble origin; this very lowliness had
now become a new triumph of his grandeur.

On one occasion, during the congress at Erfurt, all the
emperors, kings, and princes, were assembled around Napoleon’s
table. He occupied the seat between his enthusiastic friend the
Emperor of Russia, and his father-in-law, the Emperor of Austria.
Opposite them sat the King of Prussia, his ally, although Napoleon
had deprived him of the Rhine provinces; and the Kings of Bavaria
and Würtemberg, to whom Napoleon had given crowns, whose
electorate and duchy he had converted into kingdoms, and of whom
the first had given his daughter in marriage to Napoleon’s adopted
son, Eugene, and the second his daughter to Napoleon’s brother
Jerome. There were, further, at the table, the King of Saxony and
the Grand-duke of Baden, to the latter of whom Napoleon had given
the hand of Josephine’s niece, Stephanie de Beauharnais. All these
were princes, “by the grace of God,” of brilliant and haughty
dynasties; and in their midst sat the son of the advocate of
Corsica–he, the Emperor of France–he, upon whom the gaze of all
these emperors and kings was fastened in admiration and respect.
Napoleon’s extraordinary memory had just been the topic of
conversation, and the emperor was about to explain how he had
brought it to such a state of perfection.

“While I was still a sub-lieutenant,” began Napoleon, and
instantly his hearers let fall their gaze, and looked down in shame
at their plates, while a cloud of displeasure passed over the brow
of the emperor of Austria at this mention of the low origin of his
son-in-law. Napoleon observed this, and for an instant his eagle
glance rested on the embarrassed countenances that surrounded him;
he then paused for a moment. He began again, speaking with sharp
emphasis: “When I still had the honor of being a sub-lieutenant,”
said he, and the Emperor Alexander of Russia, the only one of the
princes who had remained unembarrassed, laid his hand on the
emperor’s shoulder, smiled approvingly, and listened with interest
and pleasure to the emperor’s narrative of the time when he “still
had the honor of being a sub-lieutenant [21].”

[21] Bossuet, Mémoires, vol.
V.

Napoleon, as we have said, had already mounted so high that for
him there was no longer a summit to be attained, and now his
heart’s last and dearest wish had been granted by destiny. His
wife, Marie Louise, had given birth to a son on the 20th of May,
1811, and the advent of the little King of Rome had fulfilled the
warmest desires of Napoleon and of France. The emperor now had an
heir; Napoleon’s dynasty was assured.

Festivities were therefore held in honor of this event, in the
Tuileries, at the courts, of the Queen of Naples, of the
Grand-duchess de Guastalla, of all the dukes of the empire, and of
the Queen of Holland.

Portrait of Queen Hortense.

Hortense was ill and in pain; a nervous headache, that she had
been suffering from for some time, betrayed the secret of the pain
and grief she had so long concealed from observation. Her cheeks
had grown pale, and her eyes had lost their lustre. Her mother wept
over her lost happiness in Malmaison, and, when Hortense had wept
with and consoled her mother, she was compelled to dry her eyes and
hasten to the Tuileries, and appear, with a smiling countenance,
before her who was now her empress and her mother’s happy
rival.

But Hortense had accepted her destiny, and was determined to
demean herself as became her own and her mother’s dignity. She
endeavored to be a true and sincere friend to the young empress,
and fulfil the emperor’s wishes, and to give brilliant
entertainments in honor of the King of Rome, in spite of the pain
it must cost her. “The emperor wills it, the emperor requires it;”
that was sufficient for all who were about him, and it was
sufficient for her. Her mother had gone because it was his will,
she had remained because it was his will, and she now gave these
entertainments for the same reason. But there was an element of
sadness and gloom even in these festivities of the carnival of
1813; the presence of so many cripples and invalids recalled the
memory of the reverses of the past year. At the balls there was a
great scarcity of young men who could dance; incessant wars had
made the youth of France old before their time, and had converted
vigorous men into cripples.

Her heart filled with dark forebodings, Hortense silently
prepared herself against the days of misfortune which she knew must
inevitably come. When these days should come, she wished to be
ready to meet them with a brave heart and a resolute soul, and she
also endeavored to impress on the minds of her two beloved sons the
inconstancy of fortune, in order that they might look misfortune
boldly in the face. She had no compassion with the tender youth of
these boys, who were now eight and six years old; no compassion,
because she loved them too well not to strive to prepare them for
adversity.

One day the Duchess of Bassano gave a ball in honor of the
queen, and Hortense, although low-spirited and indisposed, summoned
her resolution to her aid, and arrayed herself for the occasion.
Her blond hair, that reached to her feet when unbound, was dressed
in the ancient Greek style, and adorned with a wreath of flowers,
not natural flowers, however, but consisting of Hortensias in
diamonds. Her dress was of pink-crape embroidered with Hortensias
in silver. The hem of her dress and its train was encircled with a
garland of flowers composed of roses and violets. A bouquet of
Hortensias in diamonds glittered on her bosom, and her necklace and
bracelets consisted of little diamond Hortensias. In this rich and
tasteful attire, a present sent her by the Empress Josephine the
day before, Hortense entered the parlor where the ladies and
gentlemen of her court awaited her, brilliantly arrayed for the
occasion.

The parlor, filled with these ladies glittering with diamonds,
and with these cavaliers in their rich, gold-embroidered uniforms,
presented a brilliant spectacle. The queen’s two sons, who came
running into the room at this moment to bid their “bonne petite
maman” adieu, stood still for an instant, dazzled by this
magnificence, and then timidly approached the mother who seemed to
them a queen from the fairy-realm floating in rosy clouds. The
queen divined the thoughts of her boys, whose countenances were for
her an open book in which she read every emotion.

She extended a hand to each of her children, and led them to a
sofa, on which she seated herself, taking the youngest, Louis
Napoleon, who was scarcely six years old, in her lap, while his
elder brother, Napoleon Louis, stood at her side, his curly head
resting on Hortense’s shoulder, gazing tenderly into the pale,
expressive face of his beautiful mother.

“I am very prettily dressed to-day, am I not, Napoleon?” said
Hortense, laying her little hand, that sparkled with diamonds, on
the head of her eldest son. “Would you like me less if I were poor,
and wore no diamonds, but merely a plain black dress? Would you
love me less then?”

“No, maman!” exclaimed the boy, almost angrily, and
little Louis Napoleon, who sat in his mother’s lap, repeated in his
shrill little voice: “No, maman!”

The queen smiled. “Diamonds and dress do not constitute
happiness, and we three would love each other just as much if we
had no jewelry, and were poor. But tell me, Napoleon, if you had
nothing, and were entirely alone in the world, what would you do
for yourself?”

“I would become a soldier,” cried Napoleon, with sparkling eyes,
“and I would fight so bravely that I should soon be made an
officer.”

“And you, Louis, what would you do to earn your daily
bread?”

The little fellow had listened earnestly to his brother’s words,
and seemed to be thinking over them still. Perhaps he felt that the
knapsack and musket were too heavy for his little shoulders, and
that he was, as yet, too weak to become a soldier.

“I,” said he, after a pause, “I would sell bouquets of violets,
like the little boy who stands at the gates of the Tuileries, and
from whom we buy our flowers every day.”

The ladies and cavaliers, who had listened to this curious
conversation in silence, now laughed loudly at this naive reply of
the little prince.

“Do not laugh, ladies,” said the queen, earnestly, as she now
arose; “it was no jest, but a lesson that I gave my children, who
were so dazzled by jewelry. It is the misfortune of princes that
they believe that everything is subject to them, that they are made
of another stuff than other men, and have no duties to perform.
They know nothing of human suffering and want, and do not believe
that they can ever be affected by anything of the kind. And this is
why they are so astounded, and remain so helpless, when the hand of
misfortune does strike them. I wish to preserve my sons from
this [22].”

[22] The queen’s own words.

She then stooped and kissed her boys, who, while she and her
brilliant suite were driving to the Tuileries, busied their little
heads, considering whether it was easier to earn one’s bread as a
soldier, or by selling violets at the gates of the Tuileries, like
the little beggar-boy.

CHAPTER XII.

THE DAYS OF MISFORTUNE.

The round of festivities with which the people of France
endeavored to banish the shadow of impending misfortune, was soon
to be abruptly terminated. The thunder of the cannon on the
battle-fields of Hanau and Leipsic silenced the dancing-music in
the Tuileries; and in the drawing-rooms of Queen Hortense, hitherto
devoted to music and literature, the ladies were now busily engaged
in picking lint for the wounded who were daily arriving at the
hospitals of Paris from the army. The declaration of war of Austria
and Russia had aroused France from its haughty sense of
invincibility. All felt that a crisis was at hand. All were
preparing for the ominous events that were gathering like
storm-clouds over France. Each of the faithful hastened to assume
the position to which honor and duty called him. And it was in
response to such an appeal that Louis Bonaparte now returned from
Grätz to Paris; he had heard the ominous tones of the voice
that threatened the emperor, and wished to be at his side in the
hour of danger.

It was not as the wife, but in the spirit of a Frenchwoman and a
queen, that Hortense received the intelligence of her husband’s
return. “I am delighted to hear it,” said she; “my husband is a
good Frenchman, and he proves it by returning at the moment when
all Europe has declared against France. He is a man of honor, and
if our characters could not be made to harmonize, it was probably
because we both had defects that were irreconcilable.

“I,” added she, with a gentle smile, “I was too proud, I had
been spoiled, and was probably too deeply impressed with a sense of
my own worth; and this defect is not conducive to pleasant
relations with one who is distrustful and low-spirited. But our
interests were always the same, and his hastening to France, to
enroll himself with all his brother Frenchmen, for the defence of
his country, is worthy of the king’s character. It is only by doing
thus that we can testify our gratitude for the benefits the people
have conferred upon our family [23].”

[23] Cochelet, Mémoires sur la reine
Hortense, vol. i., p. 167.

In the first days of January, 1814, the news that the enemy had
crossed the boundaries of France, and that the Austrians, Russians,
and Prussians, were marching on Paris, created a panic throughout
the entire city. For the first time, after so many years of
triumph, France trembled for its proud army, and believed in the
possibility of defeat.

In the Tuileries, also, gloom and dejection ruled the hour for
the first time; and while, when the army had heretofore gone forth,
the question had been, “When shall we receive the first
intelligence of victory?” there were now only mute, inquiring
glances bent on the emperor’s clouded countenance.

On the 24th of January, Napoleon left Paris, in order to repair
to the army. The empress, whom he had made regent, giving her a
council, consisting of his brothers and the ministers, as a
support–the empress had taken leave of him in a flood of tears,
and Queen Hortense, who had alone been present on this occasion,
had been compelled to remain for some time with the empress, in
order to console and encourage her.

But Hortense was far from feeling the confidence which she
exhibited in the presence of the empress and of her own court. She
had never believed in the duration of these triumphs and of this
fortune; she had always awaited the coming evil in silent
expectation, and she was therefore now ready to face it bravely,
and to defend herself and her children against its attacks. She
therefore was calm and self-possessed, while the entire imperial
family was terror-stricken, while all Paris was in a panic, while
the fearful intelligence, “The Cossacks are coming, the Cossacks
are marching on Paris!” was overrunning the city. “The Grand-duke
Constantine has promised his troops that they shall warm themselves
at the burning ruins of Paris, and the Emperor Alexander has sworn
that he will sleep in the Tuileries.”

Nothing was now dreamed of but plundering, murder, and rapine;
people trembled not only for their lives, but also for their
property, and hastened to bury their treasures, their jewelry,
their gold and silver, to secure it from the rapacious hands of the
terrible Cossacks. Treasures were buried in cellars, or hid away in
the walls of houses. The Duchess de Bassano caused all her valuable
effects to be put in a hidden recess, and the entrance to the same
to be walled up and covered with paper. There were among these
valuable effects several large clocks, in golden cases, that were
richly studded with precious stones, but it had unfortunately been
forgotten to stop them, so that for the next week they continued to
strike the hours regularly, and thereby betrayed to the neighbors
the secret the duchess had so anxiously endeavored to conceal.

But the cry, “The Cossacks are coming!” was not the only
alarm-cry of the Parisians. Another, and a long-silent cry, was now
heard in Paris–a strange cry, that had no music for the ear of the
imperialist, but one that, to the royalist, had a sweet and
familiar sound. This cry was, “The Count de Lille!” or, as the
royalists said, “King Louis XVIII.” The royalists no longer
whispered this name, but proclaimed it loudly and with enthusiasm,
and even those of them who had attached themselves to the imperial
court, and played a part at the same, now dared to remove their
masks a little, and show their true countenance.

Madame Ducayla, one of the most zealous royalists, although
attached to the court society of the Tuileries, had gone to
Hartwell, to convey to him messages of love and respect in the name
of all the royalists of Paris, and to tell him that they had now
begun to smooth the way for his return to France and the throne of
his ancestors. She had returned with authority to organize the
conspiracy of the royalists, and to give them the king’s sanction.
Talleyrand, the minister of Napoleon, the glittering weathercock in
politics, had already experienced a change in disposition, in
consequence of the shifting political wind, and when Countess
Ducayla, provided with secret instructions for Talleyrand from
Louis XVIII., entered his cabinet and said in a loud voice, “I come
from Hartwell, I have seen the king, and he has instructed me–” he
interrupted her in loud and angry tones, exclaiming: “Are you mad,
madame? You dare to confess such a crime to me?” He had, however,
then added in a low voice: “You have seen him, then? Well, I am his
most devoted servant [24].”

[24] Mémoires d’une femme de
qualité, vol. i., p. 133.

The royalists held meetings and formed conspiracies with but
little attempt at concealment, and the minister of police,
Fouché, whose eyes and ears were always on the alert, and
who knew of everything that occurred in Paris, also knew of these
conspiracies of the royalists; he did not prevent them, however,
but advised caution, endeavoring to prove to them thereby the deep
reverence which he himself experienced for the unfortunate royal
family.

In the midst of all this confusion and anxiety, Queen Hortense
alone preserved her composure and courage, and far from
endeavoring, like others, to conceal and secure her treasures,
jewelry, and other valuables, she determined to make no change or
reduction whatever in her manner of living; she wished to show the
Parisians that the confidence of the imperial family in the emperor
and his invincibility was not to be shaken. She therefore continued
to conduct her household in truly royal style, although she had
received from the exhausted state treasury no payment of the
appanage set apart for herself and children for a period of three
months. But she thought little of this; her generous heart was
occupied with entirely different interests than those of her own
pecuniary affairs.

She wished to inspire Marie Louise, whom the emperor had
constituted empress-regent on his departure for the army, with the
courage which she herself possessed. She conjured her to show
herself worthy of the confidence the emperor had reposed in her at
this critical time, and to adopt firm and energetic measures. When,
on the 28th of March, the terror-inspiring news was circulated that
the hostile armies were only five leagues from Paris, and while the
people were flying from the city in troops, Hortense hastened to
the Tuileries to conjure the empress to be firm, and not to leave
Paris. She entreated Marie Louise, in the name of the emperor, her
husband, and the King of Rome, her son, not to heed the voice of
the state council, who, after a long sitting, had unanimously
declared that Paris could not be held, and that the empress, with
her son and her council, should therefore leave the capital.

But Marie Louise had remained deaf to all these pressing and
energetic representations, and the queen had not been able to
inspire her young and weak sister-in-law with her own
resolution.

“My sister,” Hortense had said to her, “you will at least
understand that by leaving Paris now you paralyze its defence, and
thereby endanger your crown, but I see that you are resigned to
this sacrifice.”

“It is true,” Marie Louise had sadly replied. “I well know that
I should act differently, but it is too late. The state council has
decided, and I can do nothing!”

In sadness and dejection Hortense had then returned to her
dwelling, where Lavalette, Madame Ney, and the ladies of her court,
awaited her.

“All is lost,” said she, sadly. “Yes, all is lost. The empress
has determined to leave Paris. She lightly abandons France and the
emperor. She is about to depart.”

“If she does that,” exclaimed General Lavalette, in despair,
“then all is really lost, and yet her firmness and courage might
now save the emperor, who is advancing toward Paris by forced
marches. After all this weighing and deliberating, they have
elected to take the worst course they could choose! But, as this
has finally been determined on, what course will your majesty now
pursue?”

“I remain in Paris,” said the queen, resolutely; “as I am
permitted to be mistress of my own actions, I am resolved to remain
here and share the fortunes of the Parisians, be they good or evil!
This is at least a better and worthier course than to incur the
risk of being made a prisoner on the public highway.”

Now that she had come to a decision, the queen exhibited a
joyous determination, and her mind recovered from its depression.
She hastened to dispatch a courier to Malmaison to the Empress
Josephine, now forgotten and neglected by all, to conjure her to
leave for Novara at once. She then retired to her bedchamber to
seek the rest she so much needed after so many hours of
excitement.

But at midnight she was aroused from her repose to a sad
awakening. Her husband, with whom she had held no kind of
intercourse since his return, had now, in the hour of danger,
determined to assert his marital authority over his wife and
children. He wrote the queen a letter, requiring her to leave Paris
with her children, and follow the empress.

Hortense replied with a decided refusal. A second categoric
message from her husband was the response. He declared that if she
should not at once conform to his will, and follow the empress with
her children, he would immediately take his children into his own
custody, by virtue of his authority as husband and father.

At this threat, the queen sprang up like an enraged lioness from
her lair. With glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes she commanded that
her children should be at once brought to her, and then, pressing
her two boys to her heart with passionate tenderness, she
exclaimed: “Tell the king that I shall leave the city within the
hour!”

CHAPTER XIII.

THE ALLIES IN PARIS.

The anxiety of motherly love had effected what neither the
departure of the empress nor the news of the approach of the
Cossacks could do. Hortense had taken her departure. She had
quitted Paris, with her children and suite, which had already begun
to grow sensibly smaller, and arrived, after a hurried flight,
endangered by bands of marauding Cossacks, in Novara, where the
Empress Josephine, with tears of sorrow and of joy alike, pressed
her daughter to her heart. Although her own happiness and grandeur
were gone, and although the misfortunes of the Emperor
Napoleon–whom she still dearly loved–oppressed her heart,
Josephine now had her daughter and dearest friend at her side, and
that was a sweet consolation in the midst of all these misfortunes
and cares.

At Novara, Hortense received the intelligence of the fall of the
empire, of the capitulation of Paris, of the entrance of the
allies, and of the abdication of Napoleon.

When the courier sent by the Duke of Bassano with this
intelligence further informed the Empress Josephine that the island
of Elba had been assigned Napoleon as a domicile, and that he was
on the point of leaving France to go into exile, Josephine fell,
amid tears of anguish, into her daughter’s arms, crying: “Hortense,
he is unhappy, and I am not with him! He is banished to Elba! Alas!
but for his wife, I would hasten to his side, to share his
exile!”

While the empress was weeping and lamenting, Hortense had
silently withdrawn to her apartments. She saw and fully appreciated
the consequences that must ensue to the emperor’s entire family,
from his fall; she already felt the mortifications and insults to
which the Bonapartes would now be exposed from all quarters, and
she wished to withdraw herself and children from their influence.
She formed a quick resolve, and determined to carry it out at once.
She caused Mademoiselle de Cochelet, one of the few ladies of her
court who had remained faithful, to be called, in order that she
might impart to her her resolution.

“Louise,” said she, “I intend to emigrate. I am alone and
defenceless, and ever threatened by a misfortune that would be more
cruel than the loss of crown and grandeur–the misfortune of seeing
my children torn from me by my husband. My mother can remain in
France–her divorce has made her free and independent; but I bear a
name that will no longer be gladly heard in France, now that the
Bourbons are returning. I have no other fortune than my diamonds.
These I shall sell, and then go, with my children, to my mother’s
estate in Martinique. I lived there when a child, and have retained
a pleasant remembrance of the place. It is undoubtedly hard to be
compelled to give up country, mother, and friends; but one must
face these great strokes of destiny courageously. I will give my
children a good education, and that shall be my consolation.”

Mademoiselle de Cochelet burst into tears, kissed the queen’s
extended hand, and begged so earnestly that she might be permitted
to accompany her, that Hortense at last gave a reluctant consent.
It was arranged between them that Louise should hasten to Paris, in
order to make the necessary preparations for the queen’s long
journey; and she departed on this mission, under the protection of
the courier, on the following morning.

How changed and terrible was the aspect Paris presented on her
arrival! At the gate through which they entered Cossacks stood on
guard; the streets were filled with Russian, Austrian, and Prussian
soldiery, at whose side the proud ladies of the Faubourg St.
Germain were to be seen walking, in joyous triumph, bestowing upon
the vanquishers of France as great a devotion as they could have
lavished upon the beloved Bourbons themselves, whose return was
expected in a few days.

A Swedish regiment was quartered in the queen’s dwelling; her
servants had fled; her glittering drawing-rooms now sheltered the
conquerors of France; and in the Tuileries preparations were
already being made for the reception of the Bourbons.

No one dared to pronounce the name of Napoleon. Those who were
formerly his most zealous flatterers were now the most ready to
condemn him. Those upon whom he had conferred the greatest benefits
were now the first to deny him, hoping thereby to wipe out the
remembrance of the benefits they had received. The most zealous
Napoleonists now became the most ardent royalists, and placed the
largest white cockades in their hats, in order that they might the
sooner attract the attention of the new rulers.

But there was still one man who pronounced the name of Napoleon
loudly, and with affectionate admiration, and publicly accorded him
the tribute of his respect.

This one was the Emperor Alexander of Russia. He had loved
Napoleon so dearly, that even the position of hostility which
policy compelled him to assume could not banish from his heart
friendship for the hero who had so long ruled Europe.

Napoleon’s fate was decided; and it was attributable to the
zealous efforts of the czar that the allies had consented to the
emperor’s demands, and appointed him sovereign of the island of
Elba. Now that Alexander could do nothing more for Napoleon, he
desired to make himself useful to his family, at least, and thereby
testify the admiration which he still felt for the fallen
Titan.

The Empress Marie Louise and the little King of Rome had no need
of his assistance. The empress had not availed herself of the
permission of the allies to accompany her husband to Elba, but had
placed herself and son under the protection of her father, the
Emperor of Austria.

The Emperor Alexander therefore bestowed his whole sympathy upon
Napoleon’s divorced wife and her children, the Viceroy of Italy and
the Queen of Holland. He took so great an interest in the queen,
that he declared his intention, in case Hortense should not come to
Paris, of going to Novara to see her, in order to learn from her
own lips in what manner he could serve her, and how she desired
that her future should be shaped.

Count Nesselrode, the emperor’s minister, was also zealous in
his endeavors to serve the queen. The count had long been the
intimate friend of Louise de Cochelet; and, desirous of giving her
a further proof of his friendship, he knew of no better way of
doing so than by rendering a service to Queen Hortense and her
children. Louise informed the count of the queen’s intended
departure for Martinique. Count Nesselrode smiled sadly over this
desperate resolve of a brave mother’s heart, and instructed Louise
to beg the queen to impart to him, through her confidante, all her
wishes and demands, in order that he might lay them before the
emperor.

The queen’s fate was the subject of great sympathy in all
quarters. When, in one of the sessions of the ministers of the
allies, in which the fate of France, of the Bourbons, and of the
Bonapartes, was to be the subject of deliberation, the question of
making some provision for the emperor’s family came up for
consideration, the prince of Benevento exclaimed: “I plead for
Queen Hortense alone; for she is the only one for whom I have any
esteem.” Count Nesselrode added: “Who would not be proud to claim
her as a countrywoman? She is the pearl of her France!” And
Metternich united with the rest in her praise [25].

[25] Cochelet, vol. i., p 279.

But it was in vain that Louise de Cochelet imparted this
intelligence to the queen; the entreaties and representations of
her friends were powerless to persuade Hortense to leave her
retirement and come to Paris.

The following letter of the queen, written to Louise, concerning
her affairs, will testify to her beautiful and womanly sentiments.
This letter is as follows:

“My dear Louise,–You and all my friends write me the same
questions: ‘What do you want? What do you demand?’ I reply to all
of you: I want nothing whatever! What should I desire? Is not my
fate already determined? When one has the strength to form a great
resolution, and when one can firmly and calmly contemplate the idea
of making a journey to India or America, it is unnecessary to
demand any thing of any one. I entreat you to take no steps that I
should be compelled to disavow; I know that you love me, and this
might induce you to do so. I am really not to be pitied; it was in
the midst of grandeur and splendor that I have suffered! I shall
now, perhaps, learn the happiness of retirement, and prefer it to
all the magnificence that once surrounded me. I do not believe I
can remain in France; the lively interest now shown in my behalf
might eventually occasion mistrust. This idea is annihilating; I
feel it, but I shall not willingly occasion sorrow to any one. My
brother will be happy; my mother can remain in her country, and
retain her estates. I, with my children, shall go to a foreign
land, and, as the happiness of those I love is assured, I shall be
able to bear the misfortune that strikes only at my material
interests, but not at my heart. I am still deeply moved and
confounded by the fate that has overtaken the Emperor Napoleon and
his family. Is it true? Has all been finally determined? Write me
on this subject. I hope that my children will not be taken from me;
in that case I should lose all courage. I will so educate them that
they shall be happy in any station of life. I shall teach them to
bear fortune and misfortune with equal dignity, and to seek true
happiness in contentment with themselves. This is worth more than
crowns. Fortunately, they are healthy. Thank Count Nesselrode for
his sympathy. I assure you there are days that are properly called
days of misfortune, and that are yet not without a charm; such are
those that enable us to discern the true sentiments people hold
toward us. I rejoice over the affection which you show me, and it
will always afford me gratification to tell you that I return it.
HORTENSE [26].”

[26] Cochelet, vol. i., pp. 275-277.

CHAPTER XIV.

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN THE QUEEN AND LOUISE DE COCHELET.

In the meanwhile, Hortense was still living with her mother in
Novara, firmly resolved to remain in her retirement, sorrowing over
the fate of the imperial house, but quite indifferent as to her own
fate.

But her friends–and even in misfortune Hortense still had
friends–and above all her truest friend, Louise de Cochelet,
busied themselves all the more about her future, endeavoring to
rescue out of the general wreck of the imperial house at least a
few fragments for the queen.

Louise de Cochelet was still sojourning in Paris, and the
letters which she daily wrote to the queen at Novara, and in which
she informed her of all that was taking place in the city, are so
true a picture of that strange and confused era, that we cannot
refrain from here inserting some of them.

In one of her first letters Louise de Cochelet relates a
conversation which she had had with Count Nesselrode, in relation
to the queen’s future.

“The Bourbons,” she writes, “have now been finally accepted. I
asked Count Nesselrode, whom I have just left: ‘Do you believe that
the queen will be permitted to remain in France? Will the new
rulers consider this proper?’ ‘Certainly,’ he replied, ‘I am sure
of it, for we will make it a condition with them, and without us
they would never have come to the throne at all! It is not the
Bourbons, but it is we, it is all Europe, that arranges and
regulates these matters. I therefore trust that they will never
violate the agreement. Rest assured that the Emperor Alexander will
always support the right.’

“All of these strangers here speak of you, madame, with great
enthusiasm. Metternich, who doubtlessly recollects your great
kindness to his wife and children, inquired after you with lively
interest. Prince Leopold is devotedly attached to yourself and the
Empress Josephine, and ardently desires to be able to serve you
both. Count Nesselrode thinks it would be well for you to write to
the Emperor Alexander, as he takes so warm an interest in your
affairs.

“The old nobility is already much discontented; it considers
itself debased, because it sees itself mixed with so many new
elements.”

“Come to Malmaison with the empress,” she writes a few days
later, “the Emperor Alexander will then go there at once to meet
you; he is anxious to make your acquaintance, and you already owe
him some thanks, as he devotes himself to your interests as though
they were his own. The Duke of Vicenza, who demeans himself so
worthily with regard to the Emperor Napoleon, requests me to inform
you that the future of your children depends on your coming to
Malmaison.

“The Emperor Napoleon has signed an agreement, that secures the
future of all the members of his family; you can remain in France,
and retain your titles. You are to have for yourself and children
an income of four hundred thousand francs.

“It is said here that the Faubourg St. Germain is furious over
the brilliant positions provided for the imperial family and the
empress. This is their gratitude for all her goodness to them.

“You wish to make Switzerland your home. Count Nesselrode thinks
you may be right, that it is a good retreat; but you should not
give up the one you have here, and should in any event retain the
right to return to France.

“Fancy, madame, Count Nesselrode insists on my seeing his
emperor! I have not yet consented, because I do not like to do any
thing without your assent; but I confess I long to make his
acquaintance. I am made quite happy by hearing you so well spoken
of here.

“Count Nesselrode said to me yesterday: ‘Tell the queen that I
shall be happy to fulfil all her wishes, and that I can do so, that
I have the power.’ For great security he wishes to have a future
assured you that shall be independent of the treaty. I do not know
what to say to him. Write to me, and demand something, I conjure
you!”

The queen’s only response to this appeal was a letter addressed
to the Emperor Napoleon, and sent to Count Nesselrode, with the
request that it should be forwarded to its destination.

“It is strange,” wrote Louise de Cochelet in relation to this
matter–“strange that all my efforts to serve you here have had no
other result than your sending a commission to Count Nesselrode to
forward to Fontainebleau a letter addressed to the Emperor
Napoleon. He at first thought I was bringing him the letter he had
solicited for his emperor; but he well knows how to appreciate all
that is noble and great, and as he possesses the most admirable
tact, he thinks the letter cannot well reach the emperor through
him, and will therefore send it to the Duke of Vicenza, at
Fontainebleau, to be delivered by him to the Emperor Napoleon.”

Another letter of Louise de Cochelet is as follows: “I have just
seen Count Nesselrode again; he makes many inquiries concerning
you; the Emperor of Russia now resides on the Elysée
Bourbon. The count tells me a story that is in circulation here,
and has reference to the Empress Marie Louise and the kings her
brothers-in-law. They were about to force her to enter a carriage,
in which they were to continue their journey with her; when she
refused to enter, it is said the King of Westphalia became so
violent that he gave her a little beating. She cried for help, and
General Caffarelli [27], who commanded the guards, came to her
rescue. On the following day she and her son were made prisoners,
and all the crown diamonds in her possession seized by the
authorities; but it seems as though capture was precisely what she
wished.

[27] According to Napoleon’s instructions, his
brothers were to prevent the empress and the King of Rome from
falling into the hands of the enemy. De Baussue narrates this scene
in his memoirs, and it is self-evident that it was not so stormy as
the gossip of Paris portrayed it.

“The Queen of Westphalia has just arrived in Paris; the Emperor
Alexander, her cousin, called on her immediately. It is supposed
that she will return to her father.

“Your brothers future is not yet determined on, but it will
certainly be a desirable and worthy one. There are many intrigues
going on in connection with it, as Count Nesselrode informs me. As
for the kingdom of Naples, it is no longer spoken of. By the
details of the last war with us, narrated to me by the count, I see
that he despises many of our ministers and marshals, and that these
must be very culpable; and yet he tells me that they considered the
result uncertain a week before our overthrow; as late as the 10th
of March they believed that peace had been made with Prussia at
least.

“Do not grieve over the fate of the emperor on the island of
Elba. The emperor selected it himself; the allies would have
preferred any other place.

“All the mails arriving at Paris have been seized by the allies.
Among the letters there was one from the Empress Marie Louise to
her husband. She writes that her son is well, but that on awakening
from a good night’s rest he had cried and told her he had dreamed
of his father; notwithstanding all her coaxing and promises of
playthings, he had, however, refused to tell what he had dreamed of
his father, and that this circumstance had made her uneasy in spite
of her will.

“Prince Leopold resides in the same house with Countess Tascher;
he is incessantly busied with yours and your mother’s affairs; he
at least is not oblivious of the kindness you have both shown him.
I know that it is his intention to speak to the Emperor of Russia,
and then write to you.

“All your friends say that you must consider the interest of
your children, and accept the future offered you. M. de Lavalette
and the Duke of Vicenza are also of this opinion. You lose enough
without this, and you may well permit the victors to return a small
portion of that which they have taken from you, and which is
rightfully yours.

“In short, all your friends demand that you shall repair to
Malmaison as soon as the Emperor Napoleon shall have departed from
Fontainebleau. I am assured that the Emperor Alexander intends to
hunt you up in Novara if you should not come to Malmaison. It will
therefore be impossible to avoid him. Consider that the fate of
your children lies in his hands! In the treaty of Fontainebleau you
and your children were provided for together; this is a great point
for you, and proves how highly you are thought of.

“It is to the Emperor of Russia alone that you owe this; and
when the Duke of Vicenza submitted this article of the treaty to
the Emperor Napoleon for his signature, it met with his entire
approval. Your sole and undivided authority over your children is
thereby acknowledged. You should, therefore, not reject the good
offered you for your children. I do not think it would require much
persuasion to induce others to accept that which is tendered
you.

“Madame Tascher, who has proved herself to be your true friend
and relative, has just had her first interview with the Duke of
Dalberg, the member of the provisional government. She spoke of
you, and I will here give you his response, word for word: ‘She is
considered as being altogether foreign to the Bonaparte family,
because she has separated herself from her husband. She will be the
refuge of her children, who are left to her. She is so dearly
beloved and highly esteemed, that she can be very happy. She can
remain in France, and do whatever she pleases; but she must now
return to Paris.’ Countess Tascher came to me immediately after
leaving the duke, in order to acquaint me with what he had
said.

“Friends and foes alike say this about you: ‘Those who are not
delighted with what is being done for the queen are bad people! And
as for her, what has she to regret in all this? Only the good she
has done! Now, the world will dare to love her, and to express
their love; she has so few wishes, she is so perfect!’

“In short, it would seem almost that the people are pleased with
the misfortune that places you in the right light, and they say,
‘She is far more worthy in herself than when surrounded by a
glittering court!’

“Yesterday I saw the new arrivals from Fontainebleau, M. de
Lascour and M. de Lavoestine. They came to me to learn where you
were to be found, and intend visiting you at once, either at Novara
or at Malmaison, as the case may be. These two gentlemen are true
knights. ‘No matter what she is to become,’ said they; ‘we can now
show our devotion, without incurring the risk of being considered
flatterers.’

“The last two weeks at Fontainebleau have been a period of the
greatest interest. All these young men, together with M. de
Labédoyère and M. de Montesquieu, wished to accompany
the emperor; but he forbade their doing so, and, in taking leave of
them, appealed to them to remain, and to continue to serve their
country zealously.

“Lascour and Lavoestine, together with many other officers of
the army, are much displeased with the generals who left
Fontainebleau without taking leave of the emperor.

“Upon taking leave of the Empress Josephine, the emperor is
reported to have said: ‘She was right; my separation from her has
brought misfortune upon my head.’

“It is said that the Duchess of Montebello will leave the
Empress Marie Louise.”

But all these entreaties and flatteries, and these appeals to a
mother’s heart, were, as yet, powerless to break the queen’s pride.
She still considered it more worthy and becoming to remain away
from the city in which the ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain were
celebrating the orgies of their victorious royalism with the
soldiers of the allied armies. Instead of yielding to Louise de
Cochelet’s entreaties, the queen wrote her the following
letter:

“My dear Louise,–My resolution gives you pain! You all accuse
me of childish waywardness. You are unjust! My mother can follow
the Duke de Vicenza’s counsel; she will go to Malmaison, but I
remain here, and I have good reasons for doing so. I cannot
separate my interests from those of my children. It is they, it is
their nearest relatives, who are being sacrificed by all that is
taking place, and I am, therefore, determined not to approach those
who are working our ruin. I must be saddened by our great
misfortune, and I will appear so, and abstain from approaching
those who would still consider me a supplicant, even though I
should demand nothing of them.

“I can readily believe that the Emperor Alexander is kindly
disposed toward me; I have heard much good of him, even from the
Emperor Napoleon. Although I was once anxious to make his
acquaintance, I at this moment have no desire to see him. Is he not
our vanquisher? In their hearts, your friends must all approve of
my determination, whatever they may say. I find retirement
congenial. When you have seen enough of your friends, you will
return to me. I am suffering in my breast, and shall perhaps go to
some watering-place. I do not know whether it is due to the air of
Novara, but since I have been here I cannot breathe. My friends
maintain that it is due to the mental shocks resulting from the
great events that have transpired; but they are in error; death has
spared us all, and the loss of a glittering position is not the
greatest loss one can sustain. What personal happiness do I lose?
My brother will, I trust, be well and suitably provided for, and he
will be no longer exposed to danger. He must be very uneasy on our
account, and yet I dare not write to him, as my letters would
probably never reach him; if an opportunity should present itself,
please let him know that we are no longer surrounded by dangers.
Adieu. I entreat you once more to undertake nothing in my behalf. I
fear your impetuosity and friendship, and yet I love to be able to
count on you. My children are well. My mother opposes all my plans;
she asserts that she has need of me; but I shall, nevertheless, go
to her who must now be more unhappy than all of us.

HORTENSE.”

She of whom Hortense thought that she must be more unhappy than
all of them, was the wife of Napoleon, Marie Louise, who had now
left Blois, to which place she had gone as empress-regent, and
repaired to Rambouillet, to await the decision of the allies with
regard to the future of herself and son. It was certainly one of
the most peculiar features of this period, so rich in extraordinary
occurrences, to see the sovereigns of Europe, the overthrown rulers
of France, and those who were about to grasp the sceptre once more,
thrown confusedly together in Paris, and within a circuit of some
fifty miles around that city: a Bourbon in the Tuileries, Bonaparte
at Fontainebleau, his wife and his son at Rambouillet, the divorced
empress at Novara, the Emperors of Russia and Austria, and the King
of Prussia, at Paris; moreover, a whole train of little German
potentates and princes, and the Napoleonic kings and princes, who
were all sojourning in Paris or its vicinity.

The Queen of Holland considered it her duty, in these days of
misfortune and danger, to stand at the side of her whom Napoleon
had commanded them to consider the head of the family, and to serve
faithfully in life and death. Hortense therefore determined to go
to the Empress Marie Louise at Rambouillet, in accordance with the
emperor’s commands.

This determination filled the hearts of the queen’s friends with
sorrow; and Louise had no sooner received the letter in which the
queen announced her impending departure, than she hastened to
reply, imploring her to abandon this intention. M. de Marmold, the
queen’s equerry, departed with all speed to bring this letter to
the queen at Louis, where she was to pass the night, and to add his
entreaties to those of Louise.

“M. de Marmold, the bearer of this letter, will deliver it to
you at Louis, if he arrives there in good time,” wrote Louise de
Cochelet. “If you go to Rambouillet, you will destroy your own
position, and also that of your children; this is the conviction of
all your friends. I was so happy, for Prince Leopold had written
you, in the name of the Emperor Alexander, and begged you to come
to Malmaison. You could not have avoided seeing him, as he would
even have gone to Novara. Instead, however, of returning with the
Empress Josephine, you are on the point of uniting yourself with a
family that has never loved you. With them you will experience
nothing but distress, and they will not be thankful for the
sacrifice you are about to make. You will regret this step when it
is too late. I conjure you, do not go to Rambouillet!

“Your course will touch those to whom you are going but little,
and will displease the allies, who take so much interest in
you.

“The empress is a thorough Austrian at heart, and the visits of
members of her husband’s family are regarded with disfavor. I tell
you this at the request of Prince Leopold and Madame de
Caulaincourt. The latter, if you do not come here soon, will go to
you, in spite of her great age. She conjures you not to go to
Rambouillet, as your lady of honor, and the friend of your mother;
she even forbids your doing so.

“When I informed Prince Leopold of your intention to go to the
Empress Marie Louise at Rambouillet, his eyes filled with tears.
‘It is beautiful to be proud,’ said he, ‘but she can no longer
retreat; she is already under obligations to the Emperor of Russia,
who effected the treaty of the 11th of April. I await her reply, to
deliver it to the emperor: she owes him a reply.’

“I passed an hour with our good friend Lavalette this morning.
This excellent man knew nothing of the measures we have been taking
to persuade you to return, and said to me: ‘How fortunate it would
be for her and her children, if the emperor should desire to see
her!’ Do come, do come; show your friends this favor; we shall all
be in despair if you go to Rambouillet!

“Prince Leopold will write you a few lines. He could not be more
devoted to yourself and the Empress Josephine if you were his
mother and his sister. Count Tschernitscheff has been to see me.
The Emperor of Austria arrives here to-morrow, and the new French
princes and the king will soon follow. What a change!

“You must see the Emperor of Russia, because he so much desires
it. I conjure you, on my knees, to do me this favor! The emperor
conducts himself so handsomely that every one is constrained to
respect him; one forgets that he is the conqueror, and can only
remember him as the protector. He seems to be the refuge of all
those who have lost all, and are in distress. His conduct is
admirable; he receives none but business calls, and such others as
are absolutely necessary. The fair ladies of the Faubourg St.
Germain cannot boast of his attention to them, and this does him
all the more credit, he being, as it is said, very susceptible to
the fair sex. He told Prince Leopold that he intended going to
Novara, adding: ‘You know that I love and esteem this family;
Prince Eugene is the prince of knights; I esteem the Empress
Josephine, Queen Hortense, and Prince Eugene, all the more from the
fact that her demeanor toward the Emperor Napoleon has been so much
more noble than that of so many others, who should have shown him
more devotion.’ How could it be possible not to respect a man of
such nobility of character? I trust you will soon have an
opportunity of judging of this yourself. For God’s sake,
return!

LOUISE.”

But these entreaties were all in vain. M. de Marmold arrived at
Louis in time to see the queen; he delivered the letters of her
friends, and did all that lay in his power to persuade her not to
go to Rambouillet.

But Hortense held firmly to her intention. “You are right,” said
she. “All this is true; but I shall, nevertheless, go to the
Empress Marie Louise, for it is my duty to do so. If unpleasant
consequences should result from this step for me, I shall pay no
attention to them, but merely continue to do my duty. Of all of us,
the Empress Marie Louise must be the most unhappy, and must stand
most in need of consolation; it is, therefore, at her side that I
can be of most use, and nothing can alter my determination.”

CHAPTER XV.

QUEEN HORTENSE AND THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER.

Queen Hortense had gone to Rambouillet, in spite of the
entreaties and exhortations of her friends. The Empress Marie
Louise had, however, received her with an air of embarrassment. She
had told the queen that she was expecting her father, the Emperor
of Austria, and that she feared the queen’s presence might make him
feel ill at ease. Moreover, the young empress, although dejected
and grave, was by no means so sorrowful and miserable as Hortense
expected. The fate of her husband had not wounded the heart of
Marie Louise as deeply as that of the Empress Josephine.

Hortense felt that she was not needed there; that the presence
of the Emperor of Austria would suffice to console the Empress of
France for her husband’s overthrow. She thought of Josephine, who
was so deeply saddened by Napoleon’s fate; and finding that,
instead of consoling, she only embarrassed the Empress Marie
Louise, she hastened to relieve her of her presence.

And now, at last, Hortense bowed her proud, pure heart beneath
the yoke of necessity; now, at last, she listened to the prayers
and representations of her mother, who had returned to Malmaison,
and of her friends, and went to Paris. It had been too often urged
upon her that she owed it to her sons to secure their fortune and
future, not to overcome her personal repugnance, and conform
herself to this new command of duty.

She had, therefore, returned to Paris for a few days, and taken
up her abode in her dwelling, whose present dreariness recalled,
with sorrowful eloquence, the grandeur of the past.

These drawing-rooms, once the rendezvous of so many kings and
princes, were now desolate, and bore on their soiled floors the
footprints of the hostile soldiers who had recently been quartered
there. At the czar’s solicitation, they had now been removed; but
the queen’s household servants had also left it. Faithless and
ungrateful, they had turned their backs on the setting sun, and
fled from the storm that had burst over the head of their
mistress.

The Emperor Alexander hastened to the queen’s dwelling as soon
as her arrival in Paris was announced, the queen advancing to meet
him as far as the outermost antechamber.

“Sire,” said she, with a soft smile, “I have no means of
receiving you with due ceremony; my antechambers are deserted.”

The appearance of this solitary woman, this queen without a
crown, without fortune, and without protection and support, who
nevertheless stood before him in all the charms of beauty and
womanhood, a soft smile on her lips, made a deep impression on the
emperor, and his eyes filled with tears.

The queen observed this, and hastened to say, “But what of that?
I do not think that antechambers filled with gold-embroidered
liveries would make those who come to see me happier, and I esteem
myself happy in being able to do you the honors of my house alone.
I have, therefore, only won.”

The emperor took her hand, and, while conducting the queen to
her room, conversed with her, with that soft, sad expression
peculiar to him, lamenting with bitter self-reproaches almost that
he was himself, in part, to blame for the misfortunes that had
overtaken the emperor and his family. He then conjured her to
abandon her intention of leaving France, and to preserve herself
for her mother and friends. He told her that, in abandoning her
country, her friends, and her rights, she would be guilty of a
crime against her own children, against her two sons, who were
entitled to demand a country and a fortune at her hands.

The queen, overcome at last by these earnest and eloquent
representations, declared her readiness to remain in France, if the
welfare of her sons should require it.

“Until now,” said she, “I had formed all my resolutions with
reference to misfortune. I was entirely resigned, and I never
thought of the possibility of any thing fortunate happening for me;
and even yet, I do not know what I can desire and demand. I am,
however, determined to accept nothing for myself and children that
would be unworthy of us, and I do not know what that could be.”

With an assuring smile, the emperor extended his hand to the
queen. “Leave that to me,” said he. “It is, then, understood, you
are to remain in France?”

“Sire, you have convinced me that the future of my sons requires
it. I shall therefore remain.”

CHAPTER XVI.

THE NEW UNCLES.

Malmaison, to which place Hortense had returned after a short
stay in Paris, and where the Empress Josephine was also sojourning,
was a kind of focus for social amusement and relaxation for the
sovereigns assembled in Paris. Each of these kings and princes
wished to pay his homage to the Empress Josephine and her daughter,
and thereby, in a measure, show the last honors to the dethroned
emperor.

On one occasion, when the King of Prussia, with his two sons,
Prince Frederick William (the late king) and William, had come to
Malmaison, and announced their desire to call on the empress, she
sent them an invitation to a family dinner, at which she also
invited the Emperor of Russia and his two brothers to attend.

The emperor accepted this invitation, and on entering, with the
young archdukes, the parlor in which the Duchess de St. Leu was
sitting, he took his two brothers by the hand and conducted them to
Hortense.

“Madame,” said he, “I confide my brothers to your keeping. They
are now making their début in society. My mother
fears their heads may be turned by the beauties of France; and in
bringing them to Malmaison, where so many charming persons are
assembled, I am certainly fulfilling my promise to preserve them
from such a fate but poorly.”

“Reassure yourself, sire,” replied the queen, gravely; “I will
be their mentor, and I promise you a motherly surveillance.”

The emperor laughed, and, pointing to Hortense’s two sons, who
had just been brought in, he said: “Ah, madame, it would be much
less dangerous for my brothers if they were of the age of these
boys.”

He approached the two boys with extended hands, and while
conversing with them in a kindly and affectionate manner, addressed
them with the titles “monseigneur” and “imperial highness.”

The children regarded him wonderingly, for the Russian emperor
was the first to address the little Napoleon and his younger
brother, Louis Napoleon, with these imposing titles. The queen had
never allowed them to be called by any but their own names. She
wished to preserve them from vain pride, and teach them to depend
on their own intrinsic merit.

Shortly afterward the King of Prussia and his sons were
announced, and the emperor and his brothers left the young princes,
and advanced to meet the king.

While the emperor and the king were exchanging salutations,
Hortense’s two sons inquired of their governess the names of the
gentlemen who had just entered.

“It is the King of Prussia,” whispered the governess; “and the
gentleman who has just spoken with you is the Emperor of
Russia.”

The little Louis Napoleon regarded the tall figures of those
princes thoughtfully for a moment, by no means impressed by their
imposing titles. He was so accustomed to see his mother surrounded
by kings, and these kings had always been his uncles.

“Mademoiselle,” said the little Louis Napoleon, after a short
pause, “are these two new gentlemen, the emperor and the king, also
our uncles, like all the others and must we call them so?”

“No, Louis, you must simply call them ‘sire.'”

“But,” said the boy, after a moment’s reflection, “why is it
that they are not our uncles?”

The governess withdrew with the two children to the back of the
parlor, and explained to them, in a low voice, that the emperors
and kings then in Paris, far from being their uncles, were their
vanquishers.

“Then,” exclaimed the elder boy, Napoleon Louis, his face
flushing with anger, “then they are the enemies of my uncle, the
emperor! Why did this Emperor of Russia embrace us?”

“Because he is a noble and generous enemy, who is endeavoring to
serve you and your mother in your present misfortune. Without him
you would possess nothing more in the world, and the fate of your
uncle, the emperor, would be much sadder than it already is.”

“Then we ought to love this emperor very dearly?” said the
little Louis Napoleon.

“Certainly; for you owe him many thanks.”

The young prince regarded the emperor, who was conversing with
the empress Josephine, long and thoughtfully.

When the emperor returned to Malmaison on the following day, and
while he was sitting at his mother’s side in the garden-house,
little Louis Napoleon, walking on tiptoe, noiselessly approached
the emperor from behind, laid a small glittering object in his
hand, and ran away.

The queen called him back, and demanded with earnest severity to
know what he had done.

The little prince returned reluctantly, hanging his head with
embarrassment, and said, blushing deeply: “Ah, maman, it is
the ring Uncle Eugene gave me. I wished to give it to the emperor,
because he is so good to my maman!”

Deeply touched, the emperor took the boy in his arms, seated him
on his knees, and kissed him tenderly.

Then, in order to give the little prince an immediate reward, he
attached the ring to his watch-chain, and swore that he would wear
the token as long as he lived [28].

[28] Cochelet, vol. i., p. 355.

CHAPTER XVII.

DEATH OF THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE.

Since Napoleon’s star had grown pale, and himself compelled to
leave France as an exile, life seemed to Josephine also to be
enveloped in a gloomy mourning-veil; she felt that her sun had set,
and night come upon her. But she kept this feeling a profound
secret, and never allowed a complaint or sigh to betray her grief
to her tenderly-beloved daughter. Her complaints were for the
emperor, her sighs for the fate of her children and grandchildren.
She seemed to have forgotten herself; her wishes were all for
others. With the pleasing address and grace of which age could not
deprive her, she did the honors of her house to the foreign
sovereigns in Malmaison, and assumed a forced composure, in which
her soul had no share. She would have preferred to withdraw with
her grief to the retirement of her chambers, but she thought it her
duty to make this sacrifice for the welfare of her daughter and
grandchildren; and she, the loving mother, could do what Hortense’s
pride would not permit–she could entreat the Emperor Alexander to
take pity on her daughter’s fate.

When, therefore, the czar had finally succeeded in establishing
her future, and had received the letters-patent which secured to
the queen the duchy of St. Leu Alexander hastened to Malmaison, to
communicate this good news to the Empress Josephine.

She did not reward him with words, but with gushing tears, as
she extended to the emperor both hands. She then begged him, with
touching earnestness, to accept from her a remembrance of this
hour.

The emperor pointed to a cup, on which a portrait of Josephine
was painted, and begged her to give him that.

“No, sire,” said she; “such a cup can be bought anywhere.
But I wish to give you something that cannot be had anywhere else
in the world, and that will sometimes remind you of me. It is a
present that I received from Pope Pius VII., on the day of my
coronation. I present you with this token in commemoration of the
day on which you bring my daughter the ducal crown, in order that
it may remind you of mother and daughter alike–of the dethroned
empress and of the dethroned queen.”

This present, which she now extended to the emperor with a
charming smile, was an antique cameo, of immense size, and so
wondrously-well executed that the empress could well say its equal
was nowhere to be found in the world. On this cameo the heads of
Alexander the Great and of his father, Philip of Macedonia, were
portrayed, side by side; and the beauty of the workmanship, as well
as the size of the stone, made this cameo a gem of inestimable
value. And for this reason the emperor at first refused to accept
this truly imperial present, and he yielded only when he perceived
that his refusal would offend the empress, who seemed to be more
pale and irritable than usual.

Josephine was, in reality, sadder than usual, for the royal
family of the Bourbons had on this day caused her heart to bleed
anew. Josephine had read an article in the journals, in which, in
the most contemptuous and cruel terms, attention was called to the
fact that the eldest son of the Queen of Holland had been interred
in the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, and that the Minister Blacas had
now issued an order to have the coffin removed from its
resting-place, and buried in an ordinary grave-yard.

Hortense, who had read this article, had hastened to Paris, in
order that she might herself superintend the removal of the body of
her beloved child from Notre-Dame, and its reinterment in the
Church of St. Leu.

While she informed the emperor of this new insult, Josephine’s
whole figure trembled, and a deathly pallor overspread her
countenance. Josephine lacked the strength to conceal her
sufferings to-day, for the first time; Hortense was not present,
and she might therefore, for once, allow herself the sad
consolation of showing, bereft of its smile and its paint, the pale
countenance, which death had already lightly touched.

“Your majesty is ill!” exclaimed the emperor, in dismay.

With a smile, which brought tears to Alexander’s eyes, Josephine
pointed to her breast, and whispered: “Sire, I have received the
death-wound here!”

Yes, she was right; she had received a fatal wound, and her
heart was bleeding to death.

Terrified by Josephine’s condition, the emperor hurried to
Paris, and sent his own physician to inquire after her condition.
When the latter returned, he informed the emperor that Josephine
was dangerously ill, and that he did not believe her recovery
possible.

He was right, and Alexander saw the empress no more! Hortense
and Eugene, her two children, held a sad watch at their mother’s
bedside throughout the night. The best physicians were called in,
but these only confirmed what the Russian physician had said–the
condition of the empress was hopeless. Her heart was broken! With
strong hands, she had held it together as long as her children’s
welfare seemed to require. Now that Hortense’s future was also
assured–now that she knew that her grandchildren would, at least,
not be compelled to wander about the world as exiled beggars–now
Josephine withdrew her hands from her heart, and suffered it to
bleed to death.

On the 29th of May, 1814, the Empress Josephine died, of an
illness which had apparently lasted but two days. Hortense had not
heard her mother’s death-sigh; when she re-entered the room with
Eugene, after her mother had received the sacrament from
Abbé Bertrand–when she saw her mother, with outstretched
arms, vainly endeavoring to speak to them–Hortense fainted away at
her mother’s bedside, and the empress breathed her last sigh in
Eugene’s arms.

The intelligence of the death of the empress affected Paris
profoundly. It seemed as though all the city had forgotten for a
day that Napoleon was no longer the ruler of France, and that the
Bourbons had reascended the throne of their fathers. All Paris
mourned; for the hearts of the French people had not forgotten this
woman, who had so long been their benefactress, and of whom each
could relate the most touching traits of goodness, of generosity,
and of gentleness.

Josephine, now that she was dead, was once more enthroned as
empress in the hearts of the French people and thousands poured
into Malmaison, to pay their last homage to their deceased empress.
Even the Faubourg St. Germain mourned with the Parisians; these
haughty and insolent royalists, who had returned with the Bourbons,
may, perhaps, for a moment, have recalled the benefits which the
empress had shown them, when, as the mighty Empress of France, she
employed the half of her allowance for the relief of the emigrants.
They had returned without thinking of the thanks they owed their
forgotten benefactress; now that she was dead, they no longer
withheld the tribute of their admiration.

“Alas!” exclaimed Madame Ducayla, the king’s friend; “alas! how
interesting a lady was this Josephine! What tact, what goodness!
How well she knew how to do everything! And she shows her tact and
good taste to the last, in dying just at this moment!”

Immediately after the death of the empress, Eugene had conducted
the queen from the death-chamber, almost violently, and had taken
her and her children to St. Leu. The body of the empress was
interred in Malmaison, and followed to the grave by her two
grandchildren only. Grief had made both of her children severely
ill, and the little princes were followed, not by her relatives,
but by the Russian General Von Sacken, who represented the emperor,
and by the equipages of all those kings and princes who had helped
to hurl the Bonapartes from their thrones and restore the
Bourbons.

The emperor passed his last night in France, before leaving for
England, at St. Leu; and, on taking leave of Eugene and Hortense,
who, at the earnest solicitation of her brother, had left her room
for the first time since her mother’s death, for the purpose of
seeing the emperor, he assured them of his unchangeable friendship
and attachment. As he knew that, among those whom he strongly
suspected, Pozzo di Borgo [29], the ambassador he left behind him in
Paris, was an irreconcilable enemy of Napoleon and his family, he
had assigned to duty at the embassy as attaché, a
gentleman selected for this purpose by Louise de Cochelet–M. de
Boutiakin–and it was through him that the emperor directed that
the letters and wishes of the queen and of her faithful young lady
friend should be received and answered.

[29] Upon receiving the intelligence of the death
of the emperor at St. Helena, Pozzo di Borgo said: “I did not kill
him, but I threw the last handful of earth on his coffin, in order
that he might never rise again.”

A few days later Eugene also left St. Leu and his sister
Hortense, to return, with the King of Bavaria, to his new home in
Germany. It was not until his departure that Hortense felt to its
full extent the gloomy loneliness and dreary solitude by which she
was surrounded. She had not wept over the downfall of all the
grandeur and magnificence by which she had formerly been
surrounded; she had not complained when the whirlwind of fate
hurled to the ground the crowns of all her relations, but had bowed
her head to the storm with resignation, and smiled at the loss of
her royal titles; but now, as she stood in her parlor at St. Leu
and saw none about her but her two little boys and the few ladies
who still remained faithful–now, Hortense wept.

“Alas!” she cried, bursting into tears, as she extended her hand
to Louise de Cochelet, “alas! my courage is at an end! My mother is
dead, my brother has left me, the Emperor Alexander will soon
forget his promised protection, and I alone must contend, with my
two children, against all the annoyances and enmities to which the
name I bear will subject me! I fear I shall live to regret that I
allowed myself to be persuaded to abandon my former plan. Will the
love I bear my country recompense me for the torments which are in
store for me?”

The queen’s dark forebodings were to be only too fully realized.
In the great and solemn hour of misfortune, Fate lifts to mortal
vision the veil that conceals the future, and, like the Trojan
prophetess, we see the impending evil, powerless to avert it.

BOOK III.

THE RESTORATION.

CHAPTER I.

THE RETURN OF THE BOURBONS.

On the 12th of April, Count d’Artois, whom Louis XVIII. had sent
in advance, and invested with the dignity of a lieutenant-general
of France, made his triumphal entry into Paris. At the gates of the
city, he was received by the newly-formed provisional government,
Talleyrand at its head; and here it was that Count d’Artois replied
to the address of that gentleman in the following words: “Nothing
is changed in France, except that from to-day there will be one
Frenchman more in the land.” The people received him with cold
curiosity, and the allied troops formed a double line for his
passage to the Tuileries, at which the ladies of the Faubourg St.
Germain, adorned with white lilies and white cockades, received him
with glowing enthusiasm. Countess Ducayla, afterward the well-known
friend of Louis XVIII., had been one of the most active instruments
of the restoration, and she it was who had first unfolded again in
France the banner of the Bourbons–the white flag. A few days
before the entrance of the prince, she had gone, with a number of
her royalist friends, into the streets, in order to excite the
people to some enthusiasm for the legitimate dynasty. But the
people and the army had still preserved their old love for the
emperor, and the proclamation of Prince Schwartzenberg, read by
Bauvineux in the streets, was listened to in silence. True, the
royalists cried, “Vive le roi!” at the end of this reading,
but the people remained indifferent and mute.

This sombre silence alarmed Countess Ducayla; it seemed to
indicate a secret discontent with the new order of things. She felt
that this sullen people must be inflamed, and made to speak with
energy and distinctness. To awaken enthusiasm by means of words and
proclamations had been attempted in vain; now the countess
determined to attempt to arouse them by another means–to astonish
them by the display of a striking symbol–to show them the white
flag of the Bourbons!

She gave her companion, Count de Montmorency, her handkerchief,
that he might wave it aloft, fastening it to the end of his cane,
in order that it should be more conspicuous. This handkerchief of
Countess Ducayla, fastened to the cane of a Montmorency, was the
first royalist banner that fluttered over Paris, after a banishment
of twenty years. The Parisians looked at this banner with a kind of
reverence and shuddering wonder; they did not greet it with
applause; they still remained silent, but they nevertheless
followed the procession of royalists, who marched to the
boulevards, shouting, “Vive le roi!” They took no part in
their joyful demonstration, but neither did they attempt to prevent
it.

This demonstration of the royalists, and particularly of the
royalist ladies, transcended the bounds of propriety, and of their
own dignity. In their fanaticism for the legitimate dynasty, they
gave the allies a reception, which almost assumed the character of
a declaration of love, on the part of the fair ladies of the
Faubourg St. Germain, for all the soldiers and officers of the
allied army. In a strange confusion of ideas, these warriors, who
had certainly entered France as enemies, seemed to these fair ones
to be a part of the beloved Bourbons; and they loved them with
almost the same love they lavished upon the royal family itself.
During several days they were, in their hearts, the daughters of
all countries except their own!

Louis XVIII. was himself much displeased with this enthusiasm of
the ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain, and openly avowed to
Countess Ducayla his dissatisfaction with the ridiculous and
contemptible behavior of these ladies at that time. He was even of
the opinion that it was calculated to injure his cause, as the
nation had then not yet pronounced in his favor.

“They should,” said he, “have received the allies with a
dignified reserve, without frivolous demonstrations, and without
this inconsiderate devotion. Such a demeanor would have inspired
them with respect for the nation, whereas they now leave Paris with
the conviction that we are still–as we were fifty years ago–the
most giddy and frivolous people of Europe. You particularly,
ladies–you have compromised yourselves in an incomprehensible
manner. The allies seemed to you so lovable en masse, that
you gave yourselves the appearance of also loving them en
détail; and this has occasioned reports concerning you
which do little honor to French ladies!”

“But, mon Dieu!” replied Countess Ducayla to her royal
friend, “we wished to show them a well-earned gratitude for the
benefit they conferred in restoring to us your majesty; we wished
to offer them freely what we, tired of resistance, were at last
compelled to accord to the tyrants of the republic and the
sabre-heroes of the empire! None of us can regret what we have done
for our good friends the allies!”

Nevertheless, that which the ladies “had done for their good
friends the allies” was the occasion of many annoying family
scenes, and the husbands who did not fully participate in the
enthusiasm of their wives were of the opinion that they had good
cause to complain of their inordinate zeal.

Count G—-, among others, had married a young and beautiful
lady a few days before the restoration. She, in her youthful
innocence, was entirely indifferent to political matters; but her
step-father, her step-mother, and her husband, Count G—-, were
royalists of the first water.

On the day of the entrance of the allies into Paris,
step-father, step-mother, and husband, in common with all good
legitimists, hurried forward to welcome “their good friends,” and
each of them returned to their dwelling with a stranger–the
husband with an Englishman, the step-mother with a Prussian, and
the step-father with an Austrian. The three endeavored to outdo
each other in the attentions which they showered upon the guests
they had the good fortune to possess. The little countess alone
remained indifferent, in the midst of the joy of her family. They
reproached her with having too little attachment for the good
cause, and exhorted her to do everything in her power to entertain
the gallant men who had restored to France her king.

The husband requested the Englishman to instruct the young
countess in riding; the marquise begged the Prussian to escort her
daughter to the ball, and teach her the German waltz; and, finally,
the marquis, who had discovered a fine taste for paintings in the
Austrian, appealed to this gentleman to conduct the young wife
through the picture-galleries.

In short, every opportunity was given the young countess to
commit a folly, or rather three follies, for she did not like to
give the preference to any one of the three strangers. She was
young, and inexperienced in matters of this kind. Her triple
intrigue was, therefore, soon discovered, and betrayed to her
family; and now husband, step-father, and step-mother, were
exasperated. This exceeded even the demands of their royalism; and
they showered reproaches on the head of the young wife.

“It is not my fault!” cried she, sobbing. “I only did what you
commanded. You ordered me to do everything in my power to entertain
these gentlemen, and I could therefore refuse them nothing.”

But there were also cases in which the advances of the
enthusiastic ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain were repelled. Even
the high-born and haughty Marquise M—- was to experience this
mortification. She stepped before the sullen, sombre veterans of
the Old Guard of the empire, who had just allowed Count d’Artois to
pass before their ranks in dead silence. She ardently appealed to
their love for the dynasty of their fathers, and, in her enthusiasm
for royalism, went so far as to offer herself as a reward to him
who should first cry “Vive le roi!” But the faithful
soldiers of the emperor stood unmoved by this generous offer, and
the silence remained unbroken by the lowest cry!

The princes who stood at the head of the allied armies were, of
course, the objects of the most ardent enthusiasm of the royalist
ladies; but it was, above all, with them that they found the least
encouragement. The Emperor of Austria was too much occupied with
the future of his daughter and grandson, and the King of Prussia
was too grave and severe, to find any pleasure in the coquetries of
women. The young Emperor Alexander of Russia, therefore, became the
chief object of their enthusiasm and love. But their enthusiasm
also met with a poor recompense in this quarter. Almost
distrustfully, the czar held himself aloof from the ladies of the
Faubourg St. Germain; and yet it was they who had decided the fate
of France with him, and induced him to give his vote for the
Bourbons; for until then it had remained undetermined whom the
allies should call to the throne of France.

In his inmost heart, the Emperor of Russia desired to see the
universally-beloved Viceroy of Italy, Eugene Beauharnais, elevated
to the vacant throne. The letter with which Eugene replied to the
proposition of the allies, tendering him the ducal crown of Genoa,
had won for Josephine’s son the love and esteem of the czar for all
time. Alexander had himself written to Eugene, and proffered him,
in the name of the allies, a duchy of Genoa, if he would desert
Napoleon, and take sides with the allies. Eugene Beauharnais had
replied to him in the following letter:

“SIRE,–I have received your majesty’s propositions. They are
undoubtedly very favorable, but they are powerless to change my
resolution. I must have known how to express my thoughts but poorly
when I had the honor of seeing you, if your majesty can believe
that I could sully my honor for any, even the highest, reward.
Neither the prospect of possessing the crown of the duchy of Genoa,
nor that of the kingdom of Italy, can induce me to become a
traitor. The example of the King of Naples cannot mislead me; I
will rather be a plain soldier than a traitorous prince.

“The emperor, you say, has done me injustice; I have forgotten
it; I only remember his benefits. I owe all to him–my rank, my
titles, and my fortune, and I owe to him that which I prefer to all
else–that which your indulgence calls my renown. I shall,
therefore, serve him as long as I live; my person is his, as is my
heart. May my sword break in my hands, if it could ever turn
against the emperor, or against France! I trust that my
well-grounded refusal will at least secure to me the respect of
your imperial majesty. I am, etc.”

The Emperor of Austria, on the other hand, ardently desired to
secure the throne of France to his grandson, the King of Rome,
under the regency of the Empress Marie Louise; but he did not
venture to make this demand openly and without reservation of his
allies, whose action he had promised to approve and ratify. The
appeals of the Duke of Cadore, who had been sent to her father by
Marie Louise from Blois, urging the emperor to look after her
interests, and to demand of the allies that they should assure the
crown to herself and son, were, therefore, fruitless.

The emperor assured his daughter’s ambassador that he had reason
to hope for the best for her, but that he was powerless to insist
on any action in her behalf.

“I love my daughter,” said the good emperor, “and I love my
son-in-law, and I am ready to shed my heart’s blood for them.”

“Majesty,” said the duke, interrupting him, “no such sacrifice
is required at your hands.”

“I am ready to shed my blood for them,” continued the emperor,
“to sacrifice my life for them, and I repeat it, I have promised
the allies to do nothing except in conjunction with them, and to
consent to all they determine. Moreover, my minister, Count
Metternich, is at this moment with them, and I shall ratify
everything which he has signed [30].”

[30] Bourrienne, vol. x., p. 129.

But the emperor still hoped that that which Metternich should
sign for him, would be the declaration that the little King of Rome
was to be the King of France.

But the zeal of the royalists was destined to annihilate this
hope.

The Emperor of Russia had now taken up his residence in
Talleyrand’s house. He had yielded to the entreaties of the shrewd
French diplomat, who well knew how much easier it would be to bend
the will of the Agamemnon of the holy alliance [31] to his wishes,
when he should have him in hand, as it were, day and night. In
offering the emperor his hospitality, it was Talleyrand’s intention
to make him his prisoner, body and soul, and to use him to his own
advantage.

[31] Mémoires d’une Femme de
Qualité.

It was therefore to Talleyrand that Countess Ducayla hastened to
concert measures with the Bonapartist of yesterday, who had
transformed himself into the zealous legitimist of to-day.

Talleyrand undertook to secure the countess an audience with the
Russian emperor, and he succeeded.

While conducting the beautiful countess to the czar’s cabinet,
Talleyrand whispered in her ear: “Imitate Madame de
Lemallé–endeavor to make a great stroke. The emperor is
gallant, and what he denies to diplomacy he may, perhaps, accord to
the ladies.”

He left her at the door, and the countess entered the emperor’s
cabinet alone. She no sooner saw him, than she sank on her knees,
and stretched out her arms.

With a knightly courtesy, the emperor immediately hastened
forward to assist her to rise.

“What are you doing?” asked he, almost in alarm. “A noble lady
never has occasion to bend the knee to a cavalier.”

“Sire,” exclaimed the countess, “I kneel before you, because it
is my purpose to implore of your majesty the happiness which you
alone can restore to us; it will be a double pleasure to possess
Louis XVIII. once more, when Alexander I. shall have given him to
us!”

“Is it then true that the French people are still devoted to the
Bourbon family?”

“Yes, sire, they are our only hope; on them we bestow our whole
love!”

“Ah, that is excellent,” cried Alexander; “are all French ladies
filled with the same enthusiasm as yourself, madame?”

“Well, if this is the case, it will be France that recalls Louis
XVIII., and it will not be necessary for us to conduct him back.
Let the legislative bodies declare their will, and it shall be
done [32].”

[32] Mémoires d’une Femme de
Qualité, vol. i., p. 179.

And of all women, Countess Ducayla was the one to bring the
legislative bodies to the desired declaration. She hastened to
communicate the hopes with which the emperor had inspired her to
all Paris; on the evening after her interview with the emperor, she
gave a grand soirée, to which she invited the most
beautiful ladies of her party, and a number of senators.

“I desired by this means,” says she in her memoirs, “to entrap
the gentlemen into making a vow. How simple-minded I was! Did I not
know that the majority of them had already made and broken a dozen
vows?”

On the following day the senate assembled, and elected a
provisional government, consisting of Talleyrand, the Duke of
Dalberg, the Marquis of Jancourt, Count Bournonville, and the
Abbé Montesquieu. The senate and the new provisional
government thereupon declared Napoleon deposed from the throne, and
recalled Louis XVIII. But while the senate thus publicly and
solemnly proclaimed its legitimist sentiments in the name of the
French people, it at the same time testified to its own
unworthiness and selfishness. In the treaty made by the senate with
its recalled king, it was provided in a separate clause, “that the
salary which they had hitherto received, should be continued to
them for life.” While recalling Louis XVIII., these senators took
care to pay themselves for their trouble, and to secure their own
future.

CHAPTER II.

THE BOURBONS AND THE BONAPARTES.

The allies hastened to consider the declaration of the senate
and provisional government as the declaration of the people, and
recalled to the throne of his fathers Louis XVIII., who, as Count
de Lille, had so long languished in exile at Hartwell.

The Emperor of Austria kept his word; he made no resistance to
the decrees of his allies, and allowed his grandson, the King of
Rome, to be robbed of his inheritance, and the imperial crown to
fall from his daughter’s brow. The Emperor Francis was, however, as
much astonished at this result as Marie Louise, for, until their
entrance into Paris, the allies had flattered the Austrian emperor
with the hope that the crown of France would be secured to his
daughter and grandson. The emperor’s astonishment at this turn of
affairs was made the subject of a caricature, which, on the day of
the entrance of Louis XVIIL, was affixed to the same walls on which
Chateaubriand’s enthusiastic brochure concerning the
Bourbons was posted. In this caricature, of which thousands of
copies were sown broadcast throughout Paris, the Emperor of Austria
was to be seen sitting in an elegant open carriage; the Emperor
Alexander sat on the coachman’s box, the Regent of England as
postilion on the lead-horse, and the King of Prussia stood up
behind as a lackey. Napoleon ran along on foot at the side of the
carriage, holding fast to it, and crying out to the Emperor of
Austria, “Father-in-law, they have thrown me out”–“And taken me
in,” was the reply of Francis I.

The exultation of the ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain was
great, now that their king was at last restored to them, and they
eagerly embraced every means of showing their gratitude to the
Emperor of Russia. But Alexander remained entirely insusceptible to
their homage; he even went so far as to avoid attending the
entertainments given by the new king at the Tuileries, and society
was shocked at seeing the emperor openly displaying his sympathy
for the family of the Emperor Napoleon, and repairing to Malmaison,
instead of appearing at the Tuileries.

Count Nesselrode at last conjured his friend Louise de Cochelet
to inform the czar of the feeling of dismay that pervaded the
Faubourg St. Germain, when he should come to Queen Hortense’s
maid-of-honor, as he was in the habit of doing from time to time,
for the purpose of discussing the queen’s interests with her.

“Sire,” said she to the czar, “the Faubourg St. Germain regards
your majesty’s zeal in the queen’s behalf with great jealousy. It
has even caused Count Nesselrode much concern. ‘Our emperor,’ said
he to me, recently, ‘goes to Malmaison much too often; the high
circles of society, and the diplomatic body, are already in dismay
about it; it is feared that he is there subjected to influences to
which policy requires he should not be exposed.'”

“This is characteristic of my Nesselrode,” replied the emperor,
laughing, “he is so easily disquieted. What do I care for the
Faubourg St. Germain? It speaks ill enough for these ladies that
they have not made a conquest of me! I prefer the noble qualities
of the soul to all outward appearances; and I find united in the
Empress Josephine, in the Queen of Holland, and in Prince Eugene,
all that is admirable and lovable. I am better pleased to be here
with you in quiet, confidential intercourse, than with those who
really demean themselves as though they were crazed, and who,
instead of enjoying the triumph we have prepared for them, are only
intent on destroying their enemies, and have commenced with those
who formerly accorded them such generous protection; they really
weary one with their extravagances.

“Frenchwomen are coquettish,” said the emperor in the course of
the conversation; “I came here in great fear of them, for I knew
how far their amiability could extend; but their heart is
undoubtedly no longer their own. I am therefore on my guard against
being deceived by it, and I fancy these ladies love to please so
well, that they are even angry with those who respond to the
attentions which are so lavishly showered on them, with
conventional politeness only.”

Louise de Cochelet undertook to defend the French ladies against
the emperor’s attacks. She told him he should not judge of them by
the manner in which they had conducted themselves toward him, as it
was but natural that the ladies should be inspired with enthusiasm
for a young emperor who appeared to them in so favorable a light,
and that they must necessarily, even without being coquettish,
ardently desire to be noticed by him.

“But,” said the emperor, with his soft, sad smile, “have these
ladies only been waiting for me in order to feel their heart
palpitate? I seek mind and entertainment, but I fly from all those
who display a desire to exercise a control over my heart; in this I
see nothing but self-love, and I hold myself aloof from such
contact.”

While the royalists and the ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain
were lavishing attentions upon the allies, and assuring the
returned king of the boundless delight of his people, this people
was already beginning to grumble. The allies had now completed
their task, they had restored to France its legitimate king, and
they now put the finishing-touch to their work by providing in the
treaty, that France should be narrowed down to the boundaries it
had had before the revolution.

France was compelled to conform to the will of its vanquishers.
From the weakness of the legitimists they now snatched that which
they had been compelled to accord to the strength of the
empire.

All of those fortified places, that had been bought with so much
French blood, and that were still held by Frenchmen, were to be
given up, and the great, extended France was to shrink back into
the France it had been thirty years before! It was this that made
the people murmur. The Frenchmen who had left Napoleon because they
had grown weary of endless wars, were, nevertheless, proud of the
conquests they had made under their emperor. The surrender of these
conquests wounded the national pride, and they were angry with
their king for being so ready to put this shame upon France–for
holding the crown of France in higher estimation than the honor of
France!

It must be conceded, however, that Louis XVIII. had most
bitterly felt the disgrace that attached to him in this
re-establishment of France within its ancient boundaries, and he
had endeavored to protest in every way against this demand of the
allies. But his representative had been made to understand that if
Louis XVIII. could not content himself with the France the allies
were prepared to give him, he was at liberty to relinquish it to
Marie Louise. The king was, therefore, compelled to yield to
necessity; but he did so with bitter mortification, and while his
courtiers were giving free rein to their enthusiasm for the allies,
he was heard to whisper, “Nos chers amis les ennemis[33]!”

[33] “Our dear friends the enemies!”

Thus embittered against the allies, it was only with great
reluctance, and after a long and bitter struggle, that Louis XVIII.
consented to the demands made by the allies in behalf of the family
of Napoleon. But the Emperor Alexander kept his word; he defended
the rights of the Queen of Holland and her children against the
ill-will of the Bourbons, the dislike of the royalists, and the
disinclination of the allies, alike. The family of the emperor owed
it to him and to his firmness alone that the article of the treaty
of the 11th of April, in which Louis XVIII. agreed “that the titles
and dignities of all the members of the family of the Emperor
Napoleon should be recognized, and that they should not be deprived
of them,” remained something more than a mere phrase.

It was only after repeated efforts that the emperor at last
succeeded in obtaining for Hortense, from Louis XVIII., an estate
and a title, that secured her position. King Louis finally yielded
to his urgent solicitations, and conferred upon Hortense the title
of Duchess of St. Leu, and made her estate, St. Leu, a duchy.

But this was done with the greatest reluctance, and only under
the pressure of the king’s obligations to the allies, who had given
him his throne; and these obligations the Bourbons would have
forgotten as willingly as the whole period of the revolution and of
the empire.

For the Bourbons seemed but to have awakened from a long sleep,
and were not a little surprised to find that the world had
progressed in the meanwhile.

According to their ideas, every thing must have remained
standing at the point where they had left it twenty years before;
and they were at least determined to ignore all that had happened
in the interval. King Louis therefore signed his first act as in
“the nineteenth” year of his reign, and endeavored in all things to
keep up a semblance of the continuation of his reign since the year
1789. Hence, the letters-patent in which King Louis appointed
Hortense Duchess of St. Leu were drawn up in a manner offensive to
the queen, for they contained the following: “The king appoints
Mademoiselle Hortense de Beauharnais Duchess of St. Leu.”

The queen refused to accept this title, under the circumstances,
and rejected the letters-patent. It was not until the czar had
angrily demanded it, that M. de Blacas, the king’s premier,
consented to draw up the letters-patent in a different style. They
read: “The king appoints Hortense Eugénie, included in the
treaty of the 11th of April, Duchess of St. Leu.” This was, to be
sure, merely a negative and disguised recognition of the former
rank of the queen; but it was, at least no longer a degradation to
accept it.

The Viceroy of Italy, the noble Eugene–who was universally
beloved, and who had come to Paris, at the express wish of the
czar, to secure his future–occasioned the Bourbons quite as much
annoyance and perplexity.

The king could not refuse to recognize the brave hero of the
empire and the son-in-law of the King of Bavaria, who was one of
the allies; and, as Eugene desired an audience of the king, it was
accorded him at once.

But how was he to be received? With what title was Napoleon’s
step-son, the Viceroy of Italy, to be addressed? It would have been
altogether too ridiculous to repeat the absurdity contained in
Hortense’s letters-patent, and call Eugene “Viscount de
Beauharnais;” but to accord him the royal title would have
compromised the dignity of the legitimate dynasty. A brilliant
solution of this difficult question suggested itself to King Louis.
When the Duke d’Aumont conducted Prince Eugene to the royal
presence, the king advanced, with a cordial smile, and saluted him
with the words, “M. Marshal of France, I am happy to see you.”

Eugene, who was on the point of making his salutation, remained
silent, and looked over his shoulder to see whom the king was
speaking with. Louis XVIII. smiled, and continued: “You, my dear
sir, are a marshal of France. I appoint you to this dignity.”

“Sire,” said Eugene, bowing profoundly, “I am much obliged to
your majesty for your kind intentions, but the misfortune of the
rank to which destiny has called me will not allow me to accept the
high title with which you honor me. I thank you very much, but I
must decline it [34].”

[34] Mémoires d’une Femme de
Qualité, vol. i., p. 267.

The king’s stratagem had thus come to grief, and Eugene left the
royal presence with flying colors. He was not under the necessity
of accepting benefits from the King of France, for his step-father,
the King of Bavaria, made Eugene a prince of the royal house of
Bavaria, and created for him the duchy of Leuchtenberg. Hither
Eugene retired, and lived there, surrounded by his wife and
children, in peace and tranquillity, until death tore him from the
arms of his sorrowing family, in the year 1824.

CHAPTER III.

MADAME DE STAËL.

The restoration, that had overthrown so many of the great, and
that was destined to restore to the light so many names that had
lain buried in obscurity, now brought back to Paris a person who
had been banished by Napoleon, and who had been adding new lustre
and renown to her name in a foreign land. This personage was Madame
de Staël, the daughter of Necker, the renowned poetess of
“Corinne” and “Delphine.”

It had been a long and bitter struggle between Madame de
Staël and the mighty Emperor of the French; and Madame de
Staël, with her genius and her impassioned eloquence, and
adorned with the laurel-wreath of her exile, had perhaps done
Napoleon more harm than a whole army of his enemies. Intense hatred
existed on both sides, and yet it had depended on Napoleon alone to
transform this hatred into love. For Madame de Staël had been
disposed to lavish the whole impassioned enthusiasm of her heart
upon the young hero of Marengo and Arcola–quite disposed to become
the Egeria of this Numa Pompilius. In the warm impulse of her
stormy imagination, Madame de Staël, in reference to
Bonaparte, had even, in a slight measure, been regardless of her
position as a lady, and had only remembered that she was a poetess,
and that, as such, it became her well to celebrate the hero, and to
bestow on the luminous constellation that was rising over France
the glowing dithyrambic of her greetings.

Portrait of Madame de Staël.

Madame de Staël had, therefore, not waited for Napoleon to
seek her, but had made the first advances, and sought him.

To the returning victor of Italy she wrote letters filled with
impassioned enthusiasm; but these letters afforded the youthful
general but little pleasure. In the midst of the din of battle and
the grand schemes with which he was continually engaged, Bonaparte
found but little time to occupy himself with the poetical works of
Madame de Staël. He knew of her nothing more than that she was
the daughter of the minister Necker, and that was no recommendation
in Napoleon’s eyes, for he felt little respect for Necker’s genius,
and even went so far as to call him the instigator of the great
revolution. It was, therefore, with astonishment that the young
general received the enthusiastic letter of the poetess; and, while
showing it to some of his intimate friends, he said, with a shrug
of his shoulders, “Do you understand these extravagances? This
woman is foolish!”

But Madame de Staël did not allow herself to be dismayed by
Bonaparte’s coldness and silence–she continued to write new and
more glowing letters.

In one of these letters she went so far in her inconsiderate
enthusiasm as to say, that it was a great error in human
institutions that the gentle and quiet Josephine had united her
faith with his; that she, Madame de Staël, and Bonaparte, were
born for each other, and that Nature seemed to have created a soul
of fire like hers, in order that it might worship a hero such as he
was.

Bonaparte crushed the letter in his hands, and exclaimed, as he
threw it in the fire: “That a blue-stocking, a manufactress of
sentiment, should dare to compare herself to Josephine! I shall not
answer these letters!”

He did not answer them, but Madame de Staël did not, or
rather would not, understand his silence. Little disposed to give
up a resolution once formed, and to see her plans miscarry, Madame
de Staël was now also determined to have her way, and to
approach Bonaparte despite his resistance.

And she did have her way; she succeeded in overcoming all
obstacles, and the interview, so long wished for by her, and so
long avoided by him, at last took place. Madame de Staël was
introduced at the Tuileries, and received by Bonaparte and his
wife. The personal appearance of this intellectual woman was,
however, but little calculated to overcome Bonaparte’s prejudice.
The costume of Madame de Staël was on this occasion, as it
always was, fantastic, and utterly devoid of taste, and Napoleon
loved to see women simply but elegantly and tastefully attired. In
this interview with Napoleon, Madame de Staël gave free scope
to her wit; but instead of dazzling him, as she had hoped to do,
she only succeeded in depressing him.

It was while in this frame of mind, and when Madame de
Staël, in her ardor, had endeavored almost to force him to pay
her a compliment, that Napoleon responded to her at least somewhat
indiscreet question: “Who is in your eyes the greatest woman?” with
the sarcastic reply, “She who bears the most children to the
state.”

Madame de Staël had come with a heart full of enthusiasm;
in her address to Napoleon, she had called him a “god descended to
earth;” she had come an enthusiastic poetess; she departed an
offended woman. Her wounded vanity never forgave the answer which
seemed to make her ridiculous. She avenged herself, in her
drawing-room, by the biting bon mots which she hurled at
Napoleon and his family, and which were of course faithfully
repeated to the first consul.

But the weapons which this intellectual woman now wielded
against the hero who had scorned her, wounded him more severely
than weapons of steel or iron. In the use of these weapons, Madame
de Staël was his superior, and the consciousness of this
embittered Bonaparte all the more against the lady, who dared prick
the heel of Achilles with the needle of her wit, and strike at the
very point where he was most sensitive.

A long and severe conflict now began between these two greatest
geniuses of that period, a struggle that was carried on by both
with equal bitterness. But Napoleon had outward power on his side,
and could punish the enmity of his witty opponent, as a ruler.

He banished Madame de Staël from Paris, and soon afterward
even from France. She who in Paris had been so ready to sing the
praises of her “god descended from heaven,” now went into exile his
enemy and a royalist, to engage, with all her eloquence and genius,
in making proselytes for the exiled Bourbons, and to raise in the
minds of men an invisible but none the less formidable army against
her enemy the great Napoleon.

Madame de Staël soon gave still greater weight to the
flaming eruptions of her hatred of Napoleon, by her own increasing
renown and greatness; and the poetess of Corinne and Delphine soon
became as redoubtable an opponent of Napoleon as England, Russia,
or Austria, could be.

But in the midst of the triumphs she was celebrating in her
exile, Madame de Staël soon began to long ardently to return
to France, which she loved all the more for having been compelled
to leave it. She therefore used all the influence she possessed in
Paris, to obtain from Napoleon permission to return to her home,
but the emperor remained inexorable, even after having read
Delphine.

“I love,” said he, “women who make men of themselves just as
little as I love effeminate men. There is an appropriate
rôle for every one in the world. Of what use is this
vagabondizing of fantasy? What does it accomplish? Nothing! All
this is nothing but do rangement of mind and feeling. I dislike
women who throw themselves in my arms, and for this reason, if for
no other, I dislike this woman, who is certainly one of that
number.”

Madame de Staël’s petitions to be permitted to return to
Paris were therefore rejected, but she was as little disposed to
abandon her purpose now as she was at the time she sought to gain
Bonaparte’s good-will. She continued to make attempts to achieve
her aim, for it was not only her country that she wished to
reconquer, but also a million francs which she wished to have paid
to her out of the French treasury.

Her father, Minister Necker, had loaned his suffering country a
million francs, at a time of financial distress and famine, to buy
bread for the starving people, and Louis XVI. had guaranteed, in
writing, that this “national debt of France” should be
returned.

But the revolution that shattered the throne of the unfortunate
king, also buried beneath the ruins of the olden time the promises
and oaths that had been written on parchment and paper.

Madame de Staël now demanded that the emperor should fulfil
the promises of the overthrown king, and that the heir of the
throne of the Bourbons should assume the obligations into which a
Bourbon had entered with her father.

She had once called Napoleon a god descended from heaven; and
she even now wished that he might still prove a god for her,
namely, the god Pluto, who should pour out a million upon her from
his horn of plenty.

As she could not go to France herself, she sent her son to plead
with the emperor, for herself and her children.

Well knowing, however, how difficult it would be, even for her
son to secure an audience of the emperor, she addressed herself to
Queen Hortense in eloquent letters imploring her to exert her
influence in her son’s behalf.

Hortense, ever full of pity for misfortune, felt the warmest
sympathy and admiration for the genius of the great poetess, and
interceded for Madame de Staël with great courage and
eloquence. She alone ventured, regardless of Napoleon’s frowns and
displeasure, to plead the cause of the poor exile again and again,
and to solicit her recall to France, as a simple act of justice;
she even went so far in her generosity as to extend the
hospitalities of her drawing-rooms to the poetess’s son, who was
avoided and fled from by every one else.

Hortense’s soft entreaties and representations were at last
successful in soothing the emperor’s anger. He allowed Madame de
Staël to return to France, on the condition that she should
never come to Paris or its vicinity; he then also accorded Madame
de Staël’s son the long-sought favor of an audience.

This interview of Napoleon with Madame de Staël’s son is as
remarkable as it is original. On this occasion, Napoleon openly
expressed his dislike and even his hatred as well of Madame de
Staël as of her father, although he listened with generous
composure to the warm defence of the son and grandson.

Young Staël told the emperor of his mother’s longing to
return to her home, and touchingly portrayed the sadness and
unhappiness of her exile.

“Ah, bah!” exclaimed the emperor, “your mother is in a state of
exaltation. I do not say that she is a bad woman. She has wit, and
much intellect, perhaps too much, but hers is an inconsiderate, an
insubordinate spirit. She has grown up in the chaos of a falling
monarchy, and of a revolution, and she has amalgamized the two in
her mind. This is all a source of danger; she would make
proselytes, she must be watched; she does not love me. The
interests of those whom she might compromise, require that I should
not permit her to return to Paris. If I should allow her to do so,
she would place me under the necessity of sending her to
Bicétre, or of imprisoning her in the Temple, before six
months elapsed; that would be extremely disagreeable, for it would
cause a sensation, and injure me in the public opinion. Inform your
mother that my resolution is irrevocable. While I live, she shall
not return to Paris.”

It was in vain that young Staël assured him in his mother’s
name, that she would avoid giving him the least occasion for
displeasure, and that she would live in complete retirement if
permitted to return to Paris.

“Ah, yes! I know the value of fine promises!” exclaimed the
emperor. “I know what the result would be, and I repeat it, it
cannot be! She would be the rallying-point of the whole Faubourg
St. Germain. She live in retirement! Visits would be made her, and
she would return them; she would commit a thousand indiscretions,
and say a thousand humorous things, to which she attaches no
importance, but which annoy me. My government is no jest, I take
every thing seriously; I wish this to be understood, and you may
proclaim it to the whole world!”

Young Staël had, however, the courage to continue his
entreaties; he even went so far as to inquire in all humility for
the grounds of the emperor’s ill-will against his mother. He said
he had been assured that Necker’s last work was more particularly
the cause of the emperor’s displeasure, and that he believed Madame
de Staël had assisted in writing it. This was, however, not
so, and he could solemnly assure the emperor that his mother had
taken no part in it whatever. Besides, Necker had also done full
justice to the emperor in this work.

“Justice, indeed! He calls me the ‘necessary man.’ The necessary
man! and yet, according to his book, the first step necessary to be
taken, was to take off this necessary man’s head! Yes, I was
necessary to repair all that your grandfather had destroyed! It is
he who overthrew the monarchy, and brought Louis XVI. to the
scaffold!”

“Sire!” exclaimed the young man, deeply agitated, “you are then
not aware that my grandfather’s estates were confiscated because he
defended the king!”

“A fine defence, indeed! If I give a man poison, and then, when
he lies in the death-struggle, give him an antidote, can you then
maintain that I wished to save this man? It was in this manner that
M. Necker defended Louis XVI. The confiscations of which you speak
prove nothing. Robespierre’s property was also confiscated. Not
even Robespierre, Marat, and Danton, have brought such misery upon
France as Necker; he it is who made the revolution. You did not see
it, but I was present in those days of horror and public distress;
but I give you my word that they shall return no more while I live!
Your schemers write out their utopias, the simple-minded read these
dreams, they are printed and believed in; the common welfare is in
everybody’s mouth, and soon there is no more bread for the people;
it revolts, and that is the usual result of all these fine
theories! Your grandfather is to blame for the orgies that brought
France to desperation.”

Then lowering his voice, from the excited, almost angry tone in
which he had been speaking, to a milder one, the emperor approached
the young man, who stood before him, pale, and visibly agitated.
With that charming air of friendly intimacy that no one knew so
well how to assume as Napoleon, he gently pinched the tip of the
young man’s ear, the emperor’s usual way of making peace with any
one to whom he wished well, after a little difficulty.

“You are still young,” said he; “if you possessed my age and
experience, you would judge of these matters differently. Your
candor has not offended, but pleased me; I like to see a son defend
his mother’s cause! Your mother has entrusted you with a very
difficult commission, and you have executed it with much spirit. It
gives me pleasure to have conversed with you, for I love the young
when they are straightforward and not too ‘argumentative.’ But I
can nevertheless give you no false hopes! You will accomplish
nothing! If your mother were in prison, I should not hesitate to
grant you her release. But she is in exile, and nothing can induce
me to recall her.”

“But, sire, is one not quite as unhappy far from home and
friends, as in prison?”

“Ah, bah! those are romantic notions! You have heard that said
about your mother. She is truly greatly to be pitied. With the
exception of Paris, she has the whole of Europe for her
prison!”

“But, sire, all her friends are in Paris!”

“With her intellect, she will be able to acquire new ones
everywhere. Moreover, I cannot understand why she should desire to
be in Paris. Why does she so long to place herself in the immediate
reach of tyranny? You see I pronounce the decisive word! I am
really unable to comprehend it. Can she not go to Rome, Berlin,
Vienna, Milan, or London? Yes, London would be the right place!
There she can perpetrate libels whenever she pleases. At all of
these places I will leave her undisturbed with the greatest
pleasure; but Paris is my residence, and there I will tolerate
those only who love me! On this the world can depend. I know what
would happen, if I should permit your mother to return to Paris.
She would commit new follies; she would corrupt those who surround
me; she would corrupt Garat, as she once corrupted the tribunal; of
course, she would promise all things, but she would, nevertheless,
not avoid engaging in politics.”

“Sire,” I can assure you that my mother does not occupy herself
with politics at all; she devotes herself exclusively to the
society of her friends, and to literature.”

“That is the right word, and I fully understand it. One talks
politics while talking of literature, of morals, of the fine arts,
and of every conceivable thing! If your mother were in Paris, her
latest bon mots and phrases would be recited to me daily;
perhaps they would be only invented; but I tell you I will have
nothing of the kind in the city in which I reside! It would be best
for her to go to London; advise her to do so. As far as your
grandfather is concerned, I have certainly not said too much; M.
Necker had no administrative ability. Once more, inform your mother
that I shall never permit her to return to Paris.”

“But if sacred interests should require her presence here for a
few days, your majesty would at least–“

“What? Sacred interests? What does that mean?”

“Sire,” the presence of my mother will be necessary, in order to
procure from your majesty’s government the return of a sacred
debt.”

“Ah, bah! sacred! Are not all the debts of the state
sacred?”

“Without doubt, sire; but ours is accompanied by peculiar
circumstances.”

“Peculiar circumstances!” exclaimed the emperor, rising to
terminate the long interview, that began to weary him. “What
creditor of the state does not say the same of his debt? Moreover,
I know too little of your relations toward my government. This
matter does not concern me, and I will not be mixed up in it. If
the laws are for you, all will go well without my interference; but
if it requires influence, I shall have nothing to do with it, for I
should be rather against than for you!”

“Sire,” said young Staël, venturing to speak once more, as
the emperor was on the point of leaving, “sire, my brother and I
were anxious to settle in France; but how could we live in a land
in which our mother would not be allowed to live with us
everywhere?”

Already standing on the threshold of the door, the emperor
turned to him hastily. “I have no desire whatever to have you
settle here,” said he; “on the contrary. I advise you not to do so.
Go to England. There they have a penchant for Genevese,
parlor-politicians, etc.; therefore, go to England; for I must say,
I should be rather ill than well disposed toward you [35]!”

[35] Bourrienne, vol. viii., p. 355.

CHAPTER IV.

MADAME DE STAËL’S RETURN TO PARIS.

Madame de Staël returned to her cherished France with the
restoration. She came back thirsting for new honor and renown, and
determined, above all, to have her work republished in Germany, its
publication having been once suppressed by the imperial police. She
entertained the pleasing hope that the new court would forget that
she was Necker’s daughter, receive her with open arms, and accord
her the influence to which her active mind and genius entitled
her.

But she was laboring under an error, by which she was not
destined to be long deceived. She was received at court with the
cold politeness which is more terrible than insult. The king, while
speaking of her with his friends, called Madame de Staël “a
Chateaubriand in petticoats.” The Duchess d’Angoulême seemed
never to see the celebrated poetess, and never addressed a word to
her; the rest of the court met Madame de Staël armed to the
teeth with all the hatred and prejudices of the olden time.

It was also in vain that Madame de Staël endeavored to act
an important part at the new court; they refused to regard her as
an authority or power, but treated her as a mere authoress; her
counsel was ridiculed, and they dared even to question the renown
of M. Necker.

“I am unfortunate,” said Madame de Staël to Countess
Ducayla; “Napoleon hated me because he believed me to possess
intellect; these people repel me because I at least possess
ordinary human understanding! I can certainly get on very well
without them; but, as my presence displeases them, I shall, at
least, endeavor to get my money from them.”

The “sacred debt” had not been paid under the empire, and it was
now Madame de Staël’s intention to obtain from the king what
the emperor had refused.

She was well aware of the influence which Countess Ducayla
exercised over Louis XVIII., and she now hastened to call on the
beautiful countess–whose acquaintance she had made under peculiar
circumstances, in a romantic love intrigue–in order to renew the
friendship they had then vowed to each other.

The countess had not forgotten this friendship, and she was now
grateful for the service Madame de Staël had then shown her.
She helped to secure the liquidation of the sacred debt, and, upon
the order of King Louis, the million was paid over to Madame de
Staël. “But,” says the countess, in her memoirs, “I believe
the recovery of this million cost Madame de Staël four hundred
thousand francs, besides a set of jewelry that was worth at least
one hundred thousand.”

The countess’s purse and the jewelry case, however, doubtlessly
bore evidence that she might as well have said “I know” as “I
believe.”

Besides the four hundred thousand francs and the jewelry, Madame
de Staël also gave the countess a piece of advice. “Make the
most of the favor you now enjoy,” said she to her; “but do so
quickly, for, as matters are now conducted, I fear that the
restoration will soon have to be restored.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked the countess, smiling.

“I mean that, with the exception of the king, who perhaps does
not say all he thinks, the others are still doing precisely as they
always have done, and Heaven knows to what extremities their folly
is destined to bring them! They mock at the old soldiers and assist
the young priests, and this is the best means of ruining
France.”

Countess Ducayla considered this prediction of her intellectual
friend as a mere cloud with which discontent and disappointed
ambition had obscured the otherwise clear vision of Madame de
Staël, and ridiculed the idea, little dreaming how soon her
words were to be fulfilled.

Madame de Staël consoled herself for her cold reception at
court, by receiving the best society of Paris in her parlors, and
entertaining them with biting bon mots and witty
persiflage, at the expense of the grand notabilities, who
had suddenly arisen with their imposing genealogical trees out of
the ruins and oblivion of the past.

Madame de Staël now also remembered the kindness Queen
Hortense had shown her during her exile; and not to her only, but
also to her friend, Madame Récamier, who had also been
exiled by Napoleon, not, however, as his enemies said, “because she
was Madame de Staël’s friend,” but simply because she
patronized and belonged to the so-called “little church.” The
“little church” was an organization born of the spirit of
opposition of the Faubourg St. Germain, and a portion of the
Catholic clergy, and was one of those things appertaining to the
internal relations of France that were most annoying and
disagreeable to the emperor.

Queen Hortense had espoused the cause of Madame de Staël
and of Madame Récamier with generous warmth. She had
eloquently interceded for the recall of both from their exile; and,
now that the course of events had restored them to their home, both
ladies came to the queen to thank her for her kindness and
generosity.

Louise de Cochelet has described this visit of Madame de
Staël so wittily, with so much naïveté, and
with such peculiar local coloring, that we cannot refrain from
laying a literal translation of the same before the reader.

CHAPTER V.

MADAME DE STAËL’S VISIT TO QUEEN HORTENSE.

Louise de Cochelet relates as follows: “Madame de Staël and
Madame Récamier had begged permission of the queen to visit
her, for the purpose of tendering their thanks. The queen invited
them to visit her at St. Leu, on the following day.

“She asked my advice as to which of the members of her social
circle were best qualified to cope with Madame de Staël.

“‘I, for my part,’ said the queen, ‘have not the courage to take
the lead in the conversation; one cannot be very intellectual when
sad at heart, and I fear my dullness will infect the others.’

“We let quite a number of amiable persons pass before us in
review, and I amused myself at the mention of each new name, by
saying, ‘He is too dull for Madame de Staël.’

“The queen laughed, and the list of those who were to be invited
was at last agreed upon. We all awaited the arrival of the two
ladies in great suspense. The obligation imposed on us by the
queen, of being intellectual at all hazards, had the effect of
conjuring up a somewhat embarrassed and stupid expression to our
faces. We presented the appearance of actors on the stage looking
at each other, while awaiting the rise of the curtain. Jests and
bon mots followed each other in rapid succession until the
arrival of the carriage recalled to our faces an expression of
official earnestness.

“Madame Récamier, still young, and very handsome, and
with an expression of naïveté in her charming
countenance, made the impression on me of being a young lady in
love, carefully watched over by too severe a duenna, her
timid, gentle manner contrasted so strongly with the somewhat too
masculine self-consciousness of her companion. Madame de Staël
is, however, generally admitted to have been good and kind,
particularly to this friend, and I only speak of the impression she
made on one to whom she was a stranger, at first sight.

“Madame de Staël’s extremely dark complexion, her original
toilet, her perfectly bare shoulders, of which either might have
been very beautiful, but which harmonized very poorly with each
other; her whole ensemble was far from approximating to the
standard of the ideal I had formed of the authoress of Delphine and
Corinne. I had almost hoped to find in her one of the heroines she
had so beautifully portrayed, and I was therefore struck dumb with
astonishment. But, after the first shock, I was at least compelled
to acknowledge that she possessed very beautiful and expressive
eyes; and yet it seemed impossible for me to find anything in her
countenance on which love could fasten, although I have been told
that she has often inspired that sentiment.

“When I afterward expressed my astonishment to the queen, she
replied: ‘It is, perhaps, because she is capable of such great love
herself, that she succeeds in inspiring others with love; moreover,
it flatters a man’s self-love to be noticed by such a woman, and,
in the end, one can dispense with beauty, when one has Madame de
Staël’s intellect.’

“The queen inquired after Madame de Staël’s daughter, who
had not come with her, and who was said to be truly charming. I
believe the young gentlemen of our party could have confronted the
beautiful eyes of the daughter with still greater amiability than
those of the mother, but an attack of toothache had prevented her
coming.

“After the first compliments and salutations, the queen proposed
to the ladies to take a look at her park. They seated themselves on
the cushions of the queen’s large char à banc, which
has become historic on account of the many high and celebrated
personages who have been driven in it at different times. The
Emperor Napoleon was, however, not one of this number, as he never
visited St. Leu; but, with this exception, there are few of the
great and celebrated who have not been seated in it at one time or
another.

“As they drove through the park and the forest of Montmorency,
in a walk only, the conversation was kept up as in the parlor, and
the consumption of intellectuality was continued. The beautiful
neighborhood, that reminded one of Switzerland, as it was remarked,
was duly admired. Then Italy was spoken of. The queen, who had been
somewhat distraite, and had good cause to be somewhat sad,
and disposed to commune with herself, addressed Madame de
Staël with the question, ‘You have been in Italy, then?’

“Madame de Staël was, as it were, transfixed with dismay,
and the gentlemen exclaimed with one accord: ‘And Corinne? and
Corinne?’

“‘Ah, that is true,’ said the queen, in embarrassment,
awakening, as it were, from her dreams.

“‘Is it possible,’ asked M. de Canonville, ‘your majesty has not
read Corinne?’

“‘Yes–no,’ said the queen, visibly confused, ‘I shall read it
again,’ and, in order to conceal an emotion that I alone could
understand, she abruptly changed the topic of conversation.

“She might have said the truth, and simply informed them that
the book had appeared just at the time her eldest son had died in
Holland. The king, disquieted at seeing her so profoundly given up
to her grief, believed, in accordance with Corvisart’s advice, that
it was necessary to arouse her from this state of mental dejection
at all hazards. It was determined that I should read ‘Corinne’ to
her. She was not in a condition to pay much attention to it, but
she had involuntarily retained some remembrance of this romance.
Since then, I had several times asked permission of the queen to
read Corinne to her, but she had always refused. ‘No, no,’ said
she, ‘not yet; this romance has identified itself with my sorrow.
Its name alone recalls the most fearful period of my whole life. I
have not yet the courage to renew these painful impressions.’

“I, alone, had therefore been able to divine what had
embarrassed and moved the queen so much when she replied to the
question addressed to her concerning Corinne. But the authoress
could, of course, only interpret it as indicating indifference for
her master-work, and I told the queen on the following day that it
would have been better to have confessed the cause of her confusion
to Madame de Staël.

“‘Madame de Staël would not have understood me,’ said she;
‘now, I am lost to her good opinion, she will consider me a
simpleton, but it was not the time to speak of myself, and of my
painful reminiscences.’

“The large char à banc was always preferred to the
handsomest carriages (although it was very plain, and consisted of
two wooden benches covered with cushions, placed opposite each
other), because it was more favorable for conversation. But it
afforded no security against inclement weather, and this we were
soon to experience. The rain poured in streams, and we all returned
to the castle thoroughly wet. A room was there prepared and offered
the ladies, in which they might repair the disarrangement of their
toilet caused by the storm. I remained with them long, kept there
by the questions of Madame de Staël concerning the queen and
her son, which questions were fairly showered upon me. There was
now no longer a question of intellectuality, but merely of washing,
hair-dressing, and reposing, with an entire abandonment of the
display of mind, the copiousness of which I had been compelled to
admire but a moment before. I said to myself: ‘There they are, face
to face, like the rest of the world, with material life, these two
celebrated women, who are everywhere sought after, and received
with such marked consideration. There they are, as wet as myself,
and as little poetic.’ We were really behind the curtain, but it
was shortly to rise again.

“Voices were heard under the window; among other voices, a
German accent was audible, and both ladies immediately exclaimed:
‘Ah, that is Prince Augustus of Prussia!’

“No one expected the prince, and this meeting with the two
ladies had therefore the appearance of being accidental. He had
come merely to pay the queen a visit, and it was so near
dinner-time, that politeness required that he should be invited to
remain. And this was doubtless what he wished.

“The prince had the queen on his right, and Madame de Staël
on his left. The servant of the latter had laid a little green twig
on her napkin, which she twisted between her fingers while
speaking, as was her habit. The conversation was animated, and it
was amusing to observe Madame de Staël gesticulating with the
little twig in her fingers. One might have supposed that some fairy
had given her this talisman, and that her genius was dependent upon
this little twig.

“Constantinople, with which city several of the gentlemen were
well acquainted, was now the topic of conversation. Madame de
Staël thought it would be a delightful task for an
intellectual woman, to turn the sultan’s head, and then to compel
him to give his Turks a constitution. After dinner, freedom of the
press was also a topic of conversation.

“Madame de Staël astonished me, not only by the brilliancy
of her genius, but also by the deep earnestness with which she
treated questions of that kind, for until then custom had not
allowed women to discuss such matters. At entertainments,
philosophy, morals, sentiment, heroism, and the like, had been the
subjects of conversation, but the emperor monopolized politics. His
era was that of actions, and, we may say it with pride, of great
actions, while the era that followed was essentially that of great
words, and of political and literary controversies.

“Madame de Staël spoke to the queen of her motto: ‘Do that
which is right, happen what may.’

“‘In my exile, which you so kindly endeavored to terminate,’
said she, ‘I often repeated this motto, and thought of you while
doing so.’

“While speaking thus, her countenance was illumined by the
reflection of inward emotion, and I found her beautiful. She was no
longer the woman of mind only, but also the woman of heart and
feeling, and I comprehended at this moment how charming she could
be.

“Afterward, she had a long conversation with the queen touching
the emperor. ‘Why was he so angry with me?’ asked she. ‘He could
not have known how much I admired him! I will see him–I shall go
to Elba! Do you think he would receive me well? I was born to
worship this man, and he has repelled me.’

‘Ah, madame,’ replied the queen, ‘I have often heard the emperor
say that he had a great mission to fulfil, and that he could
compare his labors with the exertions of a man who, having the
summit of a steep mountain ever before his eyes, strains every
nerve to attain it, ever toiling painfully upward, and allowing his
progress to be arrested by no obstacle whatever. “All the worse for
those,” said he, “who meet me on my course–I can show them no
consideration.”‘

“‘You met him on his course, madame; perhaps he would have
extended you a helping hand, after having reached the summit of his
mountain.’

“‘I must speak with him,’ said Madame de Staël; ‘I have
been injured in his opinion.’

“‘I think so too,’ replied the queen, ‘but you would judge him
ill, if you considered him capable of hating any one. He believed
you to be his enemy, and he feared you, which was something very
unusual for him,’ added she, with a smile. ‘Now that he is
unfortunate, you will show yourself his friend, and prove yourself
to be such, and I am satisfied that he will receive you well.’

“Madame de Staël also occupied herself a great deal with
the young princes, but she met with worse success with them than
with us. It was perhaps in order to judge of their mental capacity,
that she showered unsuitable questions upon them.

“‘Do you love your uncle?’

“‘Very much, madame!’

“‘And will you also be as fond of war as he is?’

“‘Yes, if it did not cause so much misery.’

‘Is it true that he often made you repeat a fable commencing
with the words, “The strongest is always in the right?”‘

“‘Madame, he often made us repeat fables, but this one not
oftener than any other.’

“Young Prince Napoleon, a boy of astounding mental capacity and
precocious judgment, answered all these questions with the greatest
composure, and, at the conclusion of this examination, turned to me
and said quite audibly: ‘This lady asks a great many questions. Is
that what you call being intellectual?’

“After the departure of our distinguished visitors, we all
indulged in an expression of opinion concerning them, and young
Prince Napoleon was the one upon whom the ladies had made the least
flattering impression, but he only ventured to intimate as much in
a low voice.

“I for my part had been more dazzled than gladdened by this
visit. One could not avoid admiring this genius in spite of its
inconsiderateness, and its wanderings, but there was nothing
pleasing, nothing graceful and womanly, in Madame de Staël’s
manner [36].”

[36] Cochelet, Mémoires sur la Reine
Hortense, vol. i., pp. 429-440.

CHAPTER VI.

THE OLD AND THE NEW ERA.

The restoration was accomplished. The allies had at last
withdrawn from the kingdom, and Louis XVIII. was now the
independent ruler of France. In him, in the returned members of his
family, and in the emigrants who were pouring into the country from
all quarters, was represented the old era of France, the era of
despotic royal power, of brilliant manners, of intrigues, of
aristocratic ideas, of ease and luxury. Opposed to them stood the
France of the new era, the generation formed by Napoleon and the
revolution, the new aristocracy, who possessed no other ancestors
than merit and valorous deeds, an aristocracy that had nothing to
relate of the oeil de boeuf and the petites maisons,
but an aristocracy that could tell of the battle-field and of the
hospitals in which their wounds had been healed.

These two parties stood opposed to each other.

Old and young France now carried on an hourly, continuous
warfare at the court of Louis XVIII., with this difference,
however, that young France, hitherto ever victorious, now
experienced a continuous series of reverses and humiliations. Old
France was now victorious. Not victorious through its gallantry and
merit, but through its past, which it endeavored to connect with
the present, without considering the chasm which lay between.

True, King Louis had agreed, in the treaty of the 11th of April,
that none of his subjects should be deprived of their titles and
dignities; and the new dukes, princes, marshals, counts, and
barons, could therefore appear at court, but they played but a sad
and humiliating rôle, and they were made to feel that
they were only tolerated, and not welcome.

The gentlemen who, before the revolution, had been entitled to
seats in the royal equipages, still retained this privilege, but
the doors of these equipages were never opened to the gentlemen of
the new Napoleonic nobility. “The ladies of the old era still
retained their tabouret, as well as their grand and little
entrée to the Tuileries and the Louvre, and it would
have been considered very arrogant if the duchesses of the new era
had made claim to similar honors.”

It was the Duchess d’Angoulême who took the lead and set
the Faubourg St. Germain an example of intolerance and arrogant
pretensions in ignoring the empire. She was the most unrelenting
enemy of the new era, born of the revolution, and of its
representatives; it is true, however, that she, who was the
daughter of the beheaded royal pair, and who had herself so long
languished in the Temple, had been familiar with the horrors of the
revolution in their saddest and most painful features. She now
determined, as she could no longer punish, to at least forget this
era, and to seem to be entirely oblivious of its existence.

At one of the first dinners given by the king to the allies, the
Duchess d’Angoulême, who sat next to the King of Bavaria,
pointed to the Grand-duke of Baden, and asked: “Is not this the
prince who married a princess of Bonaparte’s making? What weakness
to ally one’s self in such a manner with that general!”

The duchess did not or would not remember that the King of
Bavaria, as well as the Emperor of Austria, who sat on her other
side, and could well hear her words, had also allied themselves
with General Bonaparte.

After she had again installed herself in the rooms she had
formerly occupied in the Tuileries, the duchess asked old Dubois,
who had formerly tuned her piano, and had retained this office
under the empire, and who now showed her the new and elegant
instruments provided by Josephine–she asked him: “What has become
of my piano?”

This “piano” had been an old and worn-out concern, and the
duchess was surprised at not finding it, as though almost thirty
years had not passed since she had seen it last; as though the 10th
of August, 1792, the day on which the populace demolished the
Tuileries, had never been!

But the period from 1795 to 1814 was ignored on principle, and
the Bourbons seemed really to have quite forgotten that more than
one night lay between the last levee of King Louis XVI. and the
levee of to-day of King Louis XVIII. They seemed astonished that
persons they had known as children had grown up since they last saw
them, and insisted on treating every one as they had done in
1789.

After the Empress Josephine’s death, Count d’Artois paid a visit
to Malmaison, a place that had hardly existed before the
revolution, and which owed its creation to Josephine’s love and
taste for art.

The empress, who had a great fondness for botany, had caused
magnificent greenhouses to be erected at Malmaison; in these all
the plants and flowers of the world had been collected. Knowing her
taste, all the princes of Europe had sent her, in the days of her
grandeur, in order to afford her a moment’s gratification, the
rarest exotics. The Prince Regent of England had even found means,
during the war with France, to send her a number of rare
West-Indian plants. In this manner her collection had become the
richest and most complete in all Europe.

Count d’Artois, as above said, had come to Malmaison to view
this celebrated place of sojourn of Josephine, and, while being
conducted through the greenhouses, he exclaimed, as though he
recognized his old flowers of 1789: “Ah, here are our plants of
Trianon!”

And, like their masters the Bourbons, the emigrants had also
returned to France with the same ideas with which they had fled the
country. They endeavored, in all their manners, habits, and
pretensions, to begin again precisely where they had left off in
1789. They had so lively an appreciation of their own merit, that
they took no notice whatever of other people’s, and yet their
greatest merit consisted in having emigrated.

For this merit they now demanded a reward.

All of these returned emigrants demanded rewards, positions, and
pensions, and considered it incomprehensible that those who were
already in possession were not at once deprived of them. Intrigues
were the order of the day, and in general the representatives of
the old era succeeded in supplanting those of the new era in
offices and pensions as well as in court honors. All the high
positions in the army were filled by the marquises, dukes, and
counts, of the old era, who had sewed tapestry and picked silk in
Coblentz, while the France of the new era was fighting on the
battle-field, and they now began to teach the soldiers of the
empire the old drill of 1780.

The etiquette of the olden time was restored, and the same
luxurious and lascivious disposition prevailed among these
cavaliers of the former century which had been approved in the
oeil de boeuf and in the petites maisons of the old
era.

These old cavaliers felt contempt for the young Frenchmen of the
new era on account of their pedantic morality; they scornfully
regarded men who perhaps had not more than one mistress, and to
whom the wife of a friend was so sacred, that they never dared to
approach her with a disrespectful thought even.

These legitimist gentlemen entertained themselves chiefly with
reflections over the past, and their own grandeur. In the midst of
the many new things by which they were surrounded, some of which
they unfortunately found it impossible to ignore, it was their
sweetest relaxation to give themselves up entirely to the
remembrance of the old régime, and when they spoke of
this era, they forgot their age and debility, and were once more
the young roués of the oeil de boeuf.

Once in the antechamber of King Louis XVIII., while the Marquis
de Chimène and the Duke de Lauraguais, two old heroes of the
frivolous era, in which the boudoir and the petites maisons
were the battle-field, and the myrtle instead of the laurel the
reward of victory, while these gentlemen were conversing of some
occurrence under the old government, the Duke de Lauraguais, in
order to more nearly fix the date of the occurrence of which they
were speaking, remarked to the marquis, “It was in the year in
which I had my liaison with your wife.”

“Ah, yes,” replied the marquis, with perfect composure, “that
was in the year 1776.”

Neither of the gentlemen found anything strange in this allusion
to the past. The liaison in question had been a perfectly
commonplace matter, and it would have been as ridiculous in the
duke to deny it as for the marquis to have shown any
indignation.

The wisest and most enlightened of all these gentlemen was their
head, King Louis XVIII. himself.

He was well aware of the errors of those who surrounded him, and
placed but little confidence in the representatives of the old
court. But he was nevertheless powerless to withdraw himself from
their influence, and after he had accorded the people the charter,
in opposition to the will and opinion of the whole royal family, of
his whole court and of his ministers, and had sworn to support it
in spite of the opposition of “Monsieur” and the Prince de
Condé, who was in the habit of calling the charter
“Mademoiselle la Constitution de 1791,” Louis withdrew to
the retirement of his apartments in the Tuileries, and left his
minister Blacas to attend to the little details of government, the
king deeming the great ones only worthy of his attention.

CHAPTER VII.

KING LOUIS XVIII.

King Louis XVIII. was, however, in the retirement of his palace,
still the most enlightened and unprejudiced of the representatives
of the old era; he clearly saw many things to which his advisers
purposely closed their eyes. To his astonishment, he observed that
the men who had risen to greatness under Bonaparte, and who had
fallen to the king along with the rest of his inheritance, were not
so ridiculous, awkward, and foolish, as they had been represented
to be.

“I had been made to suppose,” said Louis XVIII., “that these
generals of Bonaparte were peasants and ruffians, but such is not
the case. He schooled these men well. They are polite, and quite as
shrewd as the representatives of the old court. We must conduct
ourselves very cautiously toward them.”

This kind of recognition of the past which sometimes escaped
Louis XVIII., was a subject of bitter displeasure to the gentlemen
of the old era, and they let the king perceive it.

King Louis felt this, and, in order to conciliate his court, he
often saw himself compelled to humiliate “the parvenus” who
had forced themselves among the former.

Incessant quarrelling and intriguing within the Tuileries was
the consequence, and Louis was often dejected, uneasy, and angry,
in the midst of the splendor that surrounded him.

“I am angry with myself and the others,” said he on one occasion
to an intimate friend. “An invisible and secret power is ever
working in opposition to my will, frustrating my plans, and
paralyzing my authority.”

“And yet you are king!”

“Undoubtedly I am king!” exclaimed Louis, angrily; “but am I
also master? The king is he who all his life long receives
ambassadors, gives tiresome audiences, listens to annihilating
discourses, goes in state to Notre-Dame, dines in public once a
year, and is pompously buried in St. Denis when he dies. The master
is he who commands and can enforce obedience, who puts an end to
intriguing, and can silence old women as well as priests. Bonaparte
was king and master at the same time! His ministers were his
clerks, the kings his brothers merely his agents, and his courtiers
nothing more than his servants. His ministers vied with his senate
in servility, and his Corps Législatif sought to
outdo his senate and the church in subserviency. He was an
extraordinary and an enviable man, for he had not only devoted
servants and faithful friends, but also an accommodating
church [37].”

[37] Mémoires d’une Femme de
Qualité, vol. v., p. 35.

King Louis XVIII., weary of the incessant intrigues with which
his courtiers occupied themselves, withdrew himself more and more
into the retirement of his palace, and left the affairs of state to
the care of M. de Blacas, who, with all his arrogance and egotism,
knew very little about governing.

The king preferred to entertain himself with his friends, to
read them portions of his memoirs, to afford them an opportunity of
admiring his verses, and to regale them with his witty and not
always chaste anecdotes; he preferred all these things to tedious
and useless disputes with his ministers. He had given his people
the charter, and his ministers might now govern in accordance with
this instrument.

“The people demand liberty,” said the king. “I give them enough
of it to protect them against despotism, without according them
unbridled license. Formerly, the taxes appointed by my mere will
would have made me odious; now the people tax themselves.
Hereafter, I have nothing to do but to confer benefits and show
mercy, for the responsibility for all the evil that is done will
rest entirely with my ministers [38].”

[38] Mémoires d’une Femme de
Qualité, vol. i., p. 410.

While his ministers were thus governing according to the
charter, and “doing evil,” the king, who now had nothing but “good”
to do, was busying himself in settling the weighty questions of the
old etiquette.

One of the most important features of this etiquette was the
question of the fashions that should now be introduced at court;
for it was, of course, absurd to think of adopting the fashions of
the empire, and thereby recognize at court that there had really
been a change since 1789.

They desired to effect a counter-revolution, not only in
politics, but also in fashions; and this important matter occupied
the attention of the grand dignitaries of the court for weeks
before the first grand levee that the king was to hold in the
Tuilerics. But, as nothing was accomplished by their united wisdom,
the king finally held a private consultation with his most intimate
gentleman and lady friends on this important matter, that had,
unfortunately, not been determined by the charter.

The grand-master of ceremonies, M. de Bregé, declared to
the king that it was altogether improper to continue the fashions
of the empire at the court of the legitimate King of France.

“We are, therefore, to have powder, coats-of-mail, etc.,”
observed the king.

M. de Bregé replied, with all gravity, that he had given
this subject his earnest consideration day and night, but that he
had not yet arrived at a conclusion worthy of the grand-master of
ceremonies of the legitimate king.

“Sire,” said the Duke de Chartres, smiling, “I, for my part,
demand knee-breeches, shoe-buckles, and the cue.”

“But I,” exclaimed the Prince de Poir, who had remained in
France during the empire, “I demand damages, if we are to be
compelled to return to the old fashions and clothing before the new
ones are worn out!”

The grand-master of ceremonies replied to this jest at his
expense with a profound sigh only; and the king at last put an end
to this great question, by deciding that every one should be
permitted to follow the old or new fashions, according to his
individual taste and inclination.

The grand-master of ceremonies was compelled to submit to this
royal decision; but in doing so he observed, with profound sadness:
“Your majesty is pleased to smile, but dress makes half the man;
uniformity of attire confounds the distinctions of rank, and leads
directly to an agrarian law.”

“Yes, marquis,” exclaimed the king, “you think precisely as
Figaro. Many a man laughs at a judge in a short dress, who trembles
before a procurator in a long gown [39].”

[39] Mémoires d’une Femme de
Qualité, vol. i., p. 384.

But while the king suppressed the counter-revolution in
fashions, he allowed the grand-master of ceremonies to reintroduce
the entire etiquette of the old era. In conformity with this
etiquette, the king could not rise from his couch in the morning
until the doors had been opened to all those who had the grande
entrée–that is to say, to the officers of his
household, the marshals of France, several favored ladies; further,
to his cafetier, his tailor, the bearer of his slippers, his
barber, with two assistants, his watchmaker, and his
apothecaries.

The king was dressed in the presence of all these favored
individuals, etiquette permitting him only to adjust his necktie
himself, but requiring him, however, to empty his pockets of their
contents of the previous day.

The usage of the old era, “the public dinner of the royal
family,” was also reintroduced; and the grand-master of ceremonies
not only found it necessary to make preparations for this dinner
weeks beforehand, but the king was also compelled to occupy himself
with this matter, and to appoint for this great ceremony the
necessary “officers of provisions”–that is to say, the
wine-taster, the cup-bearers, the grand doorkeepers, and the
cook-in-chief.

At this first grand public dinner, the celebrated and
indispensable “ship” of the royal board stood again immediately in
front of the king’s seat. This old “ship” of the royal board, an
antique work of art which the city of Paris had once presented to a
King of France, had also been lost in the grand shipwreck of 1792,
and the grand-master of ceremonies had been compelled to have a new
one made by the court jeweller for the occasion. This “ship” was a
work in gilded silver, in form of a vessel deprived of its masts
and rigging; and in the same, between two golden plates, were
contained the perfumed napkins of the king. In accordance with the
old etiquette, no one, not even the princes and princesses, could
pass the “ship” without making a profound obeisance, which they
were also compelled to make on passing the royal couch.

The king restored yet another fashion of the old era–the
fashion of the “royal lady-friends.”

Like his brother the Count d’Artois, Louis XVIII. also had his
lady-friends; and among these the beautiful and witty Countess
Ducayla occupied the first position. It was her office to amuse the
king, and dissipate the dark clouds that were only too often to be
seen on the brow of King Louis, who was chained to his arm-chair by
ill-health, weakness, and excessive corpulency. She narrated to him
the chronique scandaleuse of the imperial court; she
reminded him of the old affairs of his youth, which the king knew
how to relate with so much wit and humor, and which he so loved to
relate; it devolved upon her to examine the letters of the “black
cabinet,” and to read the more interesting ones to the king.

King Louis was not ungrateful to his royal friend, and he
rewarded her in a truly royal manner for sometimes banishing
ennui from his apartments. Finding that the countess had no
intimate acquaintance with the contents of the Bible, he gave her
the splendid Bible of Royaumont, ornamented with one hundred and
fifty magnificent engravings, after paintings of Raphael. Instead
of tissue-paper, a thousand-franc note covered each of these
engravings [40].

[40] Amours et Galanteries des Rois de France,
par St. Edme, vol. ii., p. 383. Mémoires d’une Femme de
Qualité, vol. i., p. 409.

On another occasion, the king gave her a copy of the “Charter;”
and in this each leaf was also covered with a thousand-franc note,
as in the Bible.

For so many proofs of the royal generosity, the beautiful
countess, perhaps willingly, submitted to be called “the royal
snuff-box,” which appellation had its origin in the habit which the
king fondly indulged in of strewing snuff on the countess’s lovely
shoulder, and then snuffing it up with his nose.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DRAWING-KOOM OF THE DUCHESS OF ST. LEU.

While the etiquette and frivolity of the old era were being
introduced anew at the Tuileries, and while M. de Blacas was
governing in complacent recklessness, time was progressing,
notwithstanding his endeavors to turn it backward in his
flight.

While, out of the incessant conflict between the old and the new
France, a discontented France was being born, Napoleon, the Emperor
of Elba, was forming great plans of conquest, and preparing in
secret understanding with the faithful, to leave his place of exile
and return to France.

He well knew that he could rely on his old army–on the army who
loudly cried, “Vive le roi!” and then added, sotto
voce, “de Rome, et son petit papa[41]!”

[41] Cochelet, Mémoires sur la Reine
Hortense, vol. iii, p. 121.

Hortense, the new Duchess of St. Leu, took but little part in
all these things. She had, notwithstanding her youth and beauty, in
a measure taken leave of the world. She felt herself to be no
longer the woman, but only the mother; her sons were the objects of
all her tenderness and love, and she lived for them only. In her
retirement at St. Leu, her time was devoted to the arts, to
reading, and to study; and, after having been thus occupied
throughout the day, she passed the evening in her drawing-room, in
unrestrained intellectual conversation with her friends.

For she had friends who had remained true, notwithstanding the
obscurity into which she had withdrawn herself, and who, although
they filled important positions at the new court, had retained
their friendship for the solitary dethroned queen.

With these friends the Duchess of St. Leu conversed, in the
evening, in her parlor, of the grand and beautiful past, giving
themselves up entirely to these recollections, little dreaming that
this harmless relaxation could awaken suspicion.

For the Duke of Otranto, who had succeeded in his shrewdness in
retaining his position of minister of police, as well under Louis
XVIII. as under Napoleon, had his spies everywhere; he knew of all
that was said in every parlor of Paris; he knew also that it was
the custom, in the parlors of the Duchess of St. Leu, to look from
the dark present back at the brilliant past, and to console one’s
self for the littleness of the present, with the recollection of
the grandeur of departed days! And Fouché, or rather the
Duke of Otranto, knew how to utilize everything.

In order to arouse Minister Blacas out of his stupid dream of
security, to a realizing sense of the grave events that were taking
place, Fouché told him that a conspiracy against the
government was being formed in the parlors of the Duchess of St.
Leu; that all those who were secret adherents of Bonaparte were in
the habit of assembling there, and planning the deliverance of the
emperor from Elba. In order, however, on the other hand, to provide
against the possibility of Napoleon’s return, the Duke of Otranto
hastened to the Duchess of St. Leu, to warn her and conjure her to
be on her guard against the spies by whom she was surrounded, as
suspicion might be easily excited against her at court.

Hortense paid no attention to this warning; she considered
precaution unnecessary, and was not willing to deprive herself of
her one happiness–that of seeing her friends, and of conversing
with them in a free and unconstrained manner.

The parlors of the duchess, therefore, continued to be thrown
open to her faithful friends, who had also been the faithful
servants of the emperor; and the Dukes of Bassano, of Friaul, of
Ragusa, of the Moskwa, and their wives, as well as the gallant
Charles de Labedoyère, and the acute Count Renault de
Saint-Jean d’Angely, still continued to meet in the parlors of the
Duchess of St. Leu.

The voice of hostility was raised against them with
ever-increasing hostility; the reunions that took place at St. Leu
were day by day portrayed at the Tuileries in more hateful colors;
and the poor duchess, who lived in sorrow and retirement in her
apartments, became an object of hatred and envy to these proud
ladies of the old aristocracy, who were unable to comprehend how
this woman could be thought of while they were near, although she
had been the ornament of the imperial court, and who was considered
amiable, intellectual, and beautiful, even under the legitimate
dynasty.

Hortense heard of the ridiculous and malicious reports which had
been circulated concerning her, and, for the sake of her friends
and sons, she resolved to put an end to them.

“I must leave my dear St. Leu and go to Paris,” said she. “There
they can better observe all my actions. Reason demands that I
should conform myself to circumstances.”

She therefore abandoned her quiet home at St. Leu, and repaired
with her children and her court to Paris, to again take up her
abode in her dwelling in the Rue de la Victoire.

But this step gave fresh fuel to the calumnies of her enemies,
who saw in her the embodied remembrance of the empire which they
hated and at the same time feared.

The Bonapartists still continued their visits to her parlors, as
before; and no appeals, no representations could induce Hortense to
close her doors against her faithful friends, for fear that their
fidelity might excite suspicion against herself.

In order, however, to contradict the report that adherents of
Napoleon only were in the habit of frequenting her parlors, the
duchess also extended the hospitalities of her parlors to the
strangers who brought letters of recommendation, and who desired to
be introduced to her. Great numbers hastened to avail themselves of
this permission.

The most brilliant and select circle was soon assembled around
the duchess. There, were to be found the great men of the empire,
who came out of attachment; distinguished strangers, who came out
of admiration; and, finally, the aristocrats of the old era, who
came out of curiosity, who came to see if the Duchess of St. Leu
was really so intelligent, amiable, and graceful, as she was said
to be.

The parlors of the duchess were therefore more talked of in
Paris than they had been at St. Leu. The old duchesses and
princesses of the Faubourg St. Germain, with all their ancestors,
prejudices, and pretensions, were enraged at hearing this
everlasting praise of the charming queen, and endeavored to appease
their wrath by renewed hostilities against its object.

It was not enough that she was calumniated, at court and in
society, as a dangerous person; the arm of the press was also
wielded against her.

As we have said, Hortense was the embodied remembrance of the
empire, and it was therefore determined that she should be
destroyed. Brochures and pamphlets were published, in which
the king was appealed to, to banish from Paris, and even from
France, the dangerous woman who was conspiring publicly, and even
under the very eyes of the government, for Napoleon, and to banish
with her the two children also, the two Napoleons; “for,” said
these odious accusers, “to leave these two princes here, means to
raise in France wolves that would one day ravage their
country [42].”

[42] Cochelet, Mémoires sur la Reins
Hortense, vol. ii., p. 330.

Hortense paid but little attention to these reports and
calumnies. She was too much accustomed to being misunderstood and
wrongly judged, to allow herself to be disquieted thereby. She knew
that calumnies were never refuted by contradiction, and that it was
therefore better to meet them with proud silence, and to conquer
them by contempt, instead of giving them new life by combating and
contradicting them.

She herself entertained such contempt for calumny that she never
allowed anything abusive to be said in her presence that would
injure any one in her estimation. When, on one occasion, while she
was still Queen of Holland, a lady of Holland took occasion to
speak ill of another lady, on account of her political opinions,
the queen interrupted her, and said: “Madame, here I am a stranger
to all parties, and receive all persons with the same
consideration, for I love to hear every one well spoken of; and I
generally receive an unfavorable impression of those only who speak
ill of others [43].”

[43] Cochelet, vol. i., p. 378.

And, strange to say, she herself was ever the object of calumny
and accusation.

“During twenty-five years, I have never been separated from
Princess Hortense,” says Louise de Cochelet, “and I have never
observed in her the slightest feeling of bitterness against any
one; ever good and gentle, she never failed to take an interest in
those who were unhappy; and she endeavored to help them whenever
and wherever they presented themselves. And this noble and gentle
woman was always the object of hatred and absurd calumnies, and
against all this she was armed with the integrity and purity of her
actions and intentions only [44].”

[44] Cochelet, vol. i., p. 378.

Nor did Hortense now think of contradicting the calumnies that
had been circulated concerning her. Her mind was occupied with
other and far more important matters.

An ambassador of her husband, who resided in Florence, had come
to Paris in order to demand of Hortense, in the name of Louis
Bonaparte, his two sons.

After much discussion, he had finally declared that he would be
satisfied, if his wife would send him his eldest son, Napoleon
Louis, only.

But the loving mother could not and would not consent to a
separation from either of her children; and as, in spite of her
entreaties, her husband persisted in refusing to allow her to
retain both of them, she resolved, in the anguish of maternal love,
to resort to the most extreme means to retain the possession of her
sons.

She informed her husband’s ambassador that it was her fixed
purpose to retain possession of her children, and appealed to the
law to recognize and protect them, and not allow her sons to be
deprived of their rights as Frenchmen, by going into a compulsory
exile.

While the Duchess of St. Leu was being accused of conspiring in
favor of Napoleon, her whole soul was occupied with the one
question, which was to decide whether one of her sons could be torn
from her side or not; and, if she conspired at all, it was only
with her lawyer in order to frustrate her husband’s plans.

But the calumnies and accusations of the press were nevertheless
continued; and at last her friends thought it necessary to lay
before the queen a journal that contained a violent and abusive
article against her, and to request that they might be permitted to
reply to it.

“With a sad smile, Hortense read the article and returned the
newspaper.

“It is extremely mortifying to be scorned by one’s countrymen,”
said she, “but it would be useless to make any reply. I can afford
to disregard such attacks–they are powerless to harm me.”

But when on the following morning the same journal contained a
venomous and odious article levelled at her husband, Louis
Bonaparte, her generous indignation was aroused, and, oblivious of
all their disagreements, and even of the process now pending
between them, she remembered only that it was the father of her
children whom they had dared to attack, and that he was not present
to defend himself. It therefore devolved upon her to defend
him.

“I am enraged, and I desire that M. Després shall reply
to this article at once,” said Hortense. “Although paternal love on
the one side, and maternal love on the other, has involved us in a
painful process, it nevertheless concerns no one else, and it
disgraces neither of us. I should be in despair, if this sad
controversy were made the pretext for insulting the father of my
children and the honored name he bears. For the very reason that I
stand alone, am I called on to defend the absent to the best of my
ability. Therefore let M. Després come to me; I will
instruct him how to answer this disgraceful article!”

On the following day, an able and eloquent article in defence of
Louis Bonaparte appeared in the journal–an article that shamed and
silenced his accusers–an article which the prince, whose cause it
so warmly espoused, probably never thought of attributing to the
wife to whose maternal heart be had caused such anguish [45].

[45] Cochelet, vol. i., p. 303.

CHAPTER IX.

THE BURIAL OF LOUIS XVI. AND HIS WIFE.

The earnest endeavors of the Bourbon court to find the
resting-place of the remains of the royal couple who had died on
the scaffold, and who had expiated the crimes of their predecessors
rather than their own, were at last successful. The remains of the
illustrious martyrs had been sought for in accordance with the
directions of persons who had witnessed their sorrowful and
contemptuous burial, and the body of Louis XVI. was found in a
desolate corner of the grave-yard of St. Roch, and in another place
also that of Queen Marie Antoinette.

It was the king’s wish, and a perfectly natural and just one, to
inter these bodies in the royal vault at St. Denis, but he wished
to do it quietly and without pomp; his acute political tact taught
him that these sad remains should not be made the occasion of a
political demonstration, and that it was unwise to permit the bones
of Louis XVI. to become a new apple of discord.

But the king’s court, even his nearest relatives, his ministers,
and the whole troop of arrogant courtiers, who desired, by means of
an ostentatious interment, not only to show a proper respect for
the beheaded royal pair, but also to punish those whom they
covertly called “regicides,” and whom they were nevertheless now
compelled to tolerate–the king’s entire court demanded a solemn
and ceremonious interment; and Louis, who, as he himself had said,
“was king, but not master,” was compelled to yield to this
demand.

Preparations were therefore made for an ostentatious interment
of the royal remains, and it was determined that the melancholy
rites should take place on the 21st of January, 1815, the
anniversary of painful memories and unending regret for the royal
family.

M. de Chateaubriand, the noble and intelligent eulogist and
friend of the Bourbons, caused an article to be inserted in the
Journal des Débats, in which he announced the
impending ceremony. This article was then republished in pamphlet
form; and so great was the sympathy of the Parisians in the
approaching event, that thirty thousand copies were disposed of, in
Paris alone, in one day.

On the 20th of January the graves of the martyrs were opened,
and all the princes of the royal house who were present, knelt down
at the edge of the grave to mingle their prayers with those of the
thousands who had accompanied them to the church-yard.

But the king was right. This act, that appeared to some to be a
mere act of justice, seemed an insult to others, and reminded them
of the dark days of error and fanaticism, in which they had allowed
themselves to be drawn into the vortex of the general delirium.
Many of those who in the Assembly had voted for the death of the
king, were now residing at Paris, and even at court, as for
instance Fouché, and to them the approaching ceremony seemed
an insult.

“Are you aware,” exclaimed Descourtis, as he rushed into the
apartment of Cambacérès, who was at that moment
conversing with the Count de Pere, “have you already been informed
that this ceremony is really to take place to-morrow?”

“Yes, to-morrow is the fated day. To-morrow we are to be
delivered over to the daggers of fanatics.”

“Is this the pardon that was promised us?”

“As for that,” exclaimed the Count de Pere (a good royalist), “I
was not aware that there was an article in the constitution
forbidding the reinterment of the mortal remains of the royal pair.
The proceeding will be perfectly lawful.”

“It is their purpose to infuriate the populace,” exclaimed
Descourtis, pale with inward agitation. “Old recollections are to
be recalled and a mute accusation hurled at us. But we shall some
day be restored to power again, and then we will remember
also!”

Cambacérès, who had listened to this conversation
in silence, now stepped forward, and, taking Descourtis’s hand in
his own, pressed it tenderly.

“Ah, my friend,” said he, in sad and solemn tones, “I would we
were permitted to march behind the funeral-car in mourning-robes
to-morrow! We owe this proof of repentance to France and to
ourselves!”

The solemn funeral celebration took place on the following day.
All Paris took part in it. Every one, even the old republicans, the
Bonapartists as well as the royalists, joined the funeral
procession, in order to testify that they had abandoned the past
and were repentant.

Slowly and solemnly, amid the ringing of all the bells, the roll
of the drum, the thunders of artillery, and the chants of the
clergy, the procession moved onward.

The golden crown, which hung suspended over the funeral-car,
shone lustrously in the sunlight. It had fallen from the heads of
the royal pair while they still lived; it now adorned them in
death.

Slowly and solemnly the procession moved onward; it had arrived
at the Boulevards which separates the two streets of Montmartre.
Suddenly a terrible, thousand-voiced cry of horror burst upon the
air.

The crown, which hung suspended over the funeral-car, had fallen
down, touching the coffins with a dismal sound, and then broke into
fragments on the glittering snow of the street.

This occurred on the 21st of January; two months later, at the
same hour, and on the same day, the crown of Louis XVIII. fell from
his head, and Napoleon placed it on his own!

CHAPTER X.

NAPOLEON’S RETURN FROM ELBA.

A cry of tremendous import reverberated through Paris, all
France, and all Europe, in the first days of March, 1815. Napoleon,
it was said, had quitted Elba, and would soon arrive in France!

The royalists heard it with dismay, the Bonapartists with a
delight that they hardly took the pains to conceal.

Hortense alone took no part in the universal delight of the
imperialists. Her soul was filled with profound sadness and dark
forebodings. “I lament this step,” said she; “I would have
sacrificed every thing to prevent his return to France, because I
am of the belief that no good can come of it. Many will declare
for, and many against him, and we shall have a civil war, of which
the emperor himself may be the victim [46].”

[46] Cochelet, vol. ii., p. 348.

In the meanwhile the general excitement was continually
increasing; it took possession of every one, and at this time none
would have been capable of giving cool and sensible advice.

Great numbers of the emperor’s friends came to the Duchess of
St. Leu, and demanded of her counsel, assistance, and
encouragement, accusing her of indifference and want of sympathy,
because she did not share their hopes, and was sad instead of
rejoicing with them.

But the spies of the still ruling government, who lay in wait
around the queen’s dwelling, did not hear her words; they only saw
that the emperor’s former generals and advisers were in the habit
of repairing to her parlors, and that was sufficient to stamp
Hortense as the head of the conspiracy which had for its object the
return of Napoleon to France.

The queen perceived the danger of her situation, but she bowed
her head to receive the blows of Fate in silent resignation. “I am
environed by torments and perplexities,” said she, “but I see no
means of avoiding them. There is no resource for me but to arm
myself with courage, and that I will do.”

The royal government, however, still hoped to be able to stem
the advancing tide, and compel the waves of insurrection to surge
backward and destroy those who had set them in motion.

They proposed to treat the great event which made France glow
with new pulsations, as a mere insurrection, that had been
discovered in good time, and could therefore be easily repressed.
They therefore determined, above all, to seize and render harmless
the “conspirators,” that is to say, all those of whom it was known
that they had remained faithful to the emperor in their hearts.

Spies surrounded the houses of all the generals, dukes, and
princes of the empire, and it was only in disguise and by the
greatest dexterity that they could evade the vigilance of the
police.

The Duchess of St. Leu was at last also compelled to yield to
the urgent entreaties of her friends, and seek an asylum during
these days of uncertainty and danger. She quitted her dwelling in
disguise, and, penetrating through the army of spies who lay in
wait around the house and in the street in which she resided, she
happily succeeded in reaching the hiding-place prepared for her by
a faithful servant of her mother. She had already confided her
children to another servant who had remained true to her in her
time of trouble.

The Duke of Otranto, now once more the faithful Fouché of
the empire, was also to have been arrested, but he managed to
effect his escape. General Lavalette–who was aware that the
dwelling of the Duchess of St. Leu was no longer watched by the
police, who had discovered that the duchess was no longer
there–Lavalette took advantage of this circumstance, and concealed
himself in her dwelling, and M. de Dandré, the chief of
police, who had vainly endeavored to catch the so-called
conspirators, exclaimed in anguish: “It is impossible to find any
one; it has been so much noised about that these Bonapartists were
to be arrested, that they are now all hidden away.”

Like a bombshell the news suddenly burst upon the anxious and
doubting capital: “The emperor has been received by the people in
Grenoble with exultation, and the troops that were to have been led
against him have, together with their chieftain, Charles de
Labedoyère, gone over to the emperor. The gates of the city
were thrown open, and the people advanced to meet him with shouts
of welcome and applause; and now Napoleon stood no longer at the
head of a little body of troops, but at the head of a small army
that was increasing with every hour.”

The government still endeavored, through its officials and
through the public press, to make the Parisians disbelieve this
intelligence.

But the government had lost faith in itself. It heard the old,
the hated cry, “Vive l’empereur!” resounding through the air; it
heard the fluttering of the victorious battle-flags of Marengo,
Arcola, Jena, and Austerlitz! The Emperor Napoleon was still the
conquering hero, who swayed destiny and compelled it to declare for
him.

A perfect frenzy of dismay took possession of the royalists; and
when they learned that Napoleon had already arrived in Lyons, that
its inhabitants had received him with enthusiasm, and that its
garrison had also declared for him, their panic knew no bounds.

The royalist leaders assembled at the house of Count de la Pere,
for the purpose of holding a last great discussion and
consultation. The most eminent persons, men and women, differing
widely on other subjects, but a unit on this point, assembled here
with the same feelings of patriotic horror, and with the same
desire to promote the general welfare. There were Madame de
Staël, Benjamin Constant, Count Lainé, and
Chateaubriand; there were the Duke de Némours, and Count de
la Pere, and around them gathered the whole troop of anxious
royalists, expecting and hoping that the eloquent lips of these
celebrated personages who stood in their midst would give them
consolation and new life.

Benjamin Constant spoke first. He said that, to Napoleon, that
is, to force, force must be opposed. Bonaparte was armed with the
love of the soldiers, they must arm themselves with the love of the
citizens. His appearance was imposing, like the visage of Caesar;
it would be necessary to oppose to him an equally sublime
countenance. Lafayette should, therefore, be made
commander-in-chief of the French army.

M. de Chateaubriand exclaimed, with noble indignation, that the
first step to be taken by the government was to punish severely a
ministry that was so short-sighted, and had committed so many
faults. Lainé declared, with a voice tremulous with emotion,
that all was lost, and that but one means of confounding tyranny
remained; a scene, portraying the whole terror, dismay and grief of
the capital at the approach of the hated enemy, should be arranged.
In accordance with this plan, the whole population of Paris–the
entire National Guard, the mothers, the young girls, the children,
the old and the young–were to pass out of the city, and await the
tyrant; and this aspect of a million of men fleeing from the face
of a single human being was to move or terrify him who came to rob
them of their peace!

In her enthusiastic and energetic manner, Madame de Staël
pronounced an anathema against the usurper who was about to kindle
anew, in weeping, shivering France, the flames of war.

All were touched, enthusiastic, and agitated, but they could do
nothing but utter fine phrases; and all that fell from the eloquent
lips of these celebrated poets and politicians was, as it were,
nothing more than a bulletin concerning the condition of the
patient, and concerning the mortal wounds which he had received.
This patient was France; and the royalists, who were assembled in
the house of Count de la Pere, now felt that the patient’s case was
hopeless, and that nothing remained to them but to go into exile,
and bemoan his sad fate [47]!

[47] Mémoires d’une Femme de
Qualité, vol. i., p. 99.

CHAPTER XI.

LOUIS XVIII.’S DEPARTURE AND NAPOLEON’S ARRIVAL.

While the royalists were thus considering, hesitating, and
despairing, King Louis XVIII. had alone retained his composure and
sense of security. That is to say, they had taken care not to
inform him of the real state of affairs. On the contrary, he had
been informed that Bonaparte had been everywhere received with
coldness and silence, and that the army would not respond to his
appeal, but would remain true to the king. The exultation with
which the people everywhere received the advancing emperor found,
therefore, no echo in the Tuileries, and the crowd who pressed
around the king when he repaired to the hall of the Corps
Législatif to hold an encouraging address, was not the
people, but the royalists–those otherwise so haughty ladies and
gentlemen of the old nobility, who again, as on the day of the
first entrance, acted the part to which the people were not
disposed to adapt themselves, and transformed themselves for a
moment into the people, in order to show to the king the
demonstrations of his people’s love.

The king was completely deceived. M. de Blacas told the king of
continuous reverses to Napoleon’s arms, while the emperor’s advance
was in reality a continuous triumph. They had carried this
deception so far that they had informed the king that Lyons had
closed its gates to Napoleon, and that Ney was advancing to meet
him, vowing that he would bring the emperor back to Paris in an
iron cage.

The king was therefore composed, self-possessed, and resolute,
when suddenly his brother, the Count d’Artois, and the Duke of
Orleans, who, according to the king’s belief, occupied Lyons as a
victor, arrived in Paris alone, as fugitives, abandoned by their
soldiers and servants, and informed Louis that Lyons had received
the emperor with open arms, and that no resource had been left them
but to betake themselves to flight.

And a second, and still more terrible, item of intelligence
followed the first. Ney, the king’s hope, the last support of his
tottering throne, Ney had not had the heart to maintain a hostile
position toward his old companion in arms. Ney had gone over to the
emperor, and his army had followed him with exultation.

The king’s eyes were now opened, he now saw the truth, and
learned how greatly he had been deceived.

“Alas,” cried he, sadly, “Bonaparte fell because he would not
listen to the truth, and I shall fall because they would not tell
me the truth!”

At this moment, and while the king was eloquently appealing to
his brothers and relatives, and to the gentlemen of his court who
surrounded him, to tell him the whole truth, the door opened, and
the Minister Blacas, until then so complacent, so confident of
victory, now stepped in pale and trembling.

The truth, which he had so long concealed from the king, was now
plainly impressed on his pale, terrified countenance. The king had
desired to hear the truth; it stood before him in his trembling
minister.

A short interval of profound silence occurred; the eyes of all
were fastened on the count, and, in the midst of the general
silence, he was heard to say, in a voice choked with emotion:
“Sire, all is lost; the army, as well as the people, betray your
majesty. It will be necessary for your majesty to leave Paris.”

The king staggered backward for an instant, and then fastened an
inquiring glance on the faces of all who were present. No one dared
to return his gaze with a glance of hope. They all looked down
sorrowfully.

The king understood this mute reply, and a deep sigh escaped his
breast.

“The tree bears its fruit,” said he, with a bitter smile;
“heretofore it has been your purpose to make me govern for you,
hereafter I shall govern for no one. If I shall, however, return to
the throne of my fathers once more, you will be made to understand
that I will profit by the experience you have given me [48]!”

[48] The king’s own words. Mémoires d’une
Femme de Qualité, vol. i. p. 156.

A few hours later, at nightfall, supported on the arm of Count
Blacas, without any suite, and preceded by a single lackey bearing
a torch, the king left the once more desolate and solitary
Tuileries, and fled to Holland.

Twenty-four hours later, on the evening of the 20th of March,
Napoleon entered the Tuileries, accompanied by the exulting shouts
of the people, and the thundering “Vive l’empereur” of the
troops. On the same place where the white flag of the Bourbons had
but yesterday fluttered, the tricolore of the empire now
flung out its folds to the breeze.

In the Tuileries the emperor found all his old ministers, his
generals, and his courtiers, assembled. All were desirous of seeing
and greeting him. An immense concourse of people surged around the
entrance on the stair-ways and in the halls.

Borne aloft on the arms and shoulders of the people, the emperor
was carried up the stairway, and into his apartments; and, while
shouts of joy were resounding within, the thousands without joined
the more fortunate ones who had borne the emperor to his
apartments, and rent the air with exulting cries of “Vive
l’empereur!”

In his cabinet, to which Napoleon immediately repaired, he was
received by Queen Julia, wife of Joseph Bonaparte, and Queen
Hortense, who had abandoned her place of concealment, and hurried
to the Tuileries to salute the emperor.

Napoleon greeted Hortense coldly, he inquired briefly after the
health of her sons, and then added, almost severely: “You have
placed my nephews in a false position, by permitting them to remain
in the midst of my enemies.”

Hortense turned pale, and her eyes filled with tears. The
emperor seemed not to notice it. “You have accepted the friendship
of my enemies,” said he, “and have placed yourself under
obligations to the Bourbons. I depend on Eugene; I hope he will
soon be here. I wrote to him from Lyons.”

This was the reception Hortense received from the emperor. He
was angry with her for having remained in France, and at the same
time the flying Bourbons, who were on their way to Holland, said of
her: “The Duchess of St. Leu is to blame for all! Her intrigues
alone have brought Napoleon back to Paris.”

CHAPTER XII.

THE HUNDRED DAYS.

The hundred days that followed the emperor’s return are like a
myth of the olden time, like a poem of Homer, in which heroes
destroy worlds with a blow of the hand, and raise armies out of the
ground with a stamp of the foot; in which nations perish, and new
ones are born within the space of a minute.

These hundred days stand in history as a giant era, and these
hundred days of the restored empire were replete with all the earth
can offer of fortune, of magnificence, of glory, and of victory, as
well as of all that the earth contains that is disgraceful,
miserable, traitorous, and perfidious.

Wondrous and brilliant was their commencement. All France seemed
to hail the emperor’s return with exultation. Every one hastened to
assure him of his unchangeable fidelity, and to persuade him that
they had only obeyed the Bourbons under compulsion.

The old splendor of the empire once more prevailed in the
Tuileries, where the emperor now held his glittering court again.
There was, however, this difference: Queen Hortense now did the
honors of the court, in the place of the Empress Marie Louise, who
had not returned with her husband; and the emperor could not now
show the people his own son, but could only point to his two
nephews, the sons of Hortense.

The emperor had quickly reconciled himself to the queen; he had
been compelled to yield to her gentle and yet decided explanations;
he had comprehended that Hortense had sacrificed herself for her
children, in continuing to remain in France notwithstanding her
reluctance. After this reconciliation had taken place, Napoleon
extended his hand to Hortense, with his irresistible smile, and
begged her to name a wish, in order that he might fulfil it.

Queen Hortense, who had been so bitterly slandered and scorned
by the royalists, and who was still considered by the fleeing
Bourbons to be the cause of their overthrow–this same queen now
entreated the emperor to permit the Duchess d’Orleans, who had not
been able to leave Paris on account of a broken limb, to remain,
and to accord her a pension besides. She told the emperor that she
had received a letter from the duchess, in which she begged for her
intercession in obtaining some assistance from the emperor,
assuring her that it was urgently Deeded, in her depressed
circumstances.

The emperor consented to grant this wish of his step-daughter
Hortense; and it was solely at her solicitation that Napoleon
accorded a pension of four hundred thousand francs to the Duchess
d’Orleans, the mother of King Louis Philippe [49].

[49] La Reine Hortense en Italie, en France, et
en Angleterre. Ecrit par elle-même, p. 185.

A few days later, at Hortense’s request, a pension of two
hundred thousand francs was also accorded to the Duchess of
Bourbon, who had also besought the queen to exert her influence in
her behalf; and both ladies now hastened to assure Hortense of
their everlasting gratitude. The fulfilment of her wish filled
Hortense with delight; she was as proud of it as of a victory
achieved.

“I considered it a sacred duty,” said she, “to intercede for
these ladies. They were as isolated and desolate as I had been a
few clays before, and I know how sad it is to be in such a
state!”

But Hortense’s present state was a very different one. She was
now no longer the Duchess of St. Leu, but the queen and the
ornament of the court once more; all heads now bowed before her
again, and the high-born ladies, who had seemed oblivious of her
existence during the past year, now hastened to do homage to the
queen.

“Majesty,” said one of these ladies to the queen,
“unfortunately, you were always absent in the country when I called
to pay my respects during the past winter.”

The queen’s only response was a gentle “Indeed madame,” which
she accompanied with a smile.

Hortense, as has before been said, was now again the grand point
of attraction at court, and, at Napoleon’s command, the public
officials now also hastened to solicit the honor of an audience, in
order to pay their respects to the emperor’s step-daughter. Each
day beheld new fêtes and ceremonies.

The most sublime and imposing of all these was the ceremony of
the Champ de Mai, that took place on the first of June, and
at which the emperor, in the presence of the applauding populace,
presented to his army the new eagles and flags, which they were
henceforth to carry into battle instead of the lilies of the
Bourbons.

It was a wondrous, an enchanting spectacle to behold the sea of
human beings that surged to and fro on this immense space, and made
the welkin ring with their “Vive l’empereur!”–to behold the
proud, triumphant soldiers receiving from Napoleon the eagles
consecrated by the priests at the altar that stood before the
emperor. It was a wondrous spectacle to behold the hundreds of
richly-attired ladies glittering with diamonds, who occupied the
tiers of seats that stood immediately behind the emperor’s chair,
and on which Hortense and her two sons occupied the first
seats.

The air was so balmy, the sun shone so lustriously over all this
splendor and magnificence, the cannon thundered so mightily, and
the strains of music resounded so sweetly on the ear; and, while
all were applauding and rejoicing, Hortense sat behind the
emperor’s chair covertly sketching the imposing scene that lay
before her, the grand ceremony, which, a dark foreboding told her,
“might perhaps be the last of the empire [50].”

[50] Cochelet, vol. iii., p. 97.

Hortense alone did not allow herself to be deceived by this
universal delight and contentment.

The heavens still seemed bright and serene overhead, but she
already perceived the gathering clouds, she already heard the
mutterings of the storm that was soon, and this time forever, to
hurl the emperor’s throne to the ground. She knew that a day would
suddenly come when all this brightness would grow dim, and when all
those who now bowed so humbly before him, would turn from him
again–a day when they would deny and desert the emperor as they
had already done once before, and that, from that day on, the
present period of grandeur would be accounted to her as a debt. But
this knowledge caused her neither anxiety nor embarrassment.

The emperor was once more there; he was the lord and father left
her by her mother Josephine, and it was her duty and desire to be
true and obedient to him as long as she lived.

The sun still shone lustrously over the restored empire, and in
the parlors of Queen Hortense, where the diplomats, statesmen,
artists, and all the notables of the empire were in the habit of
assembling, gayety reigned supreme. There music and literature were
discussed, and homage done to all the fine arts.

Benjamin Constant, who had with great rapidity transformed
himself from an enthusiastic royalist into an imperial
state-councillor, came to the queen’s parlors and regaled her
guests by reading to them his romance Adolphe; and Metternich, the
Austrian ambassador seemed to have no other destiny than to amuse
the queen and the circle of ladies assembled around them, and to
invent new social games for their entertainment.

Metternich knew how to bring thousands of charming little
frivolities into fashion; he taught the ladies the charming and
poetic language of flowers, and made it a symbolic means of
conversation and correspondence in the queen’s circle. He also, to
the great delight of the court, invented the alphabet of gems; in
this alphabet each gem represented its initial letter, and, by
combinations, names and devices were formed, which were worn in
necklaces, bracelets, and rings.

The little games with which the diplomatic Metternich occupied
himself during the hundred days at the imperial court at Paris,
were, it appears, of the most innocent and harmless nature.

CHAPTER XIII.

NAPOLEON’S LAST ADIEU.

The storm, of the approach of which Queen Hortense had so long
had a foreboding, was preparing to burst over France. All the
princes of Europe who had once been Napoleon’s allies had now
declared against him. They all refused to acknowledge Napoleon as
emperor, or to treat with him as one having any authority.

“No peace, no reconciliation with this man,” wrote the Emperor
Alexander to Pozzo di Borgo; “all Europe is of the same opinion
concerning him. With the exception of this man, any thing they may
demand; no preference for any one; no war after this man shall have
been set aside [51].”

[51] Cochelet, vol. iii., p. 90.

But, in order to “set this man aside,” war was necessary. The
allied armies therefore advanced toward the boundaries of France;
the great powers declared war against France, or rather against the
Emperor Napoleon; and France, which had so long desired peace, and
had only accepted the Bourbons because it hoped to obtain it of
them, France was now compelled to take up the gauntlet.

On the 12th of June the emperor left Paris with his army, in
order to meet the advancing enemy. Napoleon himself, who had
hitherto gone into battle, his countenance beaming with an
assurance of victory, now looked gloomy and dejected, for he well
knew that on the fate of his army now depended his own, and the
fate of France.

This time it was not a question of making conquests, but of
saving the national independence, and it was the mother-earth, red
with the blood of her children, that was now to be defended.

Paris, that for eighty days had been the scene of splendor and
festivity, now put on its mourning attire. All rejoicings were at
an end, and every one listened hopefully to catch the first tones
of the thunder of a victorious battle.

But the days of victory were over; the cannon thundered, the
battle was fought, but instead of a triumph it was an
overthrow.

At Waterloo, the eagles that had been consecrated on the first
of June, on the Champ de Mai, sank in the dust; the emperor
returned to Paris, a fugitive, and broken down in spirit, while the
victorious allies were approaching the capital.

At the first intelligence of his return, Hortense hastened to
the Elysée, where he had taken up his residence, to greet
him. During the last few days she had been a prey to gloomy
thoughts; now that the danger had come, now when all were
despairing, she was composed, resolute, and ready to stand at the
emperor’s side to the last.

Napoleon was lost, and Hortense knew it; but he now had most
need of friends, and she remained true, while so many of his
nearest friends and relatives were deserting him.

On the twenty-second day of June the emperor sent in his
abdication in favor of his son, the King of Rome, to the chambers;
and a week later the chambers proclaimed Napoleon’s son Emperor of
France, under the name of Napoleon II.

But this emperor was a child of four years, and was, moreover,
not in France, but in the custody of the Emperor of Austria, whose
army was now marching on Paris with hostile intent!

Napoleon, now no longer Emperor of France, had been compelled to
take the crown from his head a second time; and for the second time
he quitted Paris to await the destiny to be appointed him by the
allies.

This time he did not repair to Fontainebleau, but to
Malmaison–to Malmaison, that had once been Josephine’s paradise,
and where her heart had at last bled to death. This charming resort
had passed into the possession of Queen Hortense; and Napoleon, who
but yesterday had ruled over a whole empire, and to-day could call
nothing, not even the space of ground on which he stood, his own,
Napoleon asked Hortense to receive him at Malmaison.

Hortense accorded his request joyfully, and, when her friends
learned this, and in their dismay and anxiety conjured her not to
identify in this manner herself and children with the fate of the
emperor, but to consider well the danger that would result from
such a course, the queen replied resolutely: “That is an additional
reason for holding firm to my determination. I consider it my
sacred duty to remain true to the emperor to the last, and the
greater the danger that threatens the emperor, the happier I shall
be in having it in my power to show him my entire devotion and
gratitude.”

And when, in this decision, when her whole future hung in the
balance, one of her most intimate lady-friends ventured to remind
the queen of the disgraceful and malicious reports that had once
been put in circulation with regard to her relation to Napoleon,
and suggested that she would give new strength to them by now
receiving the emperor at Malmaison, Hortense replied with dignity:
“What do I care for these calumnies? I fulfil the duty imposed on
me by feeling and principle. The emperor has always treated me as
his child; I shall therefore ever remain his devoted and grateful
daughter; it is my first and greatest necessity to be at peace with
myself [52].”

[52] Cochelet, vol. iii., p. 149.

Hortense therefore repaired with the emperor to Malmaison, and
the faithful, who were not willing to leave him in his misfortune,
gathered around him, watched over his life, and gave to his
residence a fleeting reflection of the old grandeur and
magnificence. For they who now stood around Napoleon, guarding his
person from any immediate danger that threatened him at the hands
of fanatic enemies or hired assassins, were marshals, generals,
dukes, and princes.

But Napoleon’s fate was already decided–it was an inevitable
one, and when the intelligence reached Malmaison that the enemy was
approaching nearer and nearer, and that resistance was no longer
made anywhere, and when Napoleon saw that all was lost, his throne,
his crown, and even the love which he imagined he had for ever
built up for himself in the hearts of the French people by his
great deeds and victories–when he saw this he determined to fly,
no matter whither, but away from the France that would no longer
rally to his call, the France that had abandoned him.

The emperor resolved to fly to Rochefort, and to embark there in
order to return to Elba. The provisional government that had
established itself in Paris, and had sent an ambassador to Napoleon
at Malmaison with the demand that he should depart at once, now
instructed this ambassador to accompany the emperor on his journey,
and not to leave him until he should have embarked.

Napoleon was ready to comply with this demand. He determined to
depart on the afternoon of the 30th of June. He had nothing more to
do but to take leave of his friends and family. He did this with
cold, tearless composure, with an immovable, iron countenance; no
muscle of his face quivered, and his glance was severe and
imperious.

But, when Hortense brought in her two sons, when he had clasped
them in his arms for the last time, then a shadow passed over his
countenance; then his pale compressed lips quivered, and he turned
away to conceal the tears that stood in his eyes.

But Hortense had seen them, and in her heart she preserved the
remembrance of these tears as the most precious gem of her departed
fortune. As the emperor then turned to her to bid her adieu in his
former cold and immovable manner, Hortense, who well knew that a
volcano of torments must be glowing under this cold lava, entreated
him to grant her a last favor.

A painful smile illumined the emperor’s countenance for a
moment. There was, it seemed, still something that he could grant;
he was not altogether powerless! With a mute inclination of the
head he signified his assent. Hortense handed him a broad black
belt.

“Sire,” said she, “wear this belt around your body and beneath
your clothing. Conceal it carefully, but in the time of necessity
remember it and open it.”

The emperor took the belt in his hand, and its weight startled
him.

“What does it contain?” asked he: “I must know what it
contains!”

“Sire,” said Hortense, blushing and hesitating: “Sire, it is my
large diamond necklace that I have taken apart and sewed in this
belt. Your majesty may need money in a critical moment, and you
will not deny me this last happiness, your acceptance of this
token.”

The emperor refused, but Hortense entreated him so earnestly
that he was at last compelled to yield, and accept this
love-offering.

They then took a hasty and mute leave of each other, and
Hortense, in order to hide her tears, hastened with her children
from the room.

The emperor summoned a servant, and ordered that no one else
should be admitted; but at this moment the door was hastily thrown
open, and a national guard entered the room.

“Talma!” exclaimed the emperor, almost gayly, as he extended his
hand.

“Yes, Talma, sire,” said he, pressing the emperor’s hand to his
lips. “I disguised myself in this dress, in order that I might get
here to take leave of your majesty.”

“To take leave, never to see each other more,” said the emperor,
sadly. “I shall never be able to admire you in your great
rôles again, Talma. I am about to depart, never to
return again. You will play the emperor on many an evening, but not
I, Talma! My part is at an end!”

“No, sire, you will always remain the emperor!” exclaimed Talma,
with generous enthusiasm; “the emperor, although without the crown
and the purple robe.”

“And also the emperor without a people,” said Napoleon.

“Sire, you have a people that will ever remain yours, and a
throne that is imperishable! It is the throne that you have erected
for yourself on the battle-fields, that will be recorded in the
books of history. And every one, no matter to what nation he may
belong, who reads of your great deeds, will be inspired by them,
and will acknowledge himself to be one of your people, and bow down
before the emperor in reverence.”

“I have no people,” murmured Napoleon, gloomily; “they have all
deserted–all betrayed me, Talma!”

“Sire, they will some day regret, as Alexander of Russia will
also one day regret, having deserted the great man he once called
brother!” And, in his delicate and generous endeavor to remind
Napoleon of one of his moments of grandeur, Talma continued: “Your
majesty perhaps remembers that evening at Tilsit, when the Emperor
of Russia made you so tender a declaration of his love, publicly
and before the whole world? But no, you cannot remember it; for you
it was a matter of no moment; but I–I shall never forget it! It
was at the theatre; we were playing ‘Oedipus.’ I looked up at the
box in which your majesty sat, between the King of Prussia and the
Emperor Alexander. I could see you only–the second Alexander of
Macedon, the second Julius Caesar–and I held my arms aloft and saw
you only when I repeated the words of my part: ‘The friendship of a
great man is a gift of the gods!’ And as I said this, the Emperor
Alexander arose and pressed you to his heart. I saw this, and tears
choked my utterance. The audience applauded rapturously; this
applause was, however, not for me, but for the Emperor
Alexander [53]!”

[53] This scene is entirely historical. See
Bossuet, Mémoires; Bourrienne, Mémoires; Cochelet and
Une Femme de Qualité.

While Talma was speaking, his cheeks glowing and his eyes
flashing, a rosy hue suffused the emperor’s countenance, and, for
an instant, he smiled. Talma had attained his object; he had raised
up the humiliated emperor with the recital of his own grandeur.

Napoleon thanked him with a kindly glance, and extended his hand
to bid him adieu.

As Talma approached the emperor, a carriage was heard driving up
in front of the house. It was Letitia, the emperor’s mother, who
had come to take leave of her son. Talma stood still, in breathless
suspense; in his heart he thanked Providence for permitting him to
witness this leave-taking.

“Madame mère” walked past Talma in silence, and without
observing him. She saw only her son, who stood in the middle of the
room, his sombre and flashing glance fastened on her with an
unutterable expression. Now they stood face to face, mother and
son. The emperor’s countenance remained immovable as though hewn
out of marble.

They stood face to face in silence, but two great tears slowly
trickled down the mother’s cheeks. Talma stood in the background,
weeping bitterly. Napoleon remained unmoved. Letitia now raised
both hands and extended them to the emperor. “Adieu, my son!” said
she, in full and sonorous tones.

Napoleon pressed her hands in his own, and gazed at her long and
fixedly; and then, with the same firmness, he said: “My mother,
adieu!”

Once more they gazed at each other; then the emperor let her
hand fall. Letitia turned to go, and at this moment General
Bertrand appeared at the door to announce that all was prepared for
the journey [54].

[54] This leave-taking was exactly as above
described, and Talma himself narrated it to Louise de Cochelet. See
her Mémoires, vol. iii, P. 173.

BOOK IV.

THE DUCHESS OF ST. LEU.

CHAPTER I.

THE BANISHMENT OF THE DUCHESS OF ST. LEU.

For the second time, the Bourbons had entered Paris under the
protection of the allies, and Louis XVIII. was once more King of
France. But this time he did not return with his former mild and
conciliatory disposition. He came to punish and to reward; he came
unaccompanied by mercy. The old generals and marshals of the
empire, who had not been able to resist their chieftain’s call,
were now banished, degraded, or executed. Ney and
Labédoyère paid for their fidelity to the emperor
with their blood; and all who were in any way connected with the
Bonapartes were relentlessly pursued. The calumnies that had been
circulated in 1814 against the Duchess of St. Leu were now to bear
bitter fruit. These were the dragon’s teeth from which the armed
warriors had sprung, who now levelled their swords at the breast of
a defenceless woman.

King Louis had returned to the throne of his fathers, but he had
not forgotten that he had been told on his flight: “The Duchess of
St. Leu is to blame for all! Her intrigues have brought Napoleon
back!” Now that he was again king, he thought of it, and determined
to punish her. He requested it of Alexander, as a favor, that he
should this time not call on the Duchess of St. Leu.

The emperor, dismayed by the odious reports in circulation
concerning Hortense, and already enchained in the mystic glittering
web with which Madame de Krüdener had enveloped him, and
separated from the reality of the world, acceded to the wishes of
the Bourbons, and abandoned the queen. This was the signal that let
loose the general wrath of the royalists; they could now freely
utter their scorn and malice. By low calumnies they could now
compensate themselves for their humiliation of the past, for having
been compelled to approach the daughter of Viscountess de
Beauharnais with the reverence due to a queen.

They could pursue the step-daughter of the emperor with
boundless fury, for this very fury proved their royalism, and to
hate and calumniate Bonaparte and his family was to love and
flatter the Bourbons.

Day by day these royalists hurled new accusations against the
duchess, whose presence in Paris unpleasantly recalled the days of
the empire, and whom they desired to remove from their sight, as
well as the column on the Place Vendôme.

While the poor queen was living in the retirement of her
apartments, in sadness and desolation, the report was circulated
that she was again conspiring, and that she was in the habit of
leaving her house every evening at twilight, in order to incite the
populace to rise and demand the emperor’s return, or at least the
instalment of the little King of Rome on the throne instead of
Louis de Bourbon.

When the queen’s faithful companion, Louise de Cochelet,
informed her of these calumnies, Hortense remained cold and
indifferent.

“Madame,” exclaimed Louise, “you listen with as much composure
as if I were reciting a story of the last century!”

“And it interests me as little,” said Hortense, earnestly; “we
have lost all, and I consider any blow that may still strike us,
with the composure of an indifferent spectator. I consider it
natural that they should endeavor to caluminate me, because I bear
a name that has made the whole world tremble, and that will still
be great, though we all be trodden in the dust. But I will shield
myself and children from this hatred. We will leave France and go
to Switzerland, where I possess a little estate on the Lake of
Geneva.”

But time was not allowed the duchess to prepare for her
departure. The dogs of calumny and hatred were let loose upon her
to drive her from the city. A defenceless woman with two young
children seemed to be an object of anxiety and terror to the
government, and it made haste to get rid of her.

On the morning of the 17th of July, an adjutant of the Prussian
General de Müffling, the allied commandant of Paris, came to
the dwelling of the Duchess of St. Leu, and informed her intendant,
M. Deveaux, that the duchess must leave Paris within two hours, and
it was only at the urgent solicitation of the intendant, that a
further sojourn of four hours was allowed her.

Hortense was compelled to conform to this military command, and
depart without arranging her affairs or making any preparations for
her journey. Her only possession consisted of jewelry, and this she
of course intended to take with her. But she was warned that a
troop of enraged Bourbonists, who knew of her approaching
departure, had quitted Paris to lie in wait for her on her road,
“in order to rob her of the millions in her custody.”

The queen was warned to take no money or articles of value with
her, but only that which was absolutely necessary.

General de Müffling offered her an escort of his soldiers;
Hortense declined this offer, but requested that an Austrian
officer might be allowed to accompany her for the protection of
herself and children on the journey. Count de Boyna, adjutant of
Prince Schwartzenberg, was selected for this purpose.

On the evening of the 17th of July, 1815, the Duchess of St. Leu
took her departure. She left her faithful friend Louise de Cochelet
in Paris to arrange her affairs, and assure the safe-keeping of her
jewelry. Accompanied only by her equerry, M. de Marmold, Count
Boyna, her children, her maid, and a man-servant, she who had been
a queen left Paris to go into exile.

It was a sorrowful journey that Hortense now made through her
beloved France, that she could no longer call her country, and that
now seemed as ill-disposed toward the emperor and his family as it
had once passionately loved them.

In these days of political persecution, the Bonapartists had
everywhere hidden themselves in obscure places, or concealed their
real disposition beneath the mask of Bourbonism. Those whom
Hortense met on her journey were therefore all royalists, who
thought they could give no better testimony to their patriotism
than by persecuting with cries of scorn, with gestures of hatred,
and with loud curses, the woman whose only crime was that she bore
the name of him whom France had once adored, and whom the royalists
hated.

Count Boyna was more than once compelled to protect Hortense and
her children against the furious attacks of royalists–the stranger
against her own countrymen! In Dijon, Count Boyna had found it
necessary to call on the Austrian military stationed there for
assistance in protecting the duchess and her children from the
attacks of an infuriated crowd, led by royal guards and beautiful
ladies of rank, whose hair was adorned with the lilies of the
Bourbons [55].

[55] Cochelet, vol. iii, p. 289.

Dispirited and broken down by all she had seen and experienced,
Hortense at last reached Geneva, happy at the prospect of being
able to retire to her little estate of Pregny, to repose after the
storms of life. But this refuge was also to be refused her. The
French ambassador in Switzerland, who resided in Geneva, informed
the authorities of that city that his government would not tolerate
the queen’s sojourn so near the French boundary, and demanded that
she should depart. The authorities of Geneva complied with this
demand, and ordered the Duchess of St. Leu to leave the city
immediately.

When Count Boyna imparted this intelligence to the duchess, and
asked her to what place she would now go, her long-repressed
despair found utterance in a single cry: “I know not. Throw me into
the lake, then we shall all be at rest!”

But she soon recovered her usual proud resignation, and quietly
submitted to the new banishment that drove her from her last
possession, the charming little Pregny, from her “rêve de
chalet.”

In Aix she finally found repose and peace for a few weeks–in
Aix, where she had once celebrated brilliant triumphs as a queen,
and where she was at least permitted to live in retirement with her
children and a few faithful adherents.

But in Aix the most fearful blow that Fate had in store for her
fell upon her!

Her action against her husband had already been decided in 1814,
shortly before the emperor’s return, and it had been adjudged that
she should deliver her elder son Napoleon Louis, into the custody
of his father. Now that Napoleon’s will no longer restrained him,
Louis demanded that this judgment be carried out, and sent Baron
von Zuyten to Aix to bring back the prince to his father then
residing in Florence.

The unhappy mother was now powerless to resist this hard
command; she was compelled to yield, and send her son from her arms
to a father who was a stranger to the boy, and whom he therefore
could not love.

It was a heart-rending scene this parting between the boy, his
mother, and his young brother Louis, from whom he had never before
been separated for a day, and who now threw his arms around his
neck, tearfully entreating him to stay with him.

But the separation was inevitable. Hortense parted the two
weeping children, taking little Louis Napoleon in her arms, while
Napoleon Louis followed his governor to the carriage, sobbing as
though his heart would break. When Hortense heard the carriage
driving off, she uttered a cry of anguish and fell to the ground in
a swoon, and a long and painful attack of illness was the
consequence of this sorrowful separation.

CHAPTER II.

LOUIS NAPOLEON AS A CHILD.

The Duchess of St. Leu was, however, not destined to find repose
in Aix; the Bourbons–not yet weary of persecuting her, and still
fearing the name whose first and greatest representative was now
languishing on a solitary, inhospitable rock-island–the Bourbons
considered it dangerous that Hortense, the emperor’s step-daughter,
and her son, whose name of Louis Napoleon seemed to them a living
monument of the past, should be permitted to sojourn so near the
French boundary. They therefore instructed their ambassador to the
government of Savoy to protest against the further sojourn of the
queen in Aix, and Hortense was compelled to undertake a new
pilgrimage, and to start out into the world again in search of a
home.

She first turned to Baden, whose duchess, Stephanie, was so
nearly related to her, and from whose husband she might therefore
well expect a kindly reception. But the grand-duke did not justify
his cousin’s hopes; he had not the courage to defy the jealous
fears of France, and it was only at the earnest solicitation of his
wife that he at last consented that Hortense should take up her
residence at the extreme end of the grand-duchy, at Constance, on
the Lake of Constance; and this permission was only accorded her on
the express condition that neither the duchess nor her son should
ever come to Carlsruhe, and that his wife, Stephanie, should never
visit her cousin at Constance.

Hortense accepted this offer with its conditions, contented to
find a place where she could rest after her long wanderings, and
let the bleeding wounds of her heart heal in the stillness and
peace of beautiful natural scenery. She passed a few quiet, happy
years in Constance desiring and demanding nothing but a little rest
and peace, aspiring to but one thing–to make of the son whom
Providence had given her as a compensation for all her sufferings,
a strong, a resolute, and an intelligent man.

Her most tender care and closest attention were devoted to the
education of this son. An excellent teacher, Prof. Lebas, of Paris,
officiated as instructor to the young prince. She herself gave him
instruction in drawing, in music, and in dancing; she read with
him, sang with him, and made herself a child, in order to replace
to her lonely boy the playmate Fate had torn from his side.

While reposing on her chaise-longue on the long quiet
evenings, her boy seated on a cushion at her feet, she would speak
to him of his great uncle, and of his heroic deeds, and of his
country, of France that had discarded them, to be able to return to
which was, however, her most ardent wish, and would continue to be
while life lasted. She would then inspire the boy’s soul with the
description of the great battles which his uncle had won in Italy,
on the Nile, on the Rhine, and on the Danube; and the quiet, pale
boy, with the dark, thoughtful eyes, would listen in breathless
suspense, his weak, slender body quivering with emotion when his
mother told him how dearly his uncle had loved France, and that all
his great and glorious deeds had been done for the honor and renown
of France alone.

One day, while he was sitting before her, pale and trembling
with agitation, his mother pointed to David’s splendid painting,
representing Napoleon on the heights of the Alps, the genial
conception of which painting is due to Napoleon’s own
suggestions.

“Paint me tranquilly seated on a wild horse,” Napoleon had said
to David, and David had so painted him–on a rearing steed, on the
summit of a rock which bears the inscription “Hannibal” and
“Caesar.” The emperor’s countenance is calm, his large eyes full of
a mysterious brilliancy, his hair fluttering in the wind, the whole
expression thoughtful and earnest; the rider heedless of the
rearing steed, which he holds firmly in check with the reins.

A beautiful copy of this great painting hung in the parlor of
the duchess; and to this she now pointed while narrating the
history of the emperor’s passage over the Great St. Bernard with an
army, a feat never before performed except by Hannibal and Caesar,
and perhaps never to be performed again.

As she concluded her narrative, an almost angry expression
flitted across the young prince’s countenance. Rising from his
seat, and holding himself perfectly erect, he exclaimed: “Oh,
mamma, I shall also cross the Alps some day, as the emperor
did!”

And while thus speaking, a glowing color suffused his face; his
lips trembled, and the feverish beating of his heart was quite
audible.

Hortense turned in some anxiety to her friend Louise de
Cochelet, and begged her in a low voice to soothe the child with
the recital of some merry narrative. As Louise looked around the
room thoughtfully and searchingly, a cup that stood on the
mantel-piece arrested her gaze. She hastened to the mantel, took
the cup, and returned with it to little Louis Napoleon.

“Mamma has been explaining a very grave picture to you, Louis,”
said she; “I will now show you a merry one. Look at it–isn’t it
charming?”

The prince cast a hasty, absent-minded look at the cup, and
nodded gravely. Louise laughed gayly.

“You see, Louis,” said she, “that this is the exact counterpart
of the picture of the Emperor Napoleon, who, while riding over the
Alps, encounters on their summit the great spirits of Hannibal and
Caesar. Here is a little Napoleon, who is not climbing up the Alps,
but climbing down from his bed, and who, on this occasion, meets a
black spirit, in the person of a chimney-sweep. This is the history
of the great and of the little Napoleon; the great meets Hannibal,
the little the chimney-sweep.”

“Am I the little Napoleon?” asked the boy, gravely.

“Yes, Louis, you are, and I will now tell you the story of this
cup. One day, when we were all still in Paris, and while your great
uncle was still Emperor of France–one day, you met in your room a
little Savoyard who had just crept out of the chimney in his black
dress, his black broom in his hand. You cried out with horror, and
were about to run away, but I held you back and told you that these
chimney-sweeps were poor boys, and that their parents were so poor
that they could not support their children, but were compelled to
send them to Paris to earn their bread by creeping into and
cleaning our hot and dirty chimneys, with great trouble, and at the
risk of their lives. My story touched you, and you promised me
never to be afraid of the little chimney-sweeps again. A short time
afterward, you were awakened early in the morning by a strange
noise, your brother still lay asleep at your side, and your nurse
was absent from the room. This noise was made by a chimney-sweep
who had just come down the chimney and now stood in your room. As
soon as you saw him, you remembered his poverty, jumped out of bed
in your night-clothes, and ran to the chair on which your clothes
lay. You took out of your pocket the purse you were compelled to
carry with you on your walks to give money to the poor, and you
emptied its entire contents into the black, sooty hand of the young
Savoyard. You then tried to get back to bed, but it was too high
for you; you could not climb over the railing. Seeing this, the
chimney-sweep came to your assistance, and took the little prince
in his arms to help him into bed. At this moment, your nurse
entered the room, and your brother who had just awakened, cried
loudly when he saw Louis in the arms of a chimney-sweep.

“This is the story of little Napoleon and the chimney-sweep!
Your grandmother, the Empress Josephine was so much pleased with
this story, that your mother had the scene painted on a cup, and
presented it to the empress, in order to afford her a
gratification. And what do you think, Louis–this cup was also the
cause of a punishment being remitted your cousin, the King of Rome,
who now lives in Vienna!”

“Tell me all about it, Louise,” said the prince, smiling.

“You shall hear it! Your mother had instructed me to take the
cup to Malmaison to the empress. But before going, I endeavored to
obtain some news about the little King of Rome for the empress.
Your good grandmother loved him as though he had been her own
child, although she had never seen him. I therefore went to the
Tuileries to see the little King of Rome, with whose governess,
Madame de Montesquieu, I was intimately acquainted. On entering the
apartment, I saw the king cowering behind a chair in a corner of
the room; Madame de Montesquieu intimated by a look that he was
undergoing a punishment; I understood it, and first conversed with
his governess for a short time. When I then turned and approached
him, he concealed the tearful, flushed face, that his long blond
curls covered as with a golden veil, whenever he moved behind the
chair.

“‘Sire,’ said Madame de Montesquieu to him, ‘sire, do you not
intend to bid Mademoiselle de Cochelet good-morning? She came here
expressly to see you.’

“‘Your majesty does not recognize me,’ said I, attempting to
take his small hand in mine. He tore it from me, and cried in a
voice almost choked with sobbing: ‘She will not let me look at the
soldiers of my papa!’

“Madame de Montesquieu told me that it was the little prince’s
greatest pleasure to see the Guards exercising on the Place de
Carrousel, but that she had deprived Mm of this pleasure
to-day, because he had been naughty and disobedient; that, when he
heard the music and drums, his despair and anger had become so
great that she had been forced to resort to severe means, and make
him stand in the corner behind a chair. I begged for the young
king’s pardon; I showed him the cup, and explained the scene that
was painted on it. The king laughed, and Madame de Montesquieu
pardoned him for the sake of his little cousin, Louis Napoleon, who
was so well behaved, and who was always held up to him as a
model [56]. Now
you have heard the whole story, are you pleased with it,
Louis?”

[56] Cochelet, vol. i., p. 212.

“I like it very much,” said the grave boy, “but I do not like my
cousin’s governess, for having intended to prevent him from looking
at his father’s soldiers. Oh, how handsome they must have been, the
soldiers of the emperor! Mamma, I wish I were also an emperor, and
had ever so many handsome soldiers.”

Hortense smiled sadly, and laid her hand on the boy’s head as if
to bless him. “Oh, my son,” said she, “it is no enviable fortune to
wear a crown. It is almost always fastened on our head with
thorns!”

From this day on, Prince Louis Napoleon would stand before his
uncle’s portrait, lost in thought, and after looking at it to his
satisfaction, he would run out and call the boys of the
neighborhood together, in order to play soldier and emperor with
them in the large garden that surrounded his mother’s house, and
teach the boys the first exercise.

One day, in the zeal of play, he had entirely forgotten his
mother’s command, not to go out of the garden, and had inarched
into the open field with his soldiers. When his absence from the
garden was noticed, all the servants were sent out to look for him,
and the anxious duchess, together with her ladies, assisted in this
search, walking about in every direction through the cold and the
slush of the thawing snow. Suddenly they came upon the boy
barefooted and in his shirt-sleeves, wading toward them through the
mud and snow. He was alarmed and confused at this unexpected
meeting, and confessed that a moment before, while he had been
playing in front of the garden, a family had passed by so poor and
ragged that it was painful to look at them. As he had no money to
give them, he had put his shoes on one child, and his coat on
another [57].

[57] Cochelet, vol. iv., p. 303.

The duchess did not have the courage to scold him; she stooped
down and kissed her son; but when her ladies commenced to praise
him, she motioned to them to be silent, and said in a loud voice
that what her son had done was quite a matter of course, and
therefore deserved no praise.

An ardent desire to gladden others and make them presents was
characteristic of little Louis Napoleon. One day, Hortense had
given him three beautiful studs for his shirt, and on the same day
the prince transferred them to one of his friends who admired
them.

When Hortense reproached her son for doing so, and threatened to
make him no more presents, as he always gave them away again
directly, Louis Napoleon replied, “Ah, mamma, this is why your
presents give me double pleasure–once when you give them to me,
and the second time when I make others happy with them [58].”

[58] Cochelet, vol. i, p. 355.

CHAPTER III.

THE REVOLUTION OF 1830.

Fate seemed at last weary of persecuting the poor Duchess of St.
Leu. It at least accorded her a few peaceful years of repose and
comfort; it at least permitted her to rest from the weariness of
the past on the bosom of Nature, and to forget her disappointments
and sorrows. The Canton of Thurgau had had the courage to extend
permission to the duchess to take up her residence within its
borders, at the very moment when the Grand-duke of Baden, who had
been urged to the step by Germany and France, had peremptorily
ordered Hortense to leave Constance and his grand-duchy without
delay.

Hortense had thankfully accepted the offer of the Swiss canton,
and had purchased, on the Swiss side of the Lake of Constance, an
estate, whose beautiful situation on the summit of a mountain,
immediately on the banks of the lake, with its magnificent view of
the surrounding country, and its glittering glaciers on the distant
horizon, made it a most delightful place of sojourn. Hortense now
caused the furniture of her dwelling in Paris, that had been sold,
to be sent to her. The sight of these evidences of her former
grandeur awakened sweet and bitter emotions in her heart, as they
were one after another taken out of the cases in which they had
been packed–these sofas, chairs, divans, carpets, chandeliers,
mirrors, and all the other ornaments of the parlors in which
Hortense had been accustomed to receive kings and emperors, and
which were now to adorn the Swiss villa that was outwardly so
beautiful because of the vicinity, and inwardly so plain and
simple.

But Hortense knew how to make an elegant and tasteful
disposition of all these articles; she herself arranged every thing
in her house, and took true feminine delight in her task. And when
all was at last arranged–when she walked, with her son at her
side, through the suite of rooms, in which every ornament and piece
of furniture reminded her of the past–when these things recalled
the proud days of state when so many friends, relatives, and
servants, had surrounded her–a feeling of unutterable loneliness,
of painful desolation, came over her, and she sank down on a sofa
and wept bitterly. But there was nevertheless a consolation in
having these familiar articles in her possession once more; these
mute friends often awakened in the solitary queen’s heart memories
that served to entertain and console her. Arenenberg was a perfect
temple of memory; every chair, every table, every article of
furniture, had its history, and this history spoke of Napoleon, of
Josephine, and the great days of the empire.

In Arenenberg Hortense had at last found a permanent home, and
there she passed the greater part of the year; and it was only when
the autumnal storms began to howl through her open and
lightly-constructed villa, that Hortense repaired to Rome, to pass
the winter months in a more genial climate, while her son Louis
Napoleon was pursuing his studies at the artillery school at
Thun.

And thus the years passed on, quiet and peaceful, though
sometimes interrupted by new losses and sorrows. In the year 1821
the hero, the emperor, to whose laurel-crown the halo of a martyr
had now also been added, died on the island-rock, St. Helena.

In the year 1824 Hortense lost her only brother, Eugene, the
Duke of Leuchtenberg.

The only objects of Hortense’s love were now her two sons, who
were prospering in mind and body, and were the pride and joy of
their mother, and an object of annoyance and suspicion to all the
princes of Europe. For these children bore in their countenance, in
their name, and in their disposition, too plain an impress of the
great past, which they could never entirely ignore while Bonaparte
still lived to testify to it.

And they lived and prospered in spite of the Bourbons; they
lived and prospered, although banished from their country, and
compelled to lead an inactive life.

But at last it seemed as though the hour of fortune and freedom
had come for these Bonapartes–as though they, too, were to be
permitted to have a country to which they might give their devotion
and services.

The thundering voice of the revolution of 1830 resounded
throughout trembling Europe. France, on whom the allies had imposed
the Bourbons, arose and shook its mane; with its lion’s paw it
overthrew the Bourbon throne, drove out the Jesuits who had stood
behind it, and whom Charles X. had advised to tear the charter to
pieces, to destroy the freedom of the press, and to reintroduce the
autos da fé of the olden time.

France had been treated as a child in 1815, and was now
determined to assert its manhood; it resolved to break entirely
with the past, and with its own strength to build up a future for
itself.

The lilies of the Bourbons were to bloom no more; these last
years of fanatical Jesuit tyranny had deprived them of life, and
France tore the faded lily from her bosom in order to replace it
with a young and vigorous plant. The throne of the Bourbons was
overthrown, but the people, shuddering at the recollection of the
sanguinary republic, selected a king in preference. It stretched
out its hand after him it held dearest; after him who in the past
few years had succeeded in winning the sympathy of France. It
selected the Duke of Orleans, the son of Philippe
Égalité, for its king.

Louis Philippe, the enthusiastic republican of 1790, who at that
time had caused the three words “Liberté,
Égalité, Fraternité” and the inscription
“Vive la République,” to be burnt on his arm, in
order to prove his republicanism; the proscribed Louis Philippe,
who had wandered through Europe a fugitive, earning his bread by
teaching writing and languages–the same Louis Philippe now became
King of France.

The people called him to the throne; they tore the white flag
from the roof of the Tuileries, but they knew no other or better
one with which to replace it than the tricolore of the
empire.

Under the shadow of this tricolore Louis Philippe mounted
the throne, and the people–to whom the three colors recalled the
glorious era of the empire–the people shouted with delight, and in
order to indulge their sympathies they demanded for France–not the
son of Napoleon, not Napoleon II.–but the ashes of Napoleon, and
the emperor’s statue on the Palace Vendôme. Louis Philippe
accorded them both, but with these concessions he thought he had
done enough. He had accepted the tricolore of the empire; he
had promised that the emperor should watch over Paris from the
summit of the Vendôme monument, and to cause his ashes to be
brought to Paris–these were sufficient proofs of love.

They might be accorded the dead Napoleon without danger, but it
would be worse to accord them to living Napoleons; such a course
might easily shake the new throne, and recall the allies to
Paris.

The hatred of the princes of Europe against Napoleon was still
continued against his family, and it was with them, as Metternich
said, “a principle never to tolerate another Napoleon on the
throne.”

The European powers had signified to the King of France, through
their diplomatic agents, their readiness to acknowledge him, but
they exacted one condition–the condition that Louis Philippe
should confirm or renew the decree of exile fulminated by the
Bourbons against the Bonapartes.

Louis Philippe had accepted this condition; and the Bonapartes,
whose only crime was that they were the brothers and relatives of
the deceased emperor, before whom not only France, but all the
princes of Europe, had once bent the knee–the Bonapartes were once
more declared strangers to their country, and condemned to
exile!

CHAPTER IV.

THE REVOLUTION IN ROME, AND THE SONS OF HORTENSE.

It was a terrible blow to the Bonapartes, this new decree of
banishment! Like a stroke of lightning it entered their hearts,
annihilating their holiest hopes and most ardent desires, and their
joy over the glorious and heroic revolution of July gave place to a
bitter sense of disappointment.

Nothing, therefore, remained for them but to continue the life
to which they had become somewhat accustomed, and to console
themselves, for their new disappointment, with the arts and
sciences.

At the end of October, in the year 1830, Hortense determined to
leave Arenenberg and go to Rome with her son, as she was in the
habit of doing every year.

But this time she first went to Florence, where her elder son,
Napoleon Louis, recently married to his cousin, the second daughter
of King Joseph, was now living with his young wife. The heart of
the tender mother was filled with anxiety and care; she felt and
saw that this new French Revolution was likely to infect all
Europe, and that Italy, above all, would be unable to avoid this
infection. Italy was diseased to the core, and it was to be feared
that it would grasp at desperate means in its agony, and proceed to
the blood-letting of a revolution, in order to restore itself to
health. Hortense felt this, and feared for her sons.

She feared that the exiled, the homeless ones who had been
driven from their country, and were not permitted to serve it,
would devote their services to those who were unhappy and who
suffered like themselves. She feared the enthusiasm, the generous
courage, the energy of her sons, and she knew that, if a revolution
should break out in Italy, it would gladly adorn itself with the
name of Napoleon.

Hortense, therefore, conjured her sons to hold themselves aloof
from all dangerous undertakings, and not to follow those who might
appeal to them with the old word of magic power, “liberty;” that,
in spite of the tears and blood it has already caused mankind, can
never lose its wondrous power.

Her two sons promised compliance; and, much relieved, Hortense
left Florence, and went, with her younger son, Louis Napoleon, to
Rome.

But Rome, otherwise so aristocratic and solemn, assumed an
unusual, an entirely new, physiognomy this winter. In society the
topics of conversation were no longer art and poetry, the Pantheon
and St. Peter, or what the newest amusement should be; but politics
and the French Revolution were the all-engrossing topics, and the
populace listened anxiously for the signal that should announce
that the revolution in Italy had at last begun.

Even the populace of Rome, usually addicted to lying so
harmlessly in the sunshine, now assembled in dense groups on the
streets, and strange words were heard when the police cautiously
approached these groups for the purpose of listening. But they now
lacked the courage to arrest those who uttered those words; they
felt that such a provocation might suffice to tear away the veil
behind which the revolution still concealed itself.

The whole energy and watchfulness of the Roman government was
therefore employed in endeavoring to avert the revolution, if
possible; not, however, by removing the cause and occasion, but by
depriving the people of the means. The son of Hortense, Louis
Napoleon, seemed to the government a means which the revolution
might use for its purposes, and it was therefore determined that he
should be removed.

His name, and even the three-colored saddle-blanket of his
horse, with which he rode through the streets of Rome, were
exciting to the populace, in whose veins the fever of revolution
was already throbbing. Louis Napoleon must therefore be
removed.

The Governor of Rome first addressed the prince’s great-uncle,
Cardinal Fesch, requesting him to advise the Duchess of St. Leu to
remove the young prince from Rome for a few weeks.

But the cardinal indignantly declared that his nephew, who had
done nothing, should not be compelled to leave Rome merely on
account of his name and his saddle-blanket, and that he would never
advise the Duchess of St. Leu to do anything of the kind.

The Roman government therefore determined to adopt energetic
means. It caused the dwelling of the duchess to be surrounded by
soldiers, while a papal office presented himself before Hortense,
and announced that he had received orders to remove Prince Louis
from the city at once, and to conduct him without the papal
territory.

The fear of approaching evil caused the government to forget the
respect due to nobility in misfortune and the emperor’s nephew was
turned out of the city like a criminal!

Hortense received this intelligence almost with joy. Far from
Rome, it seemed to her that he would be safer from the revolution,
whose approach she so much dreaded; and it therefore afforded her
great satisfaction to send the prince to Florence, to his father,
believing that he would there be shielded from the dangerous
political calumnies that threatened him in Rome. She therefore
permitted him to depart; and how could she have prevented his
departure–she, the lone, powerless woman, to whom not even the
French ambassador would have accorded protection! No one interceded
for her–no one protested against the violent and brutal course
pursued toward Louis Napoleon–no one, except the Russian
ambassador.

The Emperor of Russia was the only one of all the sovereigns of
Europe who felt himself strong enough not to ignore the name of
Napoleon, and the consideration due to the family of a hero and of
an emperor.

The Emperor of Russia had, therefore, never refused his
protection and assistance to the Bonapartes, and his ambassador was
now the only one who protested against the violent course taken by
the Roman government.

The revolution at last broke forth. Italy arose as France had
done, resolved to throw off the yoke of tyranny and oppression, and
be free! The storm first broke out in Modena. The duke saw himself
compelled to fly, and a provisional government under General
Menotti placed itself in his stead. But, while this was taking
place in Modena, the populace of Rome was holding high festival in
honor of the newly-chosen Pope Gregory XVI., who had just taken his
seat in the chair of the deceased Pope Pius VIII., and these
festivities, and the Carnival, seemed to occupy the undivided
attention of the Romans; under the laughing mask of these
rejoicings the revolution hid its grave and threatening visage, and
it was not until mardi-gras that it laid this mask aside and
showed its true countenance.

The people had been accustomed to throw confectionery and
flowers on this day, but this time the day was to be made memorable
by a shower of stones and bullets; this time they were not to
appear in the harlequin jacket, but in their true form, earnest,
grand, commanding, self-conscious, and self-asserting.

But the government had been informed of the intention of the
conspirators to avail themselves of the drive to the Corso, to
begin the revolution, and this procession was prohibited an hour
before the time appointed for its commencement.

The people arose against this prohibition, and the revolution
they had endeavored to repress by this means now broke out.

The thunder of cannon and the rattling of musketry now resounded
through the streets of Rome, and the people everywhere resisted the
papal soldiery with energy and determination.

The new pope trembled in the Quirinal, the old cardinals lost
courage, and in dismay recoiled a step at every advancing stride of
the insurgents. Gregory felt that the papal crown he had just
achieved was already on the point of falling from his head, to be
trodden in the dust by the victorious populace; he turned to
Austria, and solicited help and assistance.

But young Italy, the Italy of enthusiasm, of liberty, and of
hope, looked to France for support. Old Italy had turned to Austria
for help; young Italy looked for assistance to the free,
newly-arisen France, in which the revolution had just celebrated a
glorious victory. But France denied its Italian brother, and denied
its own origin; scarcely had the revolution seated itself on the
newly-erected kingly throne and invested itself with the crown and
purple robe, when, for its own safety, it became reactionary, and
denied itself.

With all Italy, Rome was resolved to shake off the yoke of
oppression; the whole people espoused this cause with enthusiasm;
and in the streets of Rome–at other times filled with priests and
monks and holy processions–in these streets, now alive with the
triumphant youth of Rome, resounded exultant songs of freedom.

The strangers, terrified by this change, now quitted the holy
city in crowds, and hastened to their homes. Hortense desired to
remain; she knew that she had nothing to fear from the people, for
all the evil that had hitherto overtaken her, had come, not from
the people, but always from the princes only [59]. However, letters
suddenly arrived from her sons, conjuring her to leave Rome and
announcing that they would leave Florence within the hour, in order
to hasten forward to meet their mother.

[59] La Reine Hortense, p. 63.

Upon reading this, Hortense cried aloud with terror–she, who
knew and desired no other happiness on earth than the happiness of
her children, she whose only prayer to God had ever been, that her
children might prosper and that she might die before them, now felt
that a fearful danger threatened her sons, and that they were now
about to be swept into the vortex of the revolution.

They had left Florence, and their father, and were now on the
way to Rome, that is, on the way to the revolution that would
welcome them with joy, and inscribe the name Napoleon on its
standards!

But it was perhaps still time to save them; with her prayers and
entreaties she might still succeed in arresting them on the verge
of the abyss into which they were hastening in the intoxication of
their enthusiasm. As this thought occurred to her, Hortense felt
herself strong, determined, and courageous; and, on the same day on
which she had received the letters, she left Rome, and hurried
forward to meet her sons. She still hoped to be in time to save
them; she fancied she saw her sons in every approaching
carriage–but in vain!

They had written that they would meet her on the road, but they
were not there!

Perhaps they had listened to the representations of their
father; perhaps they had remained in Florence and were awaiting
their mother’s arrival there.

Tormented by fear and hope, Hortense arrived in Florence and
drove to the dwelling in which her son Louis Napoleon had resided.
Her feet could scarcely bear her up; she hardly found strength to
inquire after her son–he was not there!

But he might be with his father, and Hortense now sent there for
intelligence of her sons. The messenger returned, alone and
dejected: her sons had left the city!

The exultant hymn of liberty had struck on their delighted ear,
and they had responded to the call of the revolution.

General Menotti had appealed to them, in the name of Italy, to
assist the cause of freedom with their name and with their swords,
and they had neither the will nor the courage to disregard this
appeal.

A servant, left behind by her younger son, delivered to the
duchess a letter from her son Louis Napoleon, a last word of adieu
to his beloved mother.

“Your love will understand us,” wrote Louis Napoleon. “We cannot
withdraw ourselves from duties that devolve upon us; the name we
bear obliges us to listen to the appeal of unhappy nations. I beg
you to represent this matter to my sister-in-law as though I had
persuaded my brother to accompany me; it grieves him to have
concealed from her one action of his life [60].”

[60] La Reine Hortense, p. 78.

CHAPTER V.

THE DEATH OF PRINCE NAPOLEON.

That which Hortense most dreaded had taken place: the voice of
enthusiasm had silenced every other consideration; and the two sons
of the Duchess of St. Leu, the nephews of the Emperor Napoleon, now
stood at the head of the revolution. From Foligno to Civita
Castellano, they organized the defence, and from the cities and
villages the young people joyously hurried forth to enroll
themselves under their banners, and to obey the Princes Napoleon as
their leaders; the crowds which the young princes now led were
scarcely armed, but they nevertheless advanced courageously, and
were resolved to attempt the capture of Civita Castellano, in order
to liberate the state prisoners who had been languishing in its
dungeons for eight years.

This was the intelligence brought back by the couriers whom
Hortense had dispatched to her sons with letters entreating them to
return.

It was too late–they neither would nor could return.

Their father wrung his hands in despair, and conjured his wife,
he being confined to his arm-chair by illness and the gout, to do
all in her power to tear their sons from the fearful danger that
menaced them. For the revolution was lost; all who were cool and
collected felt and saw this. But the youth refused to see it; they
still continued to flock to the revolutionary banners; they still
sang exultant hymns of freedom, and, when their parents endeavored
to hold them back, they fled from the parental house secretly, in
order to answer the call that resounded on their ear in such divine
notes.

One of the sons of the Princess of Canino, the wife of Lucien
Bonaparte, had fled from his father’s castle in order to join the
insurgents. They succeeded in finding, and forcing him to return,
and as the family were under obligations to the pope for having
created the principalities of Canino and Musignano, for Lucien
Bonaparte and his eldest son, the most extreme measures were
adopted to prevent the young prince from fighting against the
troops of the pope;

The Princess of Canino, as a favor, requested the Grand-duke of
Tuscany to confine her son in one of the state prisons of Tuscany;
her request was granted, and her son taken to a prison, where he
was kept during the entire revolution. It was proposed to the
Duchess of St. Leu to adopt this same means of prevention, but, in
spite of her anxiety and care, and although, in her restlessness
and feverish disquiet, she wandered through her rooms day and
night, she declined to take such a course. She was not willing to
subject her sons to the humiliation of such compulsion; if their
own reason, if the prayers and entreaties of their mother, did not
suffice, force should not be resorted to, to bring them back. The
whole family was, however, still employing every means to induce
the two Princes Napoleon to withdraw from the revolution, which
must inevitably again draw down upon the name Napoleon the
suspicion of the angry and distrustful princes of Europe.

Cardinal Fesch and King Jerome conjured their nephews, first in
entreating, and then in commanding letters, to leave the insurgent
army.

With the consent of their father, Louis Bonaparte, they wrote to
the provisional government at Bologna that the name of the two
princes was injuring the cause of the revolution, and to General
Armandi, the minister of war of the insurgent government,
entreating him to recall the princes from the army. Every one,
friend and foe, combined to neutralize the zeal and efforts of the
two princes, and to prove to them that they could only injure the
cause to which they gave their names; that foreign powers,
considering the revolution a matter to be decided by Italy alone,
would perhaps refrain from intervening; but that they would become
relentless should a Bonaparte place himself at the head of the
revolution, in order perhaps to shake the thrones of Europe
anew.

The two princes at last yielded to these entreaties and
representations; they gave up their commands, and resigned the rank
that had been accorded them in the insurgent army; but, as it was
no longer in their power to serve the revolution with their name
and with their brains, they were at least desirous of serving it
with their arms: they resigned their commands, but with the
intention of remaining in the army as simple soldiers and
volunteers without any rank.

And when their father and their uncles, not yet satisfied with
what they had done, urged them still further the two princes
declared that, if these cruel annoyances were continued, they would
go to Poland, and serve the revolution there [61].

[61] La Reine Hortense, p. 93.

Hortense had taken no part in these attempts and efforts of her
family; she knew that it was all in vain; she understood her sons
better than they, and she knew that nothing in the world could
alter a resolution they had once formed. But she also knew that
they were lost, that the revolution must be suppressed, that they
would soon be proscribed fugitives, and she quietly prepared to
assist them when the evil days should come. She armed herself with
courage and determination, and made her soul strong, in order that
she might not be overwhelmed by the misfortune that was so near at
hand.

While all about her were weeping and lamenting, while her
husband was wringing his hands in despair, and complaining of the
present, Hortense quietly and resolutely confronted the future, and
prepared to defy it.

That which she dreaded soon took place. An Austrian fleet sailed
into the Adriatic; an Austrian army was marching on the
insurrectionary Italian provinces. Modena had already been
reconquered; the insurgents were already flying in crowds before
the Austrian cannon, whose thundering salvos were destined to
destroy once more the hopes of the youth of Italy.

Like an enraged lioness glowing with enthusiasm and courage,
Hortense now sprang up. The danger was there, and she must save her
sons! She had long considered how it was to be done, and whither
she was to go with them. She had first resolved to go with them to
Turkey, and to take up her residence in Smyrna, but the presence of
the Austrian fleet which ruled the Adriatic made this plan
impracticable. At this moment of extreme danger, a volume of light
suddenly beamed in upon her soul, and pointed out the way to
safety. “I will take them by a road,” said she to herself, “on
which they will be least expected. I will conduct them through
France, through Paris. The death-penalty will there hang suspended
over them, but what care I for that? Liberty, justice, and
humanity, still exercise too much control over France to make me
apprehend such severe measures. I must save my sons; the way
through France is the way of safety, and I shall therefore follow
it!”

And Hortense immediately began to carry her plan into execution.
She requested an Englishman residing in Florence, to whose family
she had once rendered important services in France, to call on her,
and begged him to procure her a passport for an English lady and
her two sons through France to England.

The lord understood her, and gladly consented to assist her and
her two sons.

On the following day he brought her the required passport, and
Hortense, who well knew that the best way to keep a secret was to
have no confidants, now declared to her husband, as well as to her
family and her friends that she was resolved to find her sons, and
to embark with them from Ancona for Corfu!

For this purpose she demanded a passport of the government of
Tuscany, and it was accorded her.

Her sons were still in Bologna, but it was known that this city
must fall into the hands of the Austrians in a few days, and all
was lost unless Hortense arrived there before them. She sent a
trusty servant to her sons to announce her coming. Then, at
nightfall, she herself departed, accompanied by one of her ladies
only. She was courageous and resolute, for she knew that the safety
of her sons, her only happiness, was at stake.

Her rapidly-driven carriage had soon passed without the city,
and she now found herself in a part of the country still occupied
by the insurgents. Here all still breathed courage, joyousness, and
confidence. The entire population, adorned with cockades and
three-colored ribbons, seemed happy and contented, and refused to
believe in the danger that threatened.

Festivals were everywhere being held in honor of the revolution
and of liberty, and those who spoke of the advancing Austrians and
of dangers were ridiculed. Instead of making preparations for their
defence, the insurgents folded their hands in contentment,
rejoicing over that which they had already attained, and blind to
the tide that was rolling down upon them.

In the mean while, the insurgent army was in position near
Bologna, and also still occupied the two cities of Terni and
Soleta, which they had courageously defended against the papal
troops. Every one expected that a decisive battle would soon take
place, and every one looked forward to it with a joyous assurance
of victory.

Hortense was far from participating in this general confidence.
In Foligno, where she had remained to await her sons, she passed
several sorrowful days of expectancy and suspense, alarmed by every
noise, and ever looking forward with an anxiously-throbbing heart
to the moment when her sons should come to her as fugitives,
perhaps covered with wounds, perhaps dying, to tell her that all
was lost! Her anxiety at last became so great, that she could no
longer remain in Foligno; she must be nearer her sons, she must
view the dangers that encompassed them, and, if need be, share
them. Hortense, therefore, left Foligno, and started for
Ancona.

On her arrival at the first station, she saw a man descend from
a carriage and approach her. He was unknown to her, and yet she
felt a dark foreboding at his approach. The mother’s heart already
felt the blow that awaited her.

This man was a messenger from her sons. “Prince Napoleon is
ill,” said he.

Hortense remembered that she had heard that a contagious disease
was ravaging the vicinity. “Is he indeed ill?” cried she, in
dismay.

“Yes; and he earnestly desires to see you, madame!”

“Oh,” exclaimed Hortense, in terror, “if he calls for me, he
must be very ill indeed!–Forward, forward, with all possible
speed; I must see my son!”

And onward they went with the speed of the wind from station to
station, approaching nearer and nearer to their destination; but as
they neared their destination, the faces they met grew sadder and
sadder. At every station groups of people assembled about her
carriage and gazed at her sorrowfully; everywhere she heard them
murmur: “Napoleon is dead! Poor mother! Napoleon is dead!” Hortense
heard, but did not believe it! These words had not been spoken by
men, but were the utterances of her anxious heart! Her son was not
dead, he could not be dead. Napoleon lived, yes, he still lived!
And again the people around her carriage murmured, “Napoleon is
dead!”

Hortense reclined in her carriage, pale and motionless. Her
thoughts were confused, her heart scarcely beat.

At last she reached her destination; her carriage drove up to
the house in Pesaro, where her sons were awaiting her.

At this moment a young man, his countenance of a deathly pallor,
and flooded with tears, rushed out of the door and to her carriage.
Hortense recognized him, and stretched out her arms to him. It was
her son Louis Napoleon, and on beholding his pale, sorrowful
countenance, and his tear-stained eyes, the unhappy mother learned
the truth. Yes, it was not her heart, it was the people who had
uttered the fearful words: “Napoleon is dead! Poor mother! Napoleon
is dead!”

With a heart-rending cry, Hortense sank to the ground in a
swoon.

CHAPTER VI.

THE FLIGHT FROM ITALY.

But Hortense now had no leisure to weep over the son she had so
dearly loved; the safety of the son who remained to her, whom she
loved no less, and on whom her whole love must now be concentrated,
was at stake.

She still had a son to save, and she must now think of him–of
Louis Napoleon, who stood in sorrow at her side, lamenting that
Fate had not allowed him to die with his brother.

Her son must be saved. This thought restored Hortense to health
and strength. She is informed that the authorities of Bologna have
already tendered submission to the Austrians; that the insurgent
army is already scattering in every direction; that the Austrian
fleet is already to be seen in the distance, approaching, perhaps
with the intention of landing at Sinigaglia, in order to surround
the insurgents and render flight impossible.

This intelligence aroused Hortense from her grief and restored
her energy. She ordered her carriage and drove with her son to
Ancona, in full view of the people, in order that every one should
know that it was her purpose to embark with her son for Corfu at
that seaport. At Ancona, immediately fronting the sea, stood her
nephew’s palace, and there Hortense descended from her
carriage.

The waves of the storm-tossed sea sometimes rushed up to the
windows of the room occupied by the duchess; from there she could
see the port, and the crowds of fugitives who were pressing forward
to save themselves on the miserable little vessels that there lay
at anchor.

And these poor people had but little time left them in which to
seek safety. The Austrians were rapidly advancing; on entering the
papal territory, they had proclaimed an amnesty, from the benefits
of which Prince Louis Napoleon, General Zucchi, and the inhabitants
of Modena, were, however, excepted. The strangers who had taken
part in the insurrection were to be arrested and treated with all
the severity of the law.

The young people who had flocked from Modena, Milan, and from
all Italy, to enroll themselves under the banner of the Roman
revolution, now found it necessary to seek safety from the pursuing
Austrians in flight.

Louis Napoleon also had no time to lose; each moment lost might
render flight impossible! Hortense was weary and ill, but she now
had no time to think of herself; she must first save her son, then
she could die, but not sooner.

With perfect composure she prepared for her double (her feigned
and her real) departure.

Outwardly, she purposed embarking with her son at Corfu;
secretly, it was her intention to fly to England through France!
But the English passport that she had received for this purpose
mentioned two sons, and Hortense now possessed but one; and it was
necessary for her to provide a substitute for the one she had
lost.

She found one in the person of the young Marquis Zappi, who,
compromised more than all the rest, joyfully accepted the
proposition of the Duchess of St. Leu, promising to conform himself
wholly to her arrangements, without knowing her plans and without
being initiated in her secrets.

Hortense then procured all that was necessary to the disguise of
the young men as liveried servants, and ordered her carriage to be
held in readiness for her departure.

While this was being done in secret, she publicly caused all
preparations to be made for her journey to Corfu. She sent her
passport to the authorities for the purpose of obtaining the
official visa for herself and sons, and had her trunks
packed. Louis Napoleon had looked on, with cold and mute
indifference, while these preparations were being made. He stood
by, pale and dejected, without complaining or giving utterance to
his grief.

Becoming at last convinced that he was ill, Hortense sent for a
physician.

The latter declared that the prince was suffering from a severe
attack of fever, which might become dangerous unless he sought
repose at once. It was therefore necessary to postpone their
departure for a day, and Hortense passed an anxious night at the
bedside of her fever-shaken, delirious son.

The morning at last dawned, the morning of the day on which they
hoped to fly; but when the rising sun shed its light into the
chamber in which Hortense stood at her son’s bedside, who can
describe the unhappy mother’s horror when she saw her son’s face
swollen, disfigured, and covered with red spots!

Like his brother, Louis Napoleon had also taken the same
disease.

For a moment Hortense was completely overwhelmed, and then, by
the greatest effort of her life, she summoned her fortitude to her
aid. She immediately sent for the physician again, and, trusting to
a sympathetic human heart, she confided all to him, and he did not
disappoint her. What is to be done must be done quickly,
immediately, or it will be in vain!

Hortense thinks of all, and provides for all. Especially, she
causes her son’s passport to Corfu to be signed by the authorities,
and a passage to be taken for him on the only ship destined for
Corfu now lying in the harbor. She instructs the servants, who are
conveying trunks and packages to the vessel, to inform the curious
spectators of her son’s intended departure on this vessel. She at
the same time causes the report to be circulated that she has
suddenly been taken ill, and can therefore not accompany her
son.

The physician confirms this statement, and informs all Ancona of
the dangerous illness of the Duchess of St. Leu.

And after all this had been done, Hortense causes her son’s bed
to be carried into the little cabinet adjoining her room, and
falling on her knees at his bedside, and covering her face with her
hands, she prays to God to preserve the life of her child!

On the evening of this day the vessel destined for Corfu hoisted
its anchor. No one doubted that Louis Napoleon had embarked on it,
and every one pitied the poor duchess, who, made ill by grief and
anxiety, had not been able to accompany her son.

In the mean while Hortense was sitting at the bedside of her
delirious son. But she no longer felt weak or disquieted; nervous
excitement sustained her, and gave her strength and presence of
mind. Her son was at the same time threatened by two dangers–by
the disease, which the slightest mistake might render mortal; and
by the arrival of the Austrians, who had expressly excepted her son
Louis Napoleon from the benefits of the amnesty. She must save her
son from both these dangers–this thought gave her strength.

Two days had now passed; the last two vessels had left the
harbor, crowded with fugitives; and now the advance-guard of the
Austrians was marching into Ancona.

The commandant of the advance-guard, upon whom the duty of
designating quarters for the following army devolved, selected the
palace of Princess Canino, where the Duchess of St. Leu resided, as
headquarters for the commanding general and his staff. Hortense had
expected this, and had withdrawn to a few small rooms in advance,
holding all the parlors and large rooms in readiness for the
general. When they, however, demanded that the entire palace should
be vacated, the wife of the janitor, the only person whom Hortense
had taken into her confidence, informed them that Queen Hortense,
who was ill and unhappy, was the sole occupant of these reserved
rooms.

Strange to relate, the Austrian captain who came to the palace
to make the necessary preparations for his general’s reception was
one of those who, in the year 1815, had protected the queen and her
children from the fury of the royalists. For the second time he now
interested himself zealously in behalf of the duchess, and hastened
forward to meet the general-in-chief, Baron Geppert, who was just
entering the city, in order to acquaint him with the state of
affairs. He, in common with all the world, convinced that her son,
Louis Napoleon, had fled to Corfu, declared his readiness to permit
the duchess to retain the rooms she was occupying, and begged
permission to call on her. But the duchess was still ill, and
confined to her bed, and could receive no one.

The Austrians took up their quarters in the palace; and in the
midst of them, separated from the general’s room by a locked door
only, were Hortense and her sick son. The least noise might betray
him. When he coughed it was necessary to cover his head with the
bedclothes, in order to deaden the sound; when he desired to speak
he could only do so in a whisper, for his Austrian neighbors would
have been astonished to hear a male voice in the room of the sick
duchess, and their suspicions might have been thereby aroused.

At last, after eight days of torment and anxiety, the physician
declared that Louis Napoleon could now undertake the journey
without danger, and consequently the duchess suddenly recovered!
She requested the Austrian general, Baron Geppert, to honor her
with a call, in order that she might thank him for his protection
and sympathy; she told him that she was now ready to depart, and
proposed embarking at Livorno, in order to join her son at Malta,
and go with him to England. As she would be compelled to pass
through the whole Austrian army-corps on her way, she begged the
general to furnish her with a passport through his lines over his
own signature; requesting in addition that, in order to avoid all
sensation, the instrument should not contain her name.

The general, deeply sympathizing with the unhappy woman who was
about to follow her proscribed son, readily accorded her
request.

Hortense purposed beginning her journey on the following day,
the first day of the Easter festival; and, on sending her farewell
greeting to the Austrian general, she informed him that she would
start at a very early hour, in order to hear mass at Loretto.

During the night all necessary preparations for the journey were
made, and Louis Napoleon was compelled to disguise himself in the
dress of a liveried servant; a similar attire was also sent to
Marquis Zappi, who had hitherto been concealed in the house of a
friend, and in this attire he was to await the duchess below at the
carriage.

At last, day broke and the hour of departure came. The horn of
the postilion resounded through the street. Through the midst of
the sleeping Austrian soldiers who occupied the antechamber through
which they were compelled to pass, Hortense walked, followed by her
son loaded with packages, in his livery. Their departure was
witnessed by no one except the sentinel on duty.

Day had hardly dawned. In the first carriage sat the duchess,
with a lady companion, and in front, on the box, her son, as a
servant, at the side of the postilion; in the second carriage her
maid, behind her the young Marquis Zappi.

As the sun arose and shone down upon the beautiful Easter day,
Ancona was already far behind, and Hortense knelt down at the side
of Louis Napoleon to thank God tearfully for having permitted her
to succeed so far in rescuing her son, and to entreat Him to be
merciful in the future. But there were still many dangers to be
overcome; the slightest accident might still betray them. The
danger consisted not only in having to pass through all the places
where the Austrian troops were stationed; General Geppert’s pass
was a sufficient protection against any thing that might threaten
them from this quarter.

The greatest danger was to be apprehended from their
friends–from some one who might accidentally recognize her son,
and unintentionally betray them.

They must pass through the grand-duchy of Tuscany, and there the
greatest danger menaced, for there her son was known to every one,
and every one might betray them. This part of the journey must
therefore be made, as far as possible, by night. The courier whom
they had dispatched in advance had everywhere ordered the necessary
relays of horses; their dismay was, therefore, great when they
found no horses at the station Camoscia, on the boundary of
Tuscany, and were informed that several hours must elapse before
they could obtain any!

These hours of expectation and anxiety were fearful. Hortense
passed them in her carriage, breathlessly listening to the
slightest noise that broke upon the air.

Her son Louis had descended from the carriage, and seated
himself on a stone bench that stood in front of the miserable
little station-house. Worn out by grief and still weak from
disease, indifferent to the dangers that menaced from all sides,
heedless of the night wind that swept, with its icy breath, over
his face, the prince sank down upon this stone bench, and went to
sleep.

Thus they passed the night. Hortense, once a queen, in a
half-open carriage; Louis Napoleon, the present Emperor of France,
on a stone bench, that served him as a couch!

CHAPTER VII.

THE PILGRIMAGE.

Heaven took pity on the agony of the unhappy Duchess of St. Leu.
It heard the prayer of her anxious mother’s heart, and permitted
mother and son to escape the dangers that menaced them at every
step in Italy.

At Antibes they succeeded in crossing the French boundary
without being recognized. They were now in their own country–in
la belle France, which they still loved and proudly called
their mother, although it had forsaken and discarded them. The
death-penalty threatened the Bonapartes who should dare to set foot
on French soil. But what cared they for that? Neither Hortense nor
her son thought of it. They only knew that they were in their own
country. They inhaled with delight the air that seemed to them
better and purer than any other; with hearts throbbing with joy,
they listened to the music of this beautiful language that greeted
them with the sweet native melodies.

At Cannes they passed the first night. What recollections did
this place recall to Hortense! Here it was that Napoleon had landed
on his return from Elba to France; from Cannes he had commenced his
march to Paris with a handful of soldiers, and had arrived there
with an army. For the people had everywhere received him with
exultation; the regiments that had been sent out against the
advancing general had everywhere joyously gone over to his
standard. Charles de Labédoyère, this enthusiastic
adherent of the emperor, had been the first to do this. He was to
have advanced against the emperor from Grenoble; but, with the
exulting cry, “Vive l’empereur!” the entire regiment had
gone over to its adored chieftain. Labédoyère had
paid dearly for the enthusiasm of those moments; for, the
for-the-second-time restored Bourbons punished his fidelity with
death. Like Marshal Ney, Charles de Labédoyère was
also shot; like the emperor himself, he paid for the triumph of the
hundred days with his liberty and with his life!

Of all these names and events of the past, Hortense thought,
while enjoying the first hours of repose in their room at an hotel
in Cannes. Leaning back in her chair, her large eyes gazing
dreamily at the ceiling above her, she told the attentive prince of
the days that had been, and spoke to him of the days in which they
were now living–of these days of humiliation and obscurity–of
those days in which the French nation had risen, and, shaking its
lion’s mane, hurled the Bourbons from their ancestral throne, and
out of the land they had hitherto proudly called their own. On
driving out the Bourbons, the people had freely chosen another
king–not the King of Rome, who, in Vienna, as Duke of Reichstadt,
had been made to forget the brilliant days of his childhood–not
the son of the Emperor Napoleon. The people of France had chosen
the Duke of Orleans as their king, and Louis Philippe’s first act
had been to renew the decree of banishment which the Bourbons had
fulminated against the Bonapartes, and which declared it to be a
capital crime if they should ever dare to set foot on the soil of
France.

“The people acted freely and according to their own will,” said
Hortense, with a sad smile, as she saw her son turn pale, and
wrinkles gather on his brow. “Honor the will of the people, my son!
In order to reward the emperor for his great services to the
country, the people of France had unanimously chosen him their
emperor. The people who give have also the right to take back
again. The Bourbons, who consider themselves the owners of France,
may reclaim it as an estate of which they have been robbed by the
house of Orleans. But the Bonapartes must remember that they
derived all their power from the will of the people. They must be
content to await the future expression of its will, and then
submit, and conform themselves to it [62].”

[62] The duchess’s own words. See La Reine
Hortense en Italie, Suisse, France, etc., p. 79.

Louis Napoleon bowed his head and sighed. He must conform to the
will of the people; cautiously, under a borrowed name, he must
steal into the land of his longing and of his dreams; he must deny
his nationality, and be indebted, for his name and passport, to the
country that had bound his uncle, like a second Prometheus, to the
rock, and left him there to die! But he did it with a sorrowful,
with a bleeding heart; he wandered with his mother, who walked
heavily veiled at his side, from place to place, listening to her
reminiscences of the great past. At her relation of these
reminiscences, his love and enthusiasm for the fatherland, from
which he had so long been banished, burned brighter and brighter.
The sight, the air of this fatherland, had electrified him; he
entertained but one wish: to remain in France, and to serve France,
although in the humble capacity of a private soldier.

One day Louis Napoleon entered his mother’s room with a letter
in his hand, and begged her to read it. It was a letter addressed
to Louis Philippe, in which Louis Napoleon begged the French king
to annul his exile, and to permit him to enter the French army as a
private soldier.

Hortense read the letter, and shook her head sadly. It wounded
her just pride that her son, the nephew of the great emperor,
should ask a favor of him who had not hesitated to make the most of
the revolution for himself, but had nevertheless lacked the courage
to help the banished Bonapartes to recover their rights, and enable
them to return to their country. In his ardent desire to serve
France, Louis Napoleon had forgotten this insult of the King of
France.

“My children,” says Hortense, in her memoirs, “my children, who
had been cruelly persecuted by all the courts, even by those who
owed every thing to the emperor, their uncle, loved their country
with whole-souled devotion. Their eyes ever turned toward France,
busied with the consideration of institutions that might make
France happy; they knew that the people alone were their friends;
the hatred of the great had taught them this. To conform to the
will of the people with resignation was to them a duty, but to
devote themselves to the service of France was their hearts’
dearest wish. It was for this reason that my son had written to
Louis Philippe hoping to be permitted to make himself useful to his
country in some way.”

Hortense advised against this venturous step; and when she saw
how much this grieved her son, and observed his eyes filling with
tears, she begged that he would at least wait and reflect, and
postpone his decision until their arrival in Paris.

Louis Napoleon yielded to his mother’s entreaties, and in
silence and sadness these two pilgrims continued their wandering
through the country and cities, that to Hortense seemed transformed
into luminous monuments of departed glory.

In Fontainebleau Hortense showed her son the palace that had
been the witness of the greatest triumphs and also of the most
bitter grief of his great uncle. Leaning on his arm, her
countenance concealed by a heavy black veil, to prevent any one
from recognizing her, Hortense walked through the chambers, in
which she had once been installed as a mighty and honored queen,
and in which she was now covertly an exile menaced with death. The
servants who conducted her were the same who had been there during
the days of the emperor! Hortense recognized them at once; she did
not dare to make herself known, but she nevertheless felt that she,
too, was remembered there. She saw this in the expression with
which the servants opened the rooms she had once occupied; she
heard it in the tone in which they mentioned her name! Every thing
in this palace had remained as it then was! There was the same
furniture in the rooms which the imperial family had occupied after
the peace of Tilsit, and in which they had given such brilliant
fêtes, and received the homage of so many of the kings
and princes of Europe, all of whom had come to implore the
assistance and favor of their vanquisher! There were also the
apartments which the pope had occupied, once voluntarily;
subsequently, under compulsion. Alas! and there was also the little
cabinet, in which the emperor, the once so mighty and illustrious
ruler of Europe, had abdicated the crown which his victories, his
good deeds, and the love of the French people, had placed on his
head! And, finally, there were also the chapel and the altar before
which the Emperor Napoleon had stood god-father to his nephew Louis
Napoleon! All was still as it had been, except that the garden,
that Hortense and her mother had laid out and planted, had grown
more luxuriant, and now sang to the poor banished pilgrim with its
rustling tree-tops a melancholy song of her long separation from
her home!

The sorrowing couple wandered on, and at last arrived before the
gates of Paris. At this moment, Hortense was a Frenchwoman, a
Parisian only, and, forgetting every thing else, all her grief and
sufferings, she sought only to do the honors of Paris for her son.
She ordered the coachman to drive them through the boulevards to
the Rue de la Paix, and then to stop at the first good hotel. This
was the same way over which she had passed sixteen years before,
escorted by an Austrian officer. Then she had quitted Paris by
night, driven out in a measure by the allies, who so much feared
her, the poor, weak woman with her little boys, that troops had
been placed under arms at regular intervals on her way, in order,
as it was given out, to secure her safe passage. Now, after sixteen
years, Hortense returned to Paris by the same route, still exiled
and homeless, at her side the son who was not only menaced by the
French decree of banishment, but also by the Austrian edict of
proscription.

But yet she was once more in Paris, once more at home, and she
wept with joy at beholding once more the streets and places about
which the memories of her youth clustered.

By a strange chance, it was at the “Hôtel de
Hollande” that the former Queen of Holland descended from her
carriage, and took up her residence, holding thus, in a measure,
her entrance into Paris, under the fluttering banner of the past.
In the little Hôtel de Hollande, the Queen of Holland
took possession of the apartments of the first floor, which
commanded a view of the boulevard and the column of the Place
Vendôme. “Say to the column on the Place
Vendôme that I am dying, because I cannot embrace it,”
the Duke de Reichstadt once wrote in the album of a French
nobleman, who had succeeded, in spite of the watchful spies, who
surrounded the emperor’s son, in speaking to him of his father and
of the empire. This happiness, vainly longed for by the emperor’s
son, was at least to be enjoyed by his nephew.

Louis Napoleon could venture to show himself. In Paris he was
entirely unknown, and could therefore be betrayed by no one. He
could go down into the square and hasten to the foot of the
Vendôme column, and in thought at least kneel down
before the monument that immortalized the renown and grandeur of
the emperor. Hortense remained behind, in order to perform a sacred
duty, imposed on her, as she believed, by her own honor and
dignity.

She was not willing to sojourn secretly, like a fugitive
criminal, in the city that in the exercise of its free will had
chosen itself a king, but not a Bonaparte. She was not willing to
partake of French hospitality and enjoy French protection by
stealth; she was not willing to go about in disguise, deceiving the
government with a false pass and a borrowed name. She had the
courage of truth and sincerity, and she resolved to say to the King
of France that she had come, not to defy his decree of banishment
by her presence, not for the purpose of intriguing against his new
crown, by arousing the Bonapartists from their sleep of
forgetfulness by her appearance, but solely because there was no
other means of saving her son; because she must pass through France
with him in order to reach England.

Revolution, which so strangely intermingles the destinies of
men, had surrounded the new king almost entirely with the friends
and servants of the emperor and of the Duchess of St. Leu. But, in
order not to excite suspicion against these, Hortense now addressed
herself to him with whom she had the slightest acquaintance and
whose devotion to the Orleans family was too well known to be
called in doubt by her undertaking. Hortense therefore addressed
herself to M. de Houdetot, the adjutant of the king, or rather, she
caused her friend Mlle. de Massuyer to write to him. She was
instructed to inform the count that she had come to Paris with an
English family, and was the bearer of a commission from the Duchess
of St. Leu to M. de Houdetot.

M. de Houdetot responded to her request, and came to the
Hôtel de Hollande to see Mlle. Massuyer. With surprise
and emotion, he recognized in the supposititious English lady the
Duchess of St. Leu, who was believed by all the world to be on the
way to Malta, and for whom her friends (who feared the fatigue of
so long a journey would be too much for Hortense in her weak state
of health) had already taken steps to obtain for her permission to
pass through France on her way to England.

Hortense informed Count Houdetot of the last strokes of destiny
that had fallen upon her, and expressed her desire to see the king,
in order to speak with him in person about the future of her
son.

M. de Houdetot undertook to acquaint the king with her desire,
and came on the following day to inform the duchess of the result
of his mission. He told the duchess that the king had loudly
lamented her boldness in coming to France, and the impossibility of
his seeing her. He told her, moreover, that, as the king had a
responsible ministry at his side, he had been compelled to inform
the premier of her arrival, and that Minister Casimir Perrier would
call on her during the day.

A few hours later, Louis Philippe’s celebrated minister arrived.
He came with an air of earnest severity, as it were to sit in
judgment upon the accused duchess, but her artless sincerity and
her gentle dignity disarmed him, and soon caused him to assume a
more delicate and polite bearing.

“I well know,” said Hortense in the course of the conversation,
“I well know that I have broken a law, by coming hither; I fully
appreciate the gravity of this offence; you have the right to cause
me to be arrested, and it would be perfectly just in you to do
so!”–Casimir Perrier shook his head slowly, and replied: “Just,
no! Lawful, yes [63]!”

[63] La Reine Hortense: Voyage en Italie, etc.,
p. 110.

CHAPTER VIII.

LOUIS PHILIIPE AND THE DUCHESS OF ST. LEU.

The visit which Casimir Perrier had paid the duchess seemed to
have convinced him that the fears which the king and his ministry
had entertained had really been groundless, that the step-daughter
of Napoleon had not come to Paris to conspire and to claim the
still somewhat unstable throne of France for the Duke de Reichstadt
or for Louis Napoleon, but that she had only chosen the way through
France, in the anxiety of maternal love in order to rescue her
son.

In accordance with this conviction, Louis Philippe no longer
considered it impossible to see the Duchess of St. Leu, but now
requested her to call. Perhaps the king, who had so fine a memory
for figures and money-matters, remembered that it had been Hortense
(then still Queen of Holland) who, during the hundred days of the
empire in 1815, had procured for the Duchess
Orleans-Penthièvre, from the emperor, permission to remain
in Paris and a pension of two hundred thousand francs per annum;
that it had been Hortense who had done the same for the aunt of the
present king, the Duchess of Orleans-Bourbon. Then, in their joy
over an assured and brilliant future, these ladies had written the
duchess the most affectionate and devoted letters; then they had
assured Hortense of their eternal and imperishable
gratitude [64].
Perhaps Louis Philippe remembered this, and was desirous of
rewarding Hortense for her services to his mother and his aunt.

[64] La Reine Hortense: Voyage en Italie, etc.,
p. 185.

He solicited a visit from Hortense, and, on the second day of
her sojourn in Paris, M. de Houdetot conducted the Duchess of St.
Leu to the Tuileries, in which she had once lived as a young girl,
as the step-daughter of the emperor; then as Queen of Holland, as
the wife of the emperor’s brother; and which she now beheld once
more, a poor, nameless pilgrim, a fugitive with shrouded
countenance, imploring a little toleration and protection of those
to whom she had once accorded toleration and protection.

Louis Philippe received the Duchess of St. Leu with all the
elegance and graciousness which the “Citizen King” so well knew how
to assume, and that had always been an inheritance of his house,
with all the amiability and apparent open-heartedness beneath which
he so well knew how to conceal his real disposition. Coming to the
point at once, he spoke of that which doubtlessly interested the
duchess most, of the decree of banishment.

“I am familiar,” said the king, “with all the pains of exile,
and it is not my fault that yours have not been alleviated.” He
assured her that this decree of banishment against the Bonaparte
family was a heavy burden on his heart; he went so far as to excuse
himself for it by saying that the exile pronounced against the
imperial family was only an article of the same law which the
conventionists had abolished, and the renewal of which had been so
vehemently demanded by the country! Thus it had seemed as though he
had uttered a new decree of banishment, while in point of fact he
had only renewed a law that had already existed under the consulate
of Napoleon. “But,” continued the king with exultation, “the time
is no longer distant when there will be no more exiles; I will have
none under my government!”

Then, as if to remind the duchess that there had been exiles and
decrees of banishment at all times, also under the republic, the
consulate, and the kingdom, he spoke of his own exile, of the needy
and humiliating situation in which he had found himself, and which
had compelled him to hire himself out as a teacher and give
instruction for a paltry consideration.

The duchess had listened to the king with a gentle smile, and
replied that she knew the story of his exile, and that it did him
honor.

Then the duchess informed the king that her son had accompanied
her on her journey, and was now with her in Paris; she also told
him that her son, in his glowing enthusiasm for his country, had
written to the king, begging that he might be permitted to enter
the army.

“Lend me the letter,” replied Louis Philippe; “Perrier shall
bring it to me, and, if circumstances permit, I shall be perfectly
willing to grant your son’s request; and it will also give me great
pleasure to serve you at all times. I know that you have legitimate
claims on the government, and that you have appealed to the justice
of all former ministries in vain. Write out a statement of all that
France owes you, and send it to me alone. I understand
business matters, and constitute myself from this time on your
chargé d’affaires[65]. The Duke of Rovigo,” he continued, “has
informed me that the other members of the imperial family have
similar claims. It will afford me great pleasure to be of
assistance to all of you, and I shall interest myself particularly
for the Princess de Montfort [66].”

[65] The king’s own words. See Voyage en Italie,
etc., p. 201.

[66] The Princess de Montfort was the wife of
Jerome, the sister of the King of Würtemberg, and a cousin of
the Emperor of Russia.

Hortense had listened to the king, her whole face radiant with
delight. The king’s beneficent countenance, his friendly smile, his
hearty and cordial manner, dispelled all doubt of his sincerity in
Hortense’s mind. She believed in his goodness and in his kindly
disposition toward herself; and, in her joyous emotion, she thanked
him with words of enthusiasm for his promised benefits, never
doubting that it was his intention to keep his word.

“Ah, sire!” she exclaimed, “the entire imperial family is in
misfortune, and you will have many wrongs to redress. France owes
us all a great deal, and it will be worthy of you to liquidate
these debts.”

The king declared his readiness to do every thing. He who was so
fond of taking in millions and of speculating, smilingly promised,
in the name of France, to disburse millions, and to pay off the old
state debt!

The duchess believed him. She believed in his protestations of
friendship, and in his blunt sincerity. She allowed him to conduct
her to his wife, the queen, and was received by her and Madame
Adelaide with the same cordiality the king had shown. Once only in
the course of the conversation did Madame Adelaide forget her
cordial disposition. She asked the duchess how long she expected to
remain in Paris, and when the latter replied that she intended
remaining three days longer, Madame exclaimed, in a tone of anxious
dismay: “So long! Three days still! And there are so many
Englishmen here who have seen your son in Italy, and might
recognize you here!”

But Fate itself seemed to delay the departure of the duchess and
her son. On returning home from her visit to the Tuileries, she
found her son on his bed in a violent fever, and the physician who
had been called in declared that he was suffering from inflammation
of the throat.

Hortense was to tremble once more for the life of a son, and
this son was the last treasure Fate had left her.

Once more the mother sat at the bedside of her son, watching
over him, lovingly, day and night. That her son’s life might be
preserved was now her only wish, her only prayer; all else became
void of interest, and was lost sight of. She only left her son’s
side when Casimir Perrier came, as he was in the habit of doing
daily, to inquire after her son’s condition in the name of the
king, and to request the duchess to name the amount of her claims
against France, and to impart to him all her wishes with regard to
her future. Hortense now had but one ardent wish–the recovery of
her son; and her only request was, that she might be permitted to
visit the French baths of the Pyrenees during the summer, in order
to restore her failing health.

The minister promised to procure this permission of the king,
and of the Chambers, that were soon to be convened. “In this way we
shall gradually become accustomed to your presence,” observed
Casimir Perrier. “As far as you are personally concerned, we shall
be inclined to throw open the gates of the country to you. But with
your son it is different, his name will be a perpetual obstacle in
his way. If he should really desire at any time to take service in
the army, it would be, above all, necessary that he should lay
aside his name. We are in duty bound to consider the wishes of
foreign governments: France is divided into so many parties, that a
war could only be ruinous, and therefore your son must change his
name, if–“

But now the duchess, her cheeks glowing, blushing with
displeasure and anger, interrupted him. “What!” exclaimed she, “lay
aside the noble name with which France may well adorn itself,
conceal it as though we had cause to be ashamed of it?”

Beside herself with anger, regardless, in her agitation, even of
the suffering condition of her son, she hastened to his bedside, to
inform him of the proposition made to her by Louis Philippe’s
minister.

The prince arose in his couch, his eyes flaming, and his cheeks
burning at the same time with the fever-heat of disease and of
anger.

“Lay aside my name!” he exclaimed. “Who dares to make such a
proposition to me? Let us think of all these things no more,
mother. Let us go back to our retirement. Ah, you were right,
mother: our time is passed, or it has not yet come!”

CHAPTER IX.

THE DEPARTURE OF THE DUCHESS FROM PARIS.

Excitement had made the patient worse, and caused his fever to
return with renewed violence. Hortense was now inseparable from his
bedside; she herself applied ice to his burning throat, and
assisted in applying the leeches ordered by the physician. But this
continuous anxiety and excitement, all these troubles of the
present, and sad remembrances of the past, had at last exhausted
the strength of the delicate woman; the flush of fever now began to
show itself on her cheeks also, and the physician urged her to take
daily exercise in the open air if she desired to avoid falling
ill.

Hortense followed his advice. In the evening twilight, in plain
attire, her face concealed by a heavy black veil, she now daily
quitted her son’s bedside, and went out into the street for a walk,
accompanied by the young Marquis Zappi. No one recognized her, no
one greeted her, no one dreamed that the veiled figure that walked
so quietly and shyly was she who, as Queen of Holland, had formerly
driven through these same streets in gilded coaches, hailed by the
joyous shouts of the people.

But, in these wanderings through Paris, Hortense also lived in
her memories only. She showed the marquis the dwelling she had once
occupied, and which had for her a single happy association: her
sons had been born there. With a soft smile she looked up at the
proud façade of this building, the windows of which
were brilliantly illumined, and in whose parlors some banker or
ennobled provision-dealer was now perhaps giving a ball; pointing
to these windows with her slender white hand, she said: “I wished
to see this house, in order to reproach myself for having been
unhappy in it; yes, I then dared to complain even in the midst of
so much splendor; I was so far from dreaming of the weight of the
misfortune that was one day to come upon me [67].”

[67] The duchess’s own words: see Voyage, etc.,
p. 225.

She looked down again and passed on, to seek the houses of
several friends, of whom she knew that they had remained faithful;
heavily veiled and enveloped in her dark cloak she stood in front
of these houses, not daring to acquaint her friends with her
presence, contented with the sweet sense of being near them!

When, after having strengthened her heart with the consciousness
of being near friends, she passed on through the streets, in which
she, the daughter of France, was now unknown, homeless, and
forgotten!–no, not forgotten!–as she chanced to glance in at a
store she was just passing, she saw in the lighted window her own
portrait at the side of that of the emperor.

Overcome by a sweet emotion, Hortense stood still and gazed at
these pictures. The laughing, noisy crowd on the sidewalk passed
on, heedless of the shrouded woman who stood there before the
shop-window, gazing with tearful eyes at her own portrait. “It
seems we are still remembered,” whispered she, in a low voice.
“Those who wear crowns are not to be envied, and should not lament
their loss; but is it possible that the love of the people, to
receive which is so sweet, has not yet been wholly withdrawn from
us?”

The profound indifference with which France had accepted the
exile of the Bonapartes had grieved her deeply. She had only longed
for some token of love and fidelity in order that she might go back
into exile consoled and strengthened. And now she found it. France
proved to her through these portraits that she was not
forgotten.

Hortense stepped with her companion into the store to purchase
the portraits of herself and of the emperor; and when she was told
that these portraits were in great demand, and that many of them
were sold to the people, she hardly found strength to repress the
tears of blissful emotion that rose from her heart to her eyes. She
took the portraits and hastened home, to show them to her son and
to bring to him with them the love-greetings of France. While the
duchess, her thoughts divided between the remembrances of the past
and the cares and troubles of the present, had been sojourning in
Paris for twelve days, all the papers were extolling the heroism of
the duchess in having saved her son, and of her having embarked at
Malta in order to take him to England.

Even the king’s ministerial council occupied itself with this
matter, and thought it proper to make representations to his
majesty on the subject. Marshal Sebastiani informed the king that
the Duchess of St. Leu, to his certain knowledge, had landed at
Corfu. With lively interest he spoke of the fatiguing journey at
sea that the duchess would be compelled to make, and asked almost
timidly if she might not be permitted to travel through France.

The king’s countenance assumed an almost sombre look, and he
replied, dryly: “Let her continue her journey.” Casimir Perrier
bowed his head over the paper that lay before him, in order to
conceal his mirth, and minister Barthe availed himself of the
opportunity to give a proof of his eloquence and of his severity,
by observing that a law existed against the duchess, and that a law
was a sacred thing that no one should be permitted to evade.

But the presence of the duchess, although kept a secret, began
to cause the king and his premier Casimir Perrier more and more
uneasiness. The latter had already once informed her through M. de
Houdetot that her departure was absolutely necessary and must take
place at once, and he had only been moved to consent to her further
sojourn by the condition of the prince, whose inflammation of the
throat had rendered a second application of leeches necessary.

They were now, however, on the eve of a great and dangerous day,
of the 5th of May [68]. The people of Paris were strangely moved,
and the new government saw with much apprehension the dawn of this
day of such great memories for France. There seemed to be some
justification for this apprehension. Since the break of day,
thousands of people had flocked to the column on the Place
Vendôme. Silently and gravely they approached the
monument, in order to adorn with wreaths of flowers the eagles, or
to lay them at the foot of the column, and then to retire
mournfully.

[68] The anniversary of Napoleon’s
death.

Hortense stood at the window of her apartment, looking on with
folded hands and tears of bliss at the impressive and solemn scene
that was taking place on the Place Vendôme beneath,
when suddenly a violent knocking was heard at her door, and M. de
Houdetot rushed in, a pale and sorrowful expression on his
countenance.

“Duchess,” said he breathlessly, “you must depart immediately,
without an hour’s delay! I am ordered to inform you of this. Unless
the life of your son is to be seriously endangered, you must leave
at once!”

Hortense listened to him tranquilly. She almost pitied the
king–the government–to whom a weak woman and an invalid youth
could cause such fear. How great must this fear be, when it caused
them to disregard all the laws of hospitality and of decency! What
had she done to justify this fear? She had not addressed herself to
the people of France, in order to obtain help and protection for
her son–for the nephew of the emperor; cautiously and timidly she
had concealed herself from the people, and, far from being disposed
to arouse or agitate her country, she had only made herself known
to the King of France in order to solicit protection and toleration
at his hands.

She was distrusted, in spite of this candor; and her presence,
although known to no one, awakened apprehensions in those in
authority. Hortense pitied them; not a word of complaint or regret
escaped her lips. She sent for her physician at once; and, after
informing him that she must necessarily depart for London, she
asked him if such a journey would endanger her son’s life. The
physician declared that, while he could have desired a few days
more of repose, the prince would nevertheless, with proper care and
attention, be able to leave on the following day.

“Inform the king that I shall depart to-morrow,” said Hortense;
and, while M. de Houdetot was hastening to the king with this
welcome intelligence, the duchess was making preparations for the
journey, which she began with her son early on the following
morning.

In four days they reached Calais, where they found the ship that
was to convey them to England in readiness to sail. Hortense was to
leave her country once more as a fugitive and exile! She was once
more driven out, and condemned to live in a foreign country!
Because the French people still refused to forget their emperor,
the French kings hated and feared the imperial family. Under the
old Bourbons, they had been hated; Louis Philippe, who had attained
his crown through the people, felt that it was necessary to flatter
the people, and show some consideration for their sympathies. He
declared to the people that he entertained the most profound
admiration for their great emperor, and yet he issued a decree of
banishment against the Bonapartes; he ordered that the
Vendôme column, with its bronze statue of the emperor,
should be adorned, and at the same time his decree banished the
daughter and the nephew of the emperor from France, and drove them
back into a foreign country.

Hortense went, but she felt, in the pain it caused her, that she
was leaving her country–the country in which she had friends whom
she had not seen again; the country in which lay her mother’s
grave, which she had not dared to visit; and, finally, the grave of
her son! She once more left behind her all the remembrances of her
youth–all the places she had loved; and her regret and her tears
made known how dear these things still were to her; that the
banished and homeless one was still powerless to banish the love of
country from her heart, and that France was still her home!

CHAPTER X.

PILGRIMAGE THROUGH FRANCE.

The sojourn of the Duchess of St. Leu in England where she
arrived with her son after a stormy passage, was for both a
succession of triumphs and ovations. The high aristocracy of London
heaped upon her proofs of esteem, of reverence, and of love; every
one seemed anxious to atone for the severity and cruelty with which
England had treated the emperor, by giving proofs of their
admiration and respect for his step-daughter. All these proud
English aristocrats seemed desirous of proving to the duchess and
her son that they were not of the same disposition as Hudson Lowe,
who had slowly tormented the chained lion to death with petty
annoyances.

The Duchess of Bedford, Lord and Lady Holland, and Lady Grey, in
particular, were untiring in their efforts to do the honors of
their country to Hortense, and to show her every possible
attention. But Hortense declined their proffered invitations. She
avoided all publicity; she feared, on her own and her son’s
account, that the tattle of the world and the newspapers might once
more draw down upon her the distrust and ill-will of the French
government. She feared that this might prevent her returning with
her son, through France, to her quiet retreat on the Lake of
Constance, in Switzerland, to her charming Arenenberg, where she
had passed so many delightful and peaceful years of repose and
remembrance.

Hortense was right. Her sojourn in England excited, as soon as
it became known, in every quarter, care, curiosity, and disquiet.
All parties were seeking to divine the duchess’s intention in
residing in London. All parties were convinced that she entertained
plans that might endanger and frustrate their own. The Duchess de
Berri, who resided in Bath, had come to London as soon as she heard
of the arrival of the Duchess of St. Leu, in order to inquire into
Hortense’s real intention. The bold and enterprising Duchess de
Berri was preparing to go to France, in order to call the people to
arms for herself and son, to hurl Louis Philippe from his usurped
throne, and to restore to her son his rightful inheritance. They,
therefore, thought it perfectly natural that Hortense should
entertain similar plans for her son; that she, too, should purpose
the overthrow of the French king in order to place her own son, or
the son of the emperor, the Duke de Reichstadt, on the throne.

On the other hand, it had been endeavored to persuade Prince
Leopold, of Coburg, to whom the powers of Europe had just offered
the crown of Belgium, that the Duchess of St. Leu had come to
England in order to possess herself of Belgium by a coup
d’état, and to proclaim Louis Napoleon its king. But
this wise and magnanimous prince laughed at these intimations. He
had known the duchess in her days of magnificence, and he now
hastened to lay the same homage at the foot of the homeless woman
that he had once devoted to the adored and powerful Queen of
Holland. He called on the duchess, conversed with her of her
beautiful and brilliant past, and told her of the hopes which he
himself entertained for the future. Deeply bowed down by the death
of his beloved wife, Princess Charlotte of England, it was his
purpose to seek consolation in his misfortune by striving to make
his people happy. He had therefore accepted the crown tendered him
by the people, and was on the point of departing for Belgium.

While taking leave of the duchess, after a long and cordial
conversation, he remarked, with a gentle smile: “I trust you will
not take my kingdom away from me on your journey through
Belgium?”

While the new government of France, as well as the exiled
Bourbons, suspected the Duchess of St. Leu and her son of
entertaining plans for the subversion of the French throne, the
imperialists and republicans were hoping that Hortense’s influence
might be exerted upon the destinies of France. Everywhere in France
as well as in England, the people were of the opinion that the new
throne of Louis Philippe had no vitality, because it had no support
in the heart of the people. The partisans of the Bourbons believed
that France longed for the grandson of St. Louis, for its
hereditary king, Henry V.; the imperialists were convinced that the
new government was about to be overthrown, and that France was more
anxious than ever to see the emperors son, Napoleon II., restored.
The republicans, however, distrusted the people and the army, and
began to perceive that they could only attain the longed-for
republican institutions under a Bonaparte. They therefore sent
their secret emissaries as well to the Duke de Reichstadt as to
Louis Napoleon.

The Duke de Reichstadt, to whom these emissaries proposed that
he should come to France and present himself to the people,
replied: “I cannot go to France as an adventurer; let the nation
call me, and I shall find means to get there.”

To the propositions made to him, Louis Napoleon replied that he
belonged to France under all circumstances; that he had proved this
by asking permission to serve France, but he had been rejected. It
would not become him to force to a decision by a coup
d’état the nation whose decrees he would ever hold
sacred.

Hortense regarded these efforts of the imperialists and of the
republicans to win her son to their purposes with a sorrowful and
anxious heart. She hoped and longed for nothing more than the
privilege of living in retirement with her memories; she felt
exhausted and sobered by the few steps she had already taken into
the great world; she, who had ever felt the most tender sympathy
for the misfortunes of others, and the most ardent desire to
alleviate them–she had nowhere found in her misfortune any thing
but injustice, indifference, and calumny.

Hortense longed to be back at Arenenberg, in her Swiss
mountains. Thither she desired to return with her son, in order
that she might there dream with him of the brilliant days that had
been, and sing with him the exalted song of her remembrances! If
the French government should permit her to journey with her son
through France, she could easily and securely reach the Swiss
Canton of Thurgau, where her little estate, Arenenberg, lay under
the protection of the republic; the daughter of the emperor would
there be certain to find peace and repose!

The duchess there wrote to M. de Houdetot, begging him to
procure for her from the French government a passport, permitting
her to travel through France under some assumed name. It was
promised her after long hesitation, but under the condition that
she should not commence her journey until after July, until after
the first anniversary of the coronation of Louis Philippe.

Hortense agreed to this, and received on the first of August a
passport, which permitted her, as Madame Arenenberg, to pass
through France with her son in order to return to her estate in
Switzerland.

It was at first the duchess’s intention, notwithstanding the
unquiet movements that were taking place in the capital, to journey
through Paris, for the very purpose of proving, by her quiet and
uninterested demeanor, that she had no share whatever in these
movements and riots.

But, on informing Louis Napoleon of her intention, he exclaimed,
with sparkling eyes: “If we go to Paris, and if I should see the
people sabred before my eyes, I shall not be able to resist the
inclination to place myself on its side [69]!”

[69] La Reine Hortense, p. 276.

Hortense clasped her son anxiously in her arms, as if to protect
him from all danger, on her maternal heart. “We shall not go to
Paris,” said she, “we will wander through France, and pray before
the monuments of our happiness!”

On the 7th of August the Duchess of St. Leu left England with
her son, Louis Napoleon, and landed after a pleasant passage at
Boulogne.

Boulogne was for Hortense the first monument of her happiness,
at the foot of which she wished to pray! There, during the most
brilliant period of the empire, she had attended the military
fêtes, in the midst of which the emperor was preparing
to go forth to encounter new dangers, and to reap, perhaps, new
renown. A high column designated the place where these
camp-festivals had once taken place. It had been erected under the
empire, but under the restoration the name of Louis XVIII. had been
inscribed on it.

Accompanied by the prince, the Duchess of St. Leu ascended this
column, in order to show him from its summit the beautiful and
flourishing France, that had once been her own and through which
they must now pass with veiled countenances and borrowed names.
From there she pointed out to him the situation of the different
camps, the location of the imperial tent, then the place where the
emperor’s throne had stood, and where he had first distributed
crosses of the legion of honor among the soldiers.

With a glowing countenance and in breathless attention, Louis
Napoleon listened to his mother’s narrative. Hortense, lost in her
recollections, had not noticed that two other visitors, a lady and
a gentleman, were now also on the platform and had listened to a
part of her narrative. As the duchess ceased speaking, they
approached to tell her with what deep interest they had listened to
her narrative of the most glorious period of French history. They
were a young married couple from Paris, and had much to relate
concerning the parties who were now arrayed against each other in
France, and who made the future of the country so uncertain.

In return for Hortense’s so eloquent description of the past,
they now told her of a bon mot of the present that was going
the rounds of Parisian society. It was there said that the best
means of satisfying everybody and all parties would be, to convert
France into a republic and to give it three consuls, the Duke of
Reichstadt, the Duke of Orleans, and the Duke of Bordeaux. “But,”
added they, “it might easily end in the first consul’s driving out
the other two, and making himself emperor.”

Hortense found the courage to answer this jest with a smile, but
she hastened to leave the place and to get away from the couple,
who had perhaps recognized her, and told them of the bon mot
with a purpose.

Sadly and silently, mother and son returned to their hotel,
which was situated on the sea-side, and commanded a fine view of
the surging, foaming waters of the channel and of the lofty column
of the empire.

They both stepped out on the balcony. It was a beautiful
evening; the setting sun shed its purple rays over the surface of
the sea. Murmuring and in melodious tace the foaming waves
rolled in upon the beach; on another side, the lofty column,
glowing in the light of the setting sun, towered aloft like a
pillar of fire, a memorial monument of fire!

Hortense, who for some time had been silently gazing, first at
the column, then at the sea, now turned with a sad smile to her
son.

“Let us spend an hour with recollections of the past,” said she.
“In the presence of this foaming sea and of this proud column, I
will show you a picture of the past. Do you wish to see it?”

His gaze fastened on the imperial column, Louis Napoleon
silently nodded assent.

Hortense went to her room, and soon returned to the balcony with
a book, bound in red velvet. Often, during the quiet days of
Arenenberg, the prince had seen her writing in this book, but never
had Hortense yielded to his entreaties and permitted him to read
any part of her memoirs. Unsolicited it was her intention to unfold
before him to-day a brilliant picture; in view of the sad and
desolate present, she wished to portray to him the bright and
glittering past, perhaps only for the purpose of entertaining him,
perhaps in order to console him with the hope that all that is
passes away, and that the present would therefore also come to an
end, and that which once was, again become reality for him, the
heir of the emperor.

She seated herself at her son’s side, on a little sofa that
stood on the balcony, and, opening her book, began to read.

CHAPTER XI.

FRAGMENT FROM THE MEMOIRS OF QUEEN HORTENSE.

“The emperor had returned from Italy. The beautiful ceremony of
the distribution of the crosses of the Legion of Honor had taken
place before his departure, and I had been present on the occasion;
the emperor now repaired to Boulogne, in order to make a second
distribution of the order in the army on his birthday. He had made
my husband general of the army of the reserve, and sent him a
courier, with the request that he should come with me and our son
to the camp at Boulogne. My husband did not wish to interrupt the
baths he was taking at St. Amand, but he requested me to go to
Boulogne, to spend a week with the emperor.

“The emperor resided at Boulogne in a little villa called
Pont de Brigue. His sister, Caroline, and Murat, lived in
another little villa near by. I lived with them, and every day we
went to dine with the emperor. During two years, our troops had
been concentrating in full view of England, and every one expected
an attack. The camp at Boulogne was erected on the sea-side, and
resembled a long and regularly-built city. Each hut had a little
garden, flowers, and birds. In the middle of the camp, on an
elevation, stood the emperor’s tent; near by, that of Marshal
Berthier. All the men-of-war on the water were drawn up in a line,
only waiting the signal of departure. In the distance we could see
England, and its beautiful ships that were cruising along the coast
seemed to form an impenetrable barrier. This grand spectacle gave
us for the first time an illustration of an unknown, hitherto
not-dreamed-of power that stood opposed to us. Here every thing was
calculated to excite the imagination. This boundless sea might soon
transform itself into a battle-field, and swallow up the
élite of the two greatest nations. Our troops, proud
in the feeling that there were no obstacles for them, made
impatient by two years’ repose, glowing with energy and bravery,
already imagined themselves to have attained the opposite coast.
When one considered their bravery and confidence, success seemed
certain; but when the eye turned to the impenetrable forest of
masts on the hostile ships, a feeling of anxiety and fear suddenly
took possession of the heart. And yet nothing seemed to be wanting
to the expedition but a favorable wind.

“Of all the homage that a woman can receive, military homage has
in the highest degree the chivalrous character, and it is
impossible not to feel flattered by it.

“There could not be any thing more delightful or imposing than
the homage of which I was here the object, and it was only here
that it made any impression on me.

“The emperor gave me as an escort his equerry, General Defrance.
Whenever I approached a camp division, the guard was called out and
presented arms.

“I had interceded for several soldiers who were undergoing
punishment for breaches of discipline, and was on this account
received everywhere with the liveliest enthusiasm. The entire
mounted general staff escorted my carriage, and my approach was
everywhere hailed by brilliant music. It was on such an occasion
that I saw for the first time the urn which a grenadier wore
attached to his belt; I was told that the emperor, in order to do
honor to the memory of the gallant Latour d’Auvergne [70], had caused his
heart to be enclosed in a leaden casket, which he had intrusted to
the oldest soldier of the regiment, commanding that his name should
always be called at the roll-call, as though he were present. He
who bore the heart replied: ‘Dead on the field of honor.’

[70] Latour d’Auvergne, a descendant of the
celebrated Turenne, was known and honored throughout the whole army
on account of the lion-hearted courage which he had exhibited on so
many occasions. As he invariably declined the many advancements and
honors that were tendered him, Napoleon appointed him first
grenadier of the army. He fell in the action at Neuburg, and the
Viceroy of Italy, Eugene Beauharnais, afterward caused a monument
to be erected there in his memory.

“One day, a breakfast was given me at the camp of Ambleteuse. I
desired to go by water, and, notwithstanding a contrary wind, the
admiral took me. I saw the English ships, and we passed so near
them, that they might easily have captured our yacht. I also
visited the Dutch fleet commanded by Admiral Versuelt, where I was
received with great applause, the sailors little dreaming that I
would be their queen within the space of a year [71].

[71] In order to reach the harbor of Ambleteuse
to which they had been assigned, the Dutch had first been compelled
to do battle with the English fleet, and in this combat they had
acquitted themselves with the greatest honor.

“On another occasion, the emperor ordered a review. The English,
who felt disquieted, by the appearance of so many troops drawn up
before them, approached nearer and nearer to our coasts, and even
fired a few cannon-shots at us; the emperor was at the head of his
French columns when they replied to these shots, and was thus
placed between two fires. As we had followed him, we were now
compelled to remain at his side. To his uncle’s great joy, my son
exhibited no symptom of fear whatever. But the generals trembled at
seeing the emperor exposed to such danger. The ramrod of some
awkward soldier might prove as dangerous as a ball. In the midst of
this imposing spectacle, I was struck with astonishment at the
contrast presented by the troops under different circumstances.
When drawn up in line of battle, they glowed with gallantry and
determination, but, in the days of repose, they resembled
well-behaved children, who could amuse themselves with a flower or
a bird. The most daring warrior was then often converted into the
most diligent and submissive scholar.

“For the breakfast which Marshal Davoust gave me in his tent,
the grenadiers had been preparing to entertain us with several
songs, and came forward to sing them with the bashfulness of young
girls. In the most embarrassed and timid manner, they sang a song
full of the fiercest and most daring threats against England.

“From the emperor’s parlor we often saw the soldiers of his
guard assemble on the grass-plot before the castle; one of them
would play the violin and instruct his comrades in dancing. The
beginners would study the ‘jétés‘ and
‘assemblés‘ with the closest attention; the more
advanced ones would execute a whole contredance. From behind the
window-blinds we watched them with the greatest pleasure. The
emperor, who often surprised us at this occupation, would laugh
with us and rejoice at the innocent amusements of his soldiers.

“Was this project of a landing in England really intended? Or
was it the emperor’s purpose by these enormous preparations to
divert attention from other points, and fix it on this one only?
Even to-day this is a question which I cannot venture to decide;
here, as elsewhere, I only report what I have seen.

“Madame Ney also gave me a brilliant festival at Montreuil,
where her husband the marshal was in command. During the forenoon
the troops were manoeuvred before me, in the evening a ball took
place. But this was suddenly interrupted by the intelligence that
the emperor had just embarked.

“A number of young officers, who had been present at the ball,
rushed out on the road to Boulogne; I followed them with the
rapidity of lightning, escorted as usual by General Defrance, who
burned with impatience to be again at the emperor’s side. I myself
felt unutterable emotion at the prospect of witnessing so great an
occurrence. I imagined myself observing the battle from the summit
of the tower that stood near the emperor’s tent; beholding our
fleet advance and sink down into the waves, I shuddered in
anticipation.

“At last I arrived. I inquired after the emperor, and learned
that he had actually attended the embarkation of all his troops
during the night, but that he had just returned to his villa.

“I did not see him until dinner, at which he asked Prince
Joseph, who was then colonel of a regiment, whether he had believed
in this pretended embarkation, and what effect it had had on the
soldiers. Joseph said that he, like all the world, had believed
that a departure was really intended, and that the soldiers had
doubted it so little that they had sold their watches. The emperor
also often asked if the telegraph had not yet announced the
approach of the French squadron; his adjutant, Lauriston, was with
the squadron, and the emperor seemed only to be awaiting
Lauriston’s arrival and a favorable wind, in order to set sail.

“The eight days’ absence accorded me by my husband had expired,
and I took leave of the emperor. I journeyed through Calais and
Dunkirk. I saw troops defiling before me everywhere; and with
regret and fear I left this magnificent army, thinking that they
might perhaps in a few days be exposed to the greatest dangers.

“At St. Amand we were every day expecting to hear of the passage
of our fleet to England, when we suddenly saw the troops arriving
in our neighborhood and passing on in forced marches toward the
Rhine. Austria had broken the peace. We hastened at once to Paris,
to see the emperor once more before his departure for
Germany [72].”

[72] La Reine Hortense en Italie, France, etc.,
p. 278.

CHAPTER XII.

THE PILGRIM.

On the following morning the duchess left Boulogne with her son,
in order to wander on with him through the land of her youth and of
her memories.

It was a sad and yet heart-stirring pilgrimage; for, although
banished and nameless, she was nevertheless in her own country–she
still stood on French soil. For sixteen years she had been living
in a foreign land, in a land whose language was unknown to her, and
whose people she could therefore not understand. Now, on this
journey through France, she rejoiced once more in being able to
understand the conversation of the people in the streets, and of
the peasants in the fields. It was a sensation of mingled
bitterness and sweetness to feel that she was not a stranger among
this people, and it therefore now afforded her the greatest delight
to chat with those she met, and to listen to their
naïve and artless words.

As soon as she arrived at her hotel in any city or village in
which she purposed enjoying a day’s rest, Hortense would walk out
into the streets on her son’s arm. On one occasion she stepped into
a booth, seated herself, and conversed with the people who came to
the store to purchase their daily necessaries; on another occasion,
she accosted a child on the street, kissed it, and inquired after
its parents; then, again, she would converse with the peasants in
the villages about their farms, and the prospects of a plentiful
harvest. The naïve, strong, and healthy disposition of
the people delighted her, and, with the smiling pride of a happy
mother, she showed her son this great and beautiful family, this
French people, to which they, though banished and cast off, still
belonged.

In Chantilly, she showed the prince the palace of Prince
Condé. The forests that stood in the neighborhood had once
belonged to the queen, or rather they had been a portion of the
appendage which the emperor, since the union of Holland and France,
had set apart for her second son, Louis Napoleon. Hortense had
never been in the vicinity, and could therefore visit the castle
without fear of being recognized.

They asked the guide, who had shown them the castle and the
garden, who had been the former possessor of the great forests of
Chantilly.

“The step-daughter of the Emperor Napoleon, Queen Hortense,”
replied the man, with perfect indifference. “The people continued
to speak of her here for a long time; it was said that she was
wandering about in the country in disguise, but for the last few
years nothing has been heard of her, and I do not know what has
become of her.”

“She is surely dead, the poor queen,” said Hortense, with so sad
a smile that her son turned pale, and his eyes filled with
tears.

From Chantilly they wandered on to Ermenonville and Morfontaine,
for Hortense desired to show her son all the places she had once
seen in the days of fortune with the emperor and her mother. These
places now seemed as solitary and deserted as she herself was. How
great the splendor that had once reigned in Ermenonville, when the
emperor had visited the owner of the place in order to enjoy with
him the delights of the chase! In the walks of the park, in which
thousands of lamps had then shone, the grass now grew rankly; a
miserable, leaky boat was now the only conveyance to the Poplar
Island, sacred to the memory of Jean Jacques, on whose monument
Hortense and Louis Napoleon now inscribed their names. Morfontaine
appeared still more desolate; the allies had sacked it in 1815, and
it had not been repaired since then. In Morfontaine, Hortense had
attended a magnificent festival given by Joseph Bonaparte, then its
owner, to his imperial brother.

In St. Denis there were still more sacred and beautiful
remembrances for Hortense, for here was situated the great college
for the daughters of high military officers, of which Hortense had
been the protectress. She dared not show herself, for she well knew
that she was not forgotten here; here there were many who still
knew and loved her, and she could only show herself to strangers.
But she nevertheless visited the church, and descended with Louis
Napoleon into the vaults. Louis XVIII. alone reposed in the halls
which the empire had restored for the reception of the new family
of rulers, adopted by France. Alas! he who built these halls, the
Emperor Napoleon, now reposed under a weeping-willow on a desolate
island in the midst of the sea, and he who had deposed him now
occupied the place intended for the sarcophagus of the emperor.

While wandering through these silent and gloomy halls, Hortense
thought of the day on which she had come hither with the emperor to
inspect the building of the church. And that time she had been ill
and suffering, and with the fullest conviction she had said to her
mother that she, Queen Hortense, would be the first that would be
laid to rest in the vault of St. Denis. Now, after so many years,
she descended into it living and had hardly a right to visit
it.

But there was another grave, another monument to her memories,
beside which Hortense desired to pray. This was the grave of the
Empress Josephine, in the church at Ruelle.

With what emotions did she approach this place and kneel down
beside the grave-mound! Of all that Josephine had loved, there
remained only Hortense and her son, a solitary couple, who were now
secretly visiting the place where Hortense’s mother reposed. The
number of flowers that adorned the monument proved that Josephine
was at least resting in the midst of friends, who still held her
memory sacred, and this was a consolation for her daughter.

From Ruelle and its consecrated grave they wandered on to
Malmaison. Above all, Hortense wished to show this palace to her
son! It was from this place that Napoleon had departed to leave
France forever! Here Hortense had had the pleasure of sweetening
for him, by her tender sympathy, the moment when all the world had
abandoned him–the moment when he fell from the heights of renown
into the abyss of misfortune. But, alas! the poor queen was not
even to have the satisfaction of showing to her son the palace,
sacred to so many memories that had once been her own! The present
owner had given strict orders to give admission to the palace only
upon presentation of permits that must be obtained of him
beforehand, and, as Hortense had none, her entreaties were all in
vain.

She was cruelly repelled from the threshold of the palace in
which in former days she had been so joyfully received by her
devoted friends and servants!

Sorrowfully, her eyes clouded with tears, she turned away and
returned to her hotel, leaning on her son’s arm.

In silence she seated herself at his side on the stone bench
that stood before the house, and gazed at the palace in which she
had spent such happy and momentous days, lost in the recollections
of the past!

“It is, perhaps, natural,” she murmured in a low voice, “that
absence should cause those, who have the happiness to remain in
their homes, to forget us. But, for those who are driven out into
foreign lands, the life of the heart stands still, and the past is
all to them; to the exiled the present and the future are
unimportant. In France every thing has progressed, every thing is
changed, I alone am left behind, with my sentiments of unchangeable
love and fidelity! Alas! how sorrowful and painful it is to be
forgotten [73]!
How–“

Suddenly she was interrupted by the tones of a piano, that
resounded in her immediate vicinity. Behind the bench on which they
were sitting, were the windows of the parlor of the hotel. These
windows were open, and each tone of the music within could be heard
with the greatest distinctness.

The playing was now interrupted by a female voice, which said:
“Sing us a song, my daughter.”

“What shall I sing?” asked another and more youthful voice.

“Sing the beautiful, touching song your brother brought you from
Paris yesterday. The song of Delphine Gay, set to music by M. de
Beauplan.”

“Ah, you mean the song about Queen Hortense, who comes to Paris
as a pilgrim? You are right, mamma, it is a beautiful and touching
song, and I will sing it!”

And the young lady struck the keys more forcibly, and began to
play the prelude.

Outside on the stone bench sat she who was once Queen Hortense,
but was now the poor, solitary pilgrim. Nothing remained to her of
the glorious past, but her son, who sat at her side! Hand in hand,
both breathless with emotion, both pale and tearful, they listened
until the young girl concluded her touching song.

[73] The duchess’s own words. See Voyage en
Italie, etc., p. 305.

CHAPTER XIII.

CONCLUSION.

This sorrowful pilgrimage was at last at an end. Hortense was
once more in her mountain-home, in the charming villa overlooking
the Lake of Constance, and commanding a lovely view of the majestic
lake, with its island and its surrounding cities and villages.

Honor to the Canton Thurgau, which, when all the world turned
its back on the queen upon whom all the governments and destiny
alike frowned–when even her nearest relatives, the Grand-duke and
the Grand-duchess Stephanie of Baden, were compelled to forbid her
residence in their territory–still had the courage to offer the
Duchess of St. Leu an asylum, and to accord her, on the free soil
of the little republic, a refuge from which the ill-will and
distrust of the mighty could not drive her!

In Arenenberg, Hortense reposed from her weariness. With a
bleeding breast she returned home, her heart wounded by a fearful
blow, the loss of a noble and beloved son, broken in spirit, and
bowed down by the coldness and cruelty of the world, which, in the
cowardly fear of its egoism, had become faithless, even to the
holiest and most imperishable of all religions, the religion of
memory!

How many, who had once vowed love and gratitude, had abandoned
her! how many, whom she had benefited had deserted her in the hour
of peril!

In the generosity and kindliness of her heart, she forgave them
all; and, instead of nursing a feeling of bitterness, she pitied
them! She had done with the outer world! Arenenberg was now her
world–Arenenberg, in which her last and only happiness, her son,
the heir of the imperial name, lived with her–Arenenberg, which
was as a temple of memory, in which Hortense was the pious and
believing priestess.

At Arenenberg Hortense wrote the sad and touching story of her
journey through Italy, France, and England, which she undertook, in
the heroism of maternal love, in order to rescue her son. The
noblest womanhood, the most cultivated mind, the proudest and
purest soul, speaks from out this book, with which Hortense has
erected a monument to herself that is more imperishable than all
the monuments of stone and bronze, for this monument speaks to the
heart–those to the eyes only. Hortense wrote this book with her
heart often interrupted by the tears that dimmed her eyes; she
concludes it with a touching appeal to the French people, which it
may well be permitted us to repeat here; it is as follows:

“The renewal of the law of exile, and the assimilation made
between us and the Bourbons, testify to the sentiments and fears
that are entertained respecting us. No friendly voice has been
raised in our behalf; this indifference has doubled the bitterness
of our banishment! May they, however, still be happy–those who
forget! May they, above all, make France happy! This is my
prayer!

“As for the people, it will, if it remembers its glory, its
grandeur, and the incessant care of which it was the object, ever
hold our memory dear. This is my firm conviction, and this thought
is the sweetest consolation of an exile, the sweetest consolation
he can take with him to the grave [74]!”

Hortense still lived a few years of peaceful tranquillity; far
from all she loved–far also from the son who was her last hope,
never dreaming that destiny had so brilliant a future in store for
him, and that Louis Napoleon, whom the Bourbons had banished from
France as a child, and the Orleans as a youth–that Louis Napoleon
would one day be enthroned in Paris as emperor, while the Bourbons
and Orleans languish in foreign lands as exiles!

In the year 1837, Hortense, the flower of the Bonapartes,
died!

Weary, at last, of misfortune, and of the exile in which she
languished, she bowed her head, and went home to her great
dead–home to Napoleon and Josephine!

[74] Voyage en Italie, etc., p. 324.

THE END.

QUEEN HORTENSE

A Life picture of the Napoleonic Era

BY

L. MÜHLBACH

AUTHOR OF

PRINCE EUGENE AND HIS TIMES, JOSEPH II, AND HIS COURT, MERCHANT OF BERLIN, ETC.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY

CHAPMAN COLEMAN

1910

CONTENTS.

BOOK I.

DAYS OF CHILDHOOD AND OF THE REVOLUTION.

CHAPTER

BOOK II.

THE QUEEN OF HOLLAND.

CHAPTER

BOOK III.

THE RESTORATION.

CHAPTER

BOOK IV.

THE DUCHESS OF ST. LEU.

CHAPTER

ILLUSTRATIONS.

QUEEN HORTENSE.

BOOK I.

DAYS OF CHILDHOOD AND OF THE REVOLUTION.

CHAPTER I.

DAYS OF CHILDHOOD.

CHAPTER II.

THE PROPHECY.

CHAPTER III.

CONSEQUENCES OF THE REVOLUTION.

CHAPTER IV.

GENERAL BUONAPARTE.

CHAPTER V.

THE MARRIAGE.

CHAPTER VI.

BONAPARTE IN ITALY.

CHAPTER VII.

VICISSITUDES OF DESTINY.

CHAPTER VIII.

BONAPARTE’S RETURN FROM EGYPT.

BOOK II.

THE QUEEN OF HOLLAND.

CHAPTER I.

A FIRST LOVE.

CHAPTER II.

LOUIS BONAPARTE AND DUROC.

CHAPTER III.

CONSUL AND KING.

CHAPTER IV.

THE CALUMNY.

CHAPTER V.

KING OR EMPEROR.

CHAPTER VI.

NAPOLEON’S HEIR.

CHAPTER VII.

PREMONITIONS.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DIVORCE.

CHAPTER IX.

THE KING OF HOLLAND.

CHAPTER X.

JUNOT, THE DUKE D’ABRANTES.

CHAPTER XI.

LOUIS NAPOLEON AS A VENDER OF VIOLETS.

CHAPTER XII.

THE DAYS OF MISFORTUNE.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE ALLIES IN PARIS.

CHAPTER XIV.

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN THE QUEEN AND LOUISE DE COCHELET.

CHAPTER XV.

QUEEN HORTENSE AND THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE NEW UNCLES.

CHAPTER XVII.

DEATH OF THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE.

BOOK III.

THE RESTORATION.

PRINCE EUGENE AND HIS TIMES,
JOSEPH II, AND HIS COURT,
MERCHANT OF BERLIN, ETC.