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$Unique_ID{bob00066}
$Pretitle{}
$Title{Life Of Napoleon Bonaparte And Life Of Josephine
Chapter X}
$Subtitle{}
$Author{Tarbell, Ida M.}
$Affiliation{}
$Subject{josephine
hortense
emperor
life
malmaison
napoleon
never
children
france
am}
$Date{1906}
$Log{}
Title:       Life Of Napoleon Bonaparte And Life Of Josephine
Book:        Life Of Josephine
Author:      Tarbell, Ida M.
Date:        1906

Chapter X

Effect On Josephine Of Disasters In Russia - Anxiety During Campaign Of 1813 -
Flight From Paris - Death In 1814

     By the spring of 1812 Josephine had adjusted herself admirably to her new
life.  She had conquered her suspicions, acquired self-control, taken up
useful duties.  Her position was recognized by all France.  In every quarter
she was loved and honored.  Never indeed in all her disordered, changeful
existence was she so worthy of respect and affection.  With every week her
power of self-control, her capacity for happiness seemed to grow.  In the
spring she spent some time with Hortense at the chateau of Saint Leu, the
latter's country home.  After she returned to Malmaison, she wrote back a
letter which shows to what a large degree she had regained contentment.  "The
few days I spent with you," she wrote Hortense, "were very happy, and did me
great good.  Everybody who comes to see me says that I never looked better,
and I am not surprised at it.  My health always depends on my experiences, and
those with you were sweet and happy."

     In June, the campaign against Russia, for which Napoleon had been
preparing for several months, began; but there is no indication that Josephine
had any anxiety in seeing the Grand Army set out.  Had she not seen the
Emperor return from Italy, from Austerlitz, Jena, and Wagram?  In July she
went to Milan, to remain with the Princess Augusta, Eugene's wife, through her
confinement.  She seemed to get great pleasure from her visit.  The princess
she found charming, the children could not be better, everybody treated her
with a consideration and an affection which touched her deeply.  She seems to
have been happy at Milan for the most natural, wholesome reasons - because her
son's wife is a good woman and loves her husband; because the new
granddaughter is a healthy child; because the good people of Milan remember
her, and love her.

     Josephine took great satisfaction at this time, too, in Eugene's success.
He was, in fact, justifying fully in Russia the good opinion the Emperor had
always had of him, and his letters to his mother were almost exultant.  "The
Emperor gained a great victory over the Russians to-day," he wrote her on
September 8th.  "We fought for thirteen hours, and I commanded the left.  We
all did our duty, and I hope the Emperor is satisfied." And again, "I write
you only two words, my good mother, to tell you that I am well.  My corps had
a brilliant day yesterday.  I had to deal with eight divisions of the enemy
from morning until night, and I kept my position.  The Emperor is pleased, and
you can believe that I am."

     But the joy of victory was not long continued.  Moscow was entered on
September 15th, 1812.  The exultation that the capture of the enemy's capital
caused in France was short-lived.  Close upon it came reports of the burning
of the city, of the awful cost of the march inland, of the suffering the army
was undergoing.  When Josephine reached Paris in October, the city was full of
sinister reports of defeat.  A plot to seize the government, based on a report
of Napoleon's death, had just been suppressed.  Her letters from Eugene had
talked only of victory.  What could it mean?  As she listened to the reports
afloat and came under the spell of the city's foreboding, a deadly despair
seized her.  At the mere mention of Napoleon's name she wept.  Her face
carried such woe that her household feared that worse evils had befallen them
than they knew of, and Malmaison for weeks was wrapped in gloom.

     This was her condition when suddenly it was reported that Napoleon had
returned unannounced from Russia.  Amazed at the extent of the conspiracy
which had arisen in his absence and at the instability of the throne at the
mere report of his own death, and fearing still more serious results when the
full news of the catastrophe in Russia reached France, the Emperor had driven
night and day across Europe to Paris.  His presence inspired courage, but it
could not close the ears of France to the ghastly stories of the retreat from
Moscow, nor blind her eyes to the haggard remnants of men who daily flocked
into the city.  There was an appearance of gaiety, because the Emperor ordered
it; but there was little heart in the winter's merry-making.

     Napoleon's return did not restore Josephine's confidence.  Her
superstition, always lively, asserted itself to the full.  The first day of
the new year, 1813, was on Friday.  Josephine's presentiments were the
darkest.  This year would bring Napoleon sorrow and loss, she declared. France
was to suffer.  Nothing could restore her calm.  In all this grief the thought
was ever present with her that the divorce was the cause of Napoleon's
misfortunes.  He had destroyed his Star.  Nor was she by any means alone in
this theory.  Indeed, it is probable that she had adopted it from others, for
many people in France had always believed it.  Even in the Grand Army, during
the campaign against Russia, soldiers said, after reverses began, that it was
because of the divorce.  "He shouldn't have left the old girl," they put it;
"she brought him luck - and us too."

     In the spring of 1813, the Emperor was off again at the head of the army
which by feverish efforts he had gathered and equipped.  Josephine saw the new
campaign begin with foreboding; she watched its doubtful progress with growing
dismay, and finally when in November, the French army, defeated, and with its
allies daily deserting, crossed the Rhine, her anguish was pitiful.
Napoleon's name was incessantly on her lips, and of everybody who came within
her range that knew anything of him she asked a hundred eager questions.  How
did he look?  Was he pale?  Did he sleep? Did he believe his Star had deserted
him?

     When Eugene's father-in-law, the King of Bavaria, abandoned his alliance
with the Emperor, Josephine urged upon her son loyalty and energy; and when
Louis Bonaparte moved by his brother's misfortunes, hurried to offer his
services, Josephine pointed out to Hortense, who, she thought, might
reasonably expect new annoyance if Louis's offer was accepted, that her
husband's act was a noble one and that Hortense should view it so.  Hortense
seems as a matter of fact, to have felt more respect for her husband when she
heard of his offer to return than she had for many years.

     During the advance of the allies towards Paris and the wonderful
resistance Napoleon offered for many weeks, Josephine remained at Malmaison
feverishly questioning everybody who came.  As the battles grew nearer, she
interested herself in hospital work, and set her household to making lint.
Now and then she received a note from the Emperor - a characteristic note of
triumph - never of fear or complaint.  These notes she always retired to read
and to weep over, and afterwards she spent hours talking of them to her women.

     As the end of March approached the allies were so near Paris that
Josephine saw bodies of strangely uniformed men passing and repassing near
Malmaison - Cossacks, Austrians, Prussians.  What could it all mean? Hortense,
at the court of Marie Louise, sent her daily notes, telling her of the hopes
and fears of Paris.  Invariably these notes were courageous, showing perfect
confidence in the final triumph of Napoleon.  When at last, on March 28th,
Hortense learned that Marie Louise and the court were leaving the city, her
indignation was intense.  She could do nothing, however.  It was her duty to
accompany Marie Louise, and she had only time before departing to send a note
to Josephine, urging her to go to Navarre.

     "My dear Hortense," Josephine replied, "up to the moment I received your
letter I kept my courage.  I cannot endure the thought that I am to be
separated from you, and God knows for how long!  I am following your counsel;
I shall go to-morrow to Navarre.  I have only sixteen men in my guard here,
and they are all wounded.  I shall keep them; but as a matter of fact, I do
not need them.  I am so wretched at being separated from my children that I am
indifferent about what happens to myself.  Try to send me word how you are,
what you will do, and where you will go.  I shall try to follow you from afar,
at least."

     Early on March 29th, the little household started through rain and mud.
Josephine's terror was complete.  She fancied she would be waylaid by
Cossacks; and once when she saw a band of soldiers approaching, she jumped
from her carriage, and fled across the fields alone.  It was with difficulty
that her attendants convinced her that the strangers were French, not foreign
soldiers.

     Once at Navarre, she spent much of her time alone - a practice quite
unlike her, - reading and re-reading Napoleon's letters.  One of them she
carried always in her bosom.  It had been sent from Brienne, only a short time
before the abdication, and contained the most touching expressions of his
affection for her to be found in any of his later letters: "I have sought
death in numberless engagements; I no longer dread its approach; I should now
hail it as a boon. . . .  Nevertheless, I still wish to see Josephine once
more."

     A few days after Josephine's arrival at Navarre, Hortense joined her, and
there the two learned of Napoleon's abdication and of the return of the
Bourbons.  After the first paroxysm of grief was over, they began planning for
the future.  Hortense would go to America, with her children, she declared.
There she could rear them so that they would be fit for any future.  But
Josephine was not for renouncing her position.  She began to write feverishly
in every direction, apparently hoping to interest her friends in saving
something for her in the general overthrow.  The allies had no disposition,
however, to take from Josephine either her rank or all her income.  The
Emperor Alexander, who was the real umpire of the game, believed it wise to
look after the material interests of the Bonaparte family, and in the treaty
arranged that Josephine should have an annual income of 1,000,000 francs and
that she should keep all of her property, disposing of it as she pleased.
Alexander showed a strong desire to win Josephine's favor, in fact.  Learning
that she was at Navarre, he invited her to Malmaison, giving her every
assurance that she would be safe there. Before the end of April, she came with
Hortense, and here Eugene joined them.  Alexander soon came to Malmaison to
see the Empress.  His attentions to her set the vogue for the court, and
repeated assurances came from all sides to Josephine that her position and
that of her children was safe with the new regime.  But Josephine could not
believe it so.  Her days and nights were full of foreboding - of laments over
the fate of the Emperor.  One day, after dining with Alexander at the Chateau
of St. Leu, she returned to her room in complete collapse.

     "I cannot overcome the frightful sadness which has taken possession of
me," she said.  "I make every effort to conceal it from my children, but only
suffer the more.  I am beginning to lose my courage.  The Emperor of Russia
has certainly shown great regard and affection for us, but it is nothing but
words.  What will he decide to do with my son, my daughter and her children?
Is he not in a position to do something for them?  Do you know what will
happen when he has gone away?  Nothing he has promised will be carried out.  I
shall see my children unhappy, and I cannot endure the idea; it causes me the
most dreadful suffering.  I am suffering enough already on account of the fate
of the Emperor Napoleon, stripped of all his greatness, sent into an island
far from France, abandoned.  Must I, besides this, see my children wanderers?
Stripped of fortune?  It seems to me this idea is going to kill me. . . . Is
it Austria who opposes my son's advancement?  Is it the Bourbons?  Certainly
they are under obligations enough to me to be willing to pay them by helping
my children. Have I not been good to all of their party in their misfortunes?
To be sure, I never imagined they would come back to France; nevertheless, it
pleased me to be their friend; they were Frenchmen, they were suffering, they
were former acquaintances, and the position of those princes that I had seen
in their youth touched my heart.  Did I not ask Bonaparte twenty times to let
the Duchess of Orleans and the Duchess of Bourbon come back? It was through me
that he succored them in their distress, that he allowed them a pension which
they received in a foreign country."

     The attention paid her by the allies seemed to leave no ground for any of
these anxieties.  The King of Prussia and his sons, the grand-dukes of Russia,
every great man in Paris, in fact, sought Josephine repeatedly. She distrusted
it all, and one moment wept over the fate of herself and children; the next
over Napoleon alone on his island - repeatedly she declared she would join him
if she did not fear it would cause a misunderstanding between him and Marie
Louise, and so prevent the latter from going to Elba, as Josephine thought she
ought to do.  In her nervous state she searched for signs of the neglect and
discourtesy which she believed were in store for her.  She planned to sell her
jewels.  Everyone in the household became thoroughly disturbed over her
condition.  "My mother is courageous and amiable, when she is receiving,"
Hortense said one day; "but as soon as she is alone, she gives up to a grief
which is my despair.  I am afraid that the misfortunes which have fallen upon
us have affected her too deeply and that her health will never reassert
itself."

     Josephine was in this nervous condition when she took a severe cold, and
on May 25th her condition was so serious that the best physicians of Paris
were summoned.  The Emperor of Russia sent his private physician, and went
himself frequently to Malmaison.  Everything that could be done was done, but
poor Josephine's power of resistance was at an end. Restlessly tossing hour
after hour on her pillow, murmuring at intervals - "Bonaparte" - "Elba" -
"Marie Louise" - she lay for four days.  On the morning of the 29th, it was
evident to Hortense and Eugene, evident to Josephine herself, that she could
not live long.  The priest was summoned, and alone with him she confessed for
the last time, while in the chapel below her children knelt and listened to
the mass said for their mother. After the confession, the members of the
household gathered about her bed while the sacrament was administered.  A few
moments after the last words of the solemn service were said, the Empress was
pronounced dead.

     The news of the death of Josephine produced a profound impression in
Paris.  She had died of grief, they said, grief at Napoleon's downfall. Even
those who had no sympathy for her in life were moved by the tragic
circumstances of her end and hastened to pay a last tribute to her memory. For
three days the body of the Empress lay on a catafalque in the vestibule of the
chateau at Malmaison, and in that time over 20,000 persons looked upon it.

     At the funeral, which took place on June 2nd, in the little church at
Reuil, near Malmaison, royal honors were accorded Josephine; though the really
touching feature of the procession and service was the presence of hundreds of
people - soldiers, peasants, old men, children - who came to pay the only
tribute possible to them to the "good Josephine," the "Star" of the Emperor.

     The Empress still lies in the little church at Reuil, where she was laid
eighty-six years ago, and her grave and the Chateau of Malmaison have remained
until to-day, places of pilgrimage for those who knew and loved her in life as
well as for many thousands whose hearts have been touched by the melancholy
story of her life of adventure, glory, and sorrow.  In June, 1815, before
departing for Waterloo, Napoleon visited the chateau. Hortense, who had not
been there since her mother's death, received him. For an hour he walked in
the park talking of Josephine; then he went over the chateau, looking at every
room, at almost every article of furniture. At the door of the room where
Josephine had died, it is told that he stopped and said to Hortense, "My
daughter, I wish to go in alone." When he came out his eyes were wet.

     Scarcely more than two weeks later he returned to Malmaison. Defeated at
Waterloo, he was an outcast unless France rallied to him. That the country
could not do.  It was thus from the home of Josephine that Napoleon went into
captivity.

     In 1824, Eugene and Hortense, both exiles from France since 1815, bought
one of the chapels in the church at Reuil and placed in it the beautiful
monument to Josephine which is to be seen there to-day.  In 1831, Hortense
crossed France incognito with Louis-Napoleon, and the two then, for the first
time, saw the monument.  From Reuil they went to Malmaison, but only to the
gates.  Five years before, the chateau had been sold to a Swedish banker, and
the porter refused Hortense admission because she had no pass from the
proprietor.

     Seven years after this sad visit, Hortense was brought to Reuil to be
laid beside her mother.  But it was not until twelve years later, when her
son, Josephine's beloved Oui-oui, Louis-Napoleon, had become emperor, that a
monument was placed in the church to her memory.  With the return of the
Bonapartes to power, the memory of Josephine became a cult.  It was she alone
of all the women who for seventy years had ruled France, Napoleon III. told
his people, who had brought them happiness.  Her statue was reared in Paris;
her name was given to a grand avenue; Malmaison was bought, made more
brilliant than ever, and thrown open to visitors.  On every hand her life was
extolled, her character glorified.  As a result of this attempt at
canonization, Josephine became for the world a pure and gentle heroine, the
victim of her own unselfish devotion to the man she loved.  With the passing
of the Napoleonic dynasty, it has become possible to study her life
dispassionately.  The researches show her to have been much less of a saint
than Napoleon III. wished the world to believe.

     Josephine was by birth and training the victim of a vicious system. Her
nature was essentially shallow, her strongest passions being for attention,
gaiety, and the possession of beautiful apparel and jewels. Nothing in her
early surroundings showed her that there were better things in life to pursue.
None of the hard experiences of later life dimmed these passions.  To gratify
them she was willing to adapt herself to any society, and freely give her
person to the lover who promised most.  It would be unjust to judge her by the
orderly standards of present-day Anglo-Saxon morality - she, an eighteenth
century creole, cast almost a child into the chaotic whirl of the French
Revolution.  What purity or dignity could be expected of a child of her nature
when her chief protectors, her father, her aunt, and her husband, were all
notoriously unfaithful to the most sacred relations of life!  If Josephine,
when abandoned by her husband and later thrown on her own resources in a
society which was honey-combed with vice, went with her world, one can only
pity.

     There is little doubt that if she had been faithful to Napoleon from the
beginning of their married life, her future with him would have been
different.  The fatal disillusion he suffered in 1797 made the divorce
possible for him.  So long as Josephine was true, no other woman could have
existed for him.  Such is the strange exclusiveness in love, of a nature,
brutal, sweet, and strong like Napoleon's.  It should never be forgotten,
however, that when the poor little creole realized, that to keep her position
she must be faithful, she never after gave offense, and that as the years went
on her devotion to her husband became a cult. Nothing indeed in the history of
women is more pathetic than the patience, the sweetness, with which Josephine
performed all the exacting and uncongenial duties of her position as Empress.

     Although Josephine possessed none of those qualities which make a heroic
soul, knew nothing of true self-denial, was a coward in danger, never lost
sight of personal interest, was an abject time-server, few women have been
loved more sincerely by those surrounding them.  There was good reason for
this.  No word of malice ever crossed her lips, she took no joy in seeing an
enemy suffer, she never intrigued, she never flagged in kindly service.  If
she was incapable of heroic deeds at least her days were filled with small
courtesies, kind words, generous acts.  A candid survey of her life destroys
the heroine, but it leaves a woman who through a stormy life kept a kindly
heart towards friend and enemy and who at last attained rectitude of conduct.

     And this is the most that can be said for her.  It touches the woman
Josephine only.  As for the Empress Josephine, she is only a name.  She held
her throne by the accident of her marriage and never took it seriously.  She
never comprehended the ideas it stood for in the mind of the great tyrant who
established it.  The prosperity of the French people - the glory of French
arms, the spread of just laws, the establishment of a stable system, all those
notions for which Napoleon was struggling, meant nothing to her save as they
affected the tenure of her own position.  The one distinguished opportunity
she had of serving the Napoleonic idea - the divorce - she accepted only when
she realized that she could not escape it.  That her graciousness and her
kindly spirit smoothed Napoleon's way in the difficult task of manufacturing a
court and a nobility is unquestionable.  But this was the service of a tactful
woman of the world rendered to a husband, not of an Empress to her people.
The French people indeed meant no more to her than her throne.  They merely
filled the background of the stage where she played her part.  She was an
Empress only in name, never in soul.