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Title: Queen Hortense - A Life Picture of the Napoleonic Era
Author: Mühlbach, L. (Luise), 1814-1873
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.

*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Queen Hortense - A Life Picture of the Napoleonic Era" ***


A Life picture of the Napoleonic Era











   I.--Days of Childhood.
  II.--The Prophecy.
 III.--Consequences of the Revolution.
  IV.--General Bonaparte.
   V.--The Marriage.
  VI.--Bonaparte in Italy.
 VII.--Vicissitudes of Destiny.
VIII.--Bonaparte's Return from Egypt.




   I.--A First Love.
  II.--Louis Bonaparte and Duroc.
 III--Consul and King.
  IV.--The Calumny.
   V.--King or Emperor.
  VI.--Napoleon's Heir.
VIII.--The Divorce.
  IX.--The King of Holland.
   X.--Junot, the Duke d'Abrantes.
  XI.--Louis Napoleon as a Vender of Violets.
 XII.--The Days of Misfortune.
XIII.--The Allies in Paris.
 XIV.--Correspondence between the Queen and Louise de Cochelet.
  XV.--Queen Hortense and the Emperor Alexander.
 XVI.--The New Uncles.
XVII.--Death of the Empress Josephine.




   I.--The Return of the Bourbons.
  II.--The Bourbons and the Bonapartes.
 III.--Madame de Staël.
  IV.--Madame de Staël's Return to Paris.
   V.--Madame de Staël's Visit to Queen Hortense.
  VI.--The Old and New Era.
 VII.--King Louis XVIII.
VIII.--The Drawing-room of the Duchess of St. Leu.
  IX.--The Burial of Louis XVI. and his Wife.
   X.--Napoleon's Return from Elba.
  XI.--Louis XVIII.'s Departure and Napoleon's Arrival.
 XII.--The Hundred Days.
XIII.--Napoleon's Last Adieu.




   I.--The Banishment of the Duchess of St. Leu.
  II.--Louis Napoleon as a Child.
 III.--The Revolution of 1830.
  IV.--The Revolution in Rome and the Sons of Hortense.
   V.--The Death of Prince Napoleon.
  VI.--The Flight from Italy.
 VII.--The Pilgrimage.
VIII.--Louis Philippe and the Duchess of St. Leu.
  IX.--The Departure of the Duchess from Paris.
   X.--Pilgrimage through France.
  XI.--Fragment from the Memoirs of Queen Hortense.
 XII.--The Pilgrim.


General Bonaparte suppressing the Revolt of the Sections, _Frontispiece_.

View of the Tuileries.

Portrait of Queen Hortense.

Portrait of Madame de Staël.






"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

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

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

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."



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

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

"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

"Yes, he still lives," cried she, sadly, "but he is preparing for

[Footnote 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.



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.

[Footnote 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.



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

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.



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].

[Footnote 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

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

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].

[Footnote 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

[Footnote 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.



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

[Footnote 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

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.



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

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."



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]."

[Footnote 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

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].

[Footnote 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.

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]!"

[Footnote 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!





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,

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]."

[Footnote 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]!"

[Footnote 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.



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.



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]."

[Footnote 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."



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

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?"



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].

[Footnote 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]!"

[Footnote 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.



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

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.



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]!"

[Footnote 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

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

[Footnote 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.



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]."

[Footnote 17: The emperor's own words. See Bourrienne, vol. iii., p.

"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]?"

[Footnote 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

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.



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

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]."

[Footnote 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]."

[Footnote 20: Mémoires d'une contemporaine, vol. iv., p. 377.]



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.



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]."

[Footnote 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.

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]."

[Footnote 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



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

"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

[Footnote 23: Cochelet, Mémoires sur la reine Hortense, vol. i., p.

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]."

[Footnote 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!"



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

"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

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].

[Footnote 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]."

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



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

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.

[Footnote 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

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.


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!


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."



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."



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

"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].

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



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.

[Footnote 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.





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,

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

[Footnote 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.

[Footnote 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

"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]."

[Footnote 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.



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]!"

[Footnote 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

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]."

[Footnote 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.



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

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

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

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

"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

"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

"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]!"

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



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.



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

"'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

"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]."

[Footnote 36: Cochelet, Mémoires sur la Reine Hortense, vol. i., pp.



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

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.



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

"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]."

[Footnote 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]."

[Footnote 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

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]."

[Footnote 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

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].

[Footnote 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.



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]!"

[Footnote 41: Cochelet, Mémoires sur la Reine Hortense, vol. iii, p.

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

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]."

[Footnote 42: Cochelet, Mémoires sur la Reins Hortense, vol. ii., p.

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]."

[Footnote 43: Cochelet, vol. i., p. 378.]

And, strange to say, she herself was ever the object of calumny and

"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]."

[Footnote 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].

[Footnote 45: Cochelet, vol. i., p. 303.]



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!



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]."

[Footnote 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]!

[Footnote 47: Mémoires d'une Femme de Qualité, vol. i., p. 99.]



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]!"

[Footnote 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."



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

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].

[Footnote 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]."

[Footnote 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.



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]."

[Footnote 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]."

[Footnote 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]!"

[Footnote 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

"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].

[Footnote 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.]





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].

[Footnote 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.



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

"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

"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?"

[Footnote 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

[Footnote 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]."

[Footnote 58: Cochelet, vol. i, p. 355.]



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

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!



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

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

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

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.

[Footnote 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

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]."

[Footnote 60: La Reine Hortense, p. 78.]



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].

[Footnote 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

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

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

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.



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

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

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!



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]."

[Footnote 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

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]!"

[Footnote 63: La Reine Hortense: Voyage en Italie, etc., p. 110.]



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.

[Footnote 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]."

[Footnote 65: The king's own words. See Voyage en Italie, etc., p. 201.]

[Footnote 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!"



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]."

[Footnote 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.

[Footnote 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!



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

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]!"

[Footnote 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

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.



"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.'

[Footnote 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].

[Footnote 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]."

[Footnote 72: La Reine Hortense en Italie, France, etc., p. 278.]



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

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

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.

[Footnote 73: The duchess's own words. See Voyage en Italie, etc., p.



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!

[Footnote 74: Voyage en Italie, etc., p. 324.]


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