EMPRESS JOSEPHINE
YOU have met General
Bonaparte in my house. Well — he it is who would supply a
father's place to the
orphans of Alexander de Beauharnais, and a husband's to his widow. I
admire the
General's courage, the extent of his information, for on all
subjects he talks
equally well, and the quickness of his judgment, which enables him to
seize the
thoughts of others almost before they are expressed; but, I confess it,
I
shrink from the despotism he seems desirous of exercising over all who
approach
him. His searching glance has something singular and inexplicable,
which
imposes even on our Directors; judge if it may not intimidate a woman.
Even —
what ought to please me — the force of a passion, described
with an energy that
leaves not a doubt of his sincerity, is precisely the cause which
arrests the
consent I am often on the point of pronouncing.
--"Letters of
Josephine."
EMPRESS JOSEPHINE
IT was a great life, dearie,
a great life! Charles Lamb used to study mathematics to subdue his
genius, and
I'll have to tinge truth with gray in order to keep this little sketch
from
appearing like a red Ruritania romance.
Josephine was born on an
island in the Caribbean Sea, a long way from France. The Little Man was
an
islander, too. They started for France about the same time, from
different
directions — each, of course, totally unaware that the other
lived. They
started on the order of that joker Fate, in order to scramble
Continental
politics, and make omelet of the world's pretensions.
Josephine's father was
Captain Tascher. Do you know who Captain Tascher was? Very well, there
is
satisfaction then in knowing that no one else does either. He seems to
have had
no ancestors; and he left no successor save Josephine. We know a
little less
of Josephine's mother than we do of her father. She was the daughter of
a
Frenchman whom the world had plucked of both money and courage, and he
moved to
the West Indies to vegetate and brood on the vanity of earthly
ambitions. Young
Captain Tascher married the planter's daughter in the year
Seventeen Hundred Sixty-two.
The next year a daughter was born, and they called her name Josephine.
Not long after her birth,
Captain Tascher thought to mend his prospects by moving to one of the
neighboring islands. His wife went with him, but they left the baby
girl in the
hands of a good old aunt, until they could corral fortune and make
things
secure, for this world at least.
They never came back, for
they died and were buried. Josephine never had any recollection of her
parents.
But the aunt was gentle and kindly, and life was simple and cheap.
There was
plenty to eat, and no clothing to speak of was required, for the
Equator was
only a stone's throw away; in fact, it was in sight of the house, as
Josephine
herself has said.
There was a Catholic church
near, but no school. Yet Josephine learned to read and write. She sang
with the
negroes and danced and swam and played leap-frog. When she was nine
years old,
her aunt told her she must not play leap-frog any more, but she should
learn to
embroider and to play the harp and read poetry. Then she would grow up
and be a
fine lady.
And Josephine thought it a
bit hard, but said she would try.
She was tall and slender,
but not very handsome. Her complexion was rather yellow, her hands
bony. But
the years brought grace, and even if her features were not pretty she
had, one
thing that was better, a gentle voice. So far as I know, no one ever
gave her
lessons in voice culture either. Perhaps the voice is the true index of
the
soul. Josephine's voice was low, sweet, and so finely modulated that
when she spoke others would pause
to listen — not to the words, just to the voice.
Occasionally, visitors came
to the island and were received at the old rambling mansion where
Josephine's
aunt lived. From them the girl learned about the great, outside world
with its
politics and society and strife and rivalry; and when the visitor went
away
Josephine had gotten from him all he knew. So the young woman became
wise
without school and learned without books.
A year after the memorable
year of Seventeen Hundred Seventy-six, there. came to the island,
Vicomte
Alexander Beauharnais. He had come direct from America, where he had
fought on
the side of the Colonies against the British: He was full of Republican
principles. Paradoxically, he was also rich and idle and somewhat of an
adventurer.
He called at the old aunt's,
Madame Renaudin's, and called often. He fell violently in love with
Josephine:
I say violently, for that was the kind of man he was. He was thirty,
she was
fifteen. His voice was rough and guttural, so I do not think he had
much inward
grace. Josephine's fine instincts rebelled at thought of accepting his
proffered
affection. She explained that she was betrothed to another, a
neighboring youth
of about her own age, whose thoughts and feelings matched hers.
Beauharnais said that was
nothing to him, and appealed to the old folks, displaying his title,
submitting
an inventory of his estate, and the old folks agreed to look into the
matter.
They did so and explained to Josephine that she should not longer hold
out
against the wishes of those who had done so much for her.
And so Josephine relented
and they were married, although it can not truthfully be said that they
lived
happily ever afterward. They started for France on their
wedding-tour. In six
weeks they arrived in Paris. Returned soldiers and famed travelers are
eagerly
welcomed by society; especially is this so when the traveler brings a
Creole
wife from the Equator. The couple supplied a new thrill, and society in
Paris
is always eager for a new thrill.
Vicomte Beauharnais and his
wife became quite the rage. It was expected that the Creole lady would
be beautiful
but dull; instead, she was not so very beautiful, but very clever. She
dropped
into all the graceful ways of polite society intuitively. In a year,
domestic
life slightly interfered with society's claims — a son was
born. They called
his name Eugene. Two more years and a daughter was born. They called
her name
Hortense.
Josephine was only twenty,
but the tropics and social experience and maternity had given ripeness
to her
life. She became thoughtful and inclined rather to stay at home with
her babies
than chase fashion's butterflies. Beauharnais chased fashion's
butterflies, and
caught them, too, for he came home late and quarreled with his wife
— a sure
sign.
He drank a little, gamed
more, sought excitement, and talked politics needlessly loud in
underground
cafes. Men who are wofully lax in their marriage relations are very apt
to
regard their wives with suspicion. If Beauharnais had been weighed in
the
balances he would have been found
wanton. He instituted
proceedings against Josephine for divorce it And Josephine packed up a
few
scanty effects and taking her two children started for her old home in
the West
Indies. It took all the money she had to pay passage.
It was the old, old story
—
a few years of gay life in the great city, then cruelty too great for
endurance, tears, shut white lips, a firm resolve — and back
to the old farm
where homely, loyal hearts await, and outstretched arms welcome the
sorrowful,
yet glad return.
Beauharnais failed to get
his divorce. The court said "no cause for action." He awoke, stared
stupidly about, felt the need of sympathy in his hour of undoing, and
looked
for — Josephine.
She was gone.
He tried absinthe, gambling,
hot dissipation; but he could not forget. He had sent away his granary
and
storehouse; his wand of wealth and heart's desire. Two ways opened for
peace,
only two: a loaded pistol — or get her back.
First he would try to get
her back, and the pistol should be held in reserve in case of failure.
Josephine forgave and came
back; for a good woman forgives to seventy times seven.
Beauharnais met her with all
the tenderness a lover could command. The ceremony of marriage was
again
sacredly solemnized. They retired to the country and with their two
children
lived three of the happiest months Josephine ever knew; at least
Josephine said
so, and the fact that she made the same remark about several other
occasions is
no reason for doubting her sincerity. Then they moved back to Paris.
Beauharnais sobered his
ambitions, and kept good hours. He was a soldier in the employ of the
king, but
his sympathies were with the people. He was a Republican with a
Royalist bias,
but some said he was a Royalist with a Republican bias.
Josephine looked after her
household, educated her children, did much charitable work, and knew
what was
going on in the State.
But those were troublous
times. Murder was in the air and revolution was rife. That mob of a
hundred
thousand women had tramped out to Versailles and brought the king back
to
Paris. He had been beheaded, and Marie Antoinette had followed him. The
people
were in power and Beauharnais had labored to temper their wrath with
reason. He
had even been Chairman of the Third Convention. He called himself
Citizen. But
the fact that he was of noble birth was remembered, and in September of
Seventeen Hundred Ninety-three, three men called at his house. When
Josephine
looked out of the window, she saw by the wan light of the moon a file
of
soldiers standing stiff and motionless.
She knew the time had come.
They marched Citizen Beauharnais to the Luxembourg.
In a few feverish months,
they came back for his wife. Her they placed in the nunnery of the
Carmelites —
that prison where, but a few months before, a mob relieved the keepers
of their
vigils by killing all their charges.
Robespierre was supreme.
Now, Robespierre had come into power by undoing Danton. Danton had
helped lug
in the Revolution, but when he touched a match to the hay he did not
really
mean to start a conflagration, only a bonfire.
He tried to dampen the
blaze, and Robespierre said he was a traitor and led him to the
guillotine.
Robespierre worked the guillotine until the bearings grew hot. Still,
the
people who rode in the death-tumbril did not seem so very miserable.
Despair
pushed far enough completes the circle and becomes peace — a
peace like unto
security. It is the last stage: hope is gone, but the comforting
thought of
heroic death and an eternal sleep takes its place.
When Josephine at the
nunnery of the Carmelites received from the Luxembourg prison a package
containing
a generous lock of her husband's hair, she knew it had been purchased
from the
executioner.
Now the prison of the
Carmelites was unfortunately rather crowded. In fact, it was full to
the
roof-tile. Five ladies were obliged to occupy one little cell. One of
these
ladies in the cell with Josephine was Madame Fontenay. Now Madame
Fontenay was
fondly loved by Citizen Tallien, who was a member of the Assembly over
which
Citizen Robespierre presided. Citizen Tallien did not explain his love
for
Madame to the public, because Madame chanced to be the wife of another.
So how
could Robespierre know that when he imprisoned Madame he was touching
the
tenderest tie that bound his friend Tallien to earth?
Robespierre sent word to the
prison of the Carmelites that Madame Fontenay and Madame Beauharnais
should
prepare for death — they were guilty of plotting against the
people. Now,
Tallien came daily to the prison of the Carmelites, not to visit of
course, but
to see that the prisoners were properly restrained. A cabbage-stalk was
thrown
out of a cell-window, and Tallien found in the stalk a note from his
ladylove
to this effect: "I am to die in two days; to save me you must overthrow
Robespierre."
The next day there was
trouble when the Convention met. Tallien got the platform and denounced
Robespierre in a Cassius voice as a traitor — the arch enemy
of the people, a
plotter for self. To emphasize his remarks he brandished a glittering
dagger.
Other orations followed in like vein. All orders that Robespierre had
given out
were abrogated by acclamation. Two days and Robespierre was made to
take a dose
of the medicine he had so often prescribed for others. He was beheaded
by
Samson, his own servant, July Fifteenth, Seventeen Hundred Ninety-four.
Immediately
all "suspects" imprisoned on his instigation
were released.
Madame Fontenay and the
widow Beauharnais were free. Soon after this Madame Fontenay became
Madame
Tallien. Josephine got her children back from the country, but her
property was
gone and she was in sore straits. But she had friends, yet none so
loyal and
helpful as Citizen Tallien and his wife. Their home was hers. And it
was there
she met a man by the name of Barras, and there too she met a man who
was a
friend of Barras; by name, Bonaparte — Napoleon Bonaparte.
Bonaparte was
twenty-six. He was five feet two inches high and weighed one hundred
twenty
pounds. He was beardless and looked like a boy, and at that time his
face was
illumined by an eruption.
Out of employment and
waiting for something to turn up, he yet had a very self-satisfied
manner. His
peculiar way of listening to conversation — absorbing
everything and giving
nothing out — made one uncomfortable. Josephine, seven years
his senior, did
not like the youth. She had had a wider experience and been better
brought up
than he, and she let him know it, but he did not seem especially
abashed.
JUST what the French
Revolution was no one has yet told us. Read "Carlyle" backward or
forward and it is grand: it puts your head in a whirl of heroic
intoxication,
but it does not explain the Revolution Suspicion, hate, tyranny, fear,
mawkish
sentimentality, mad desire, were in the air. One leader was deposed
because he
did nothing, and his successor was carried to the guillotine because he
did too
much. Convention after convention was dissolved and re-formed. On the
Fourth of
October, Seventeen Hundred Ninety-five, there was a howl and a roar and
a
shriek from forty thousand citizens of Paris. No one knew just what
they wanted
— the forty thousand did not explain. Perhaps it was nothing
— only the leaders
who wanted power. They demanded that the Convention should be
dissolved:
certain men must be put out and others put in.
The Convention convened and
all the members felt to see if their heads were in proper place
— tomorrow they
might not be. The room was crowded to suffocation. Spectators filled
the
windows, perched on the gallery-railing, climbed and clung on the
projecting
parts of columns. High up on one of these columns sat the young man,
Bonaparte,
silent, unmoved, still waiting for something to turn up.
The Convention must protect
itself, and the call was for Barras. Barras had once successfully
parleyed with
insurrection — he must do so again. Barras turned
bluish-white, for he knew
that to deal with this mob successfully a man must be blind and deaf to
pity.
He struggled to his feet — he looked about helplessly
— the Convention silently
waited to catch the words of its savior.
High up on a column Barras
spied the lithe form of the artillery major, whom he had seen, with
face of
bronze, deal out grape and canister at Toulon. Barras raised his hand
and
pointing at the young officer cried, "There, there is the man who can
save
you!"
The Convention nominated the
little man by acclamation as commander of the city's forces. He slid
down from
his perch, took half an hour to ascertain whether the soldiers were on
the side
of the mob or against it — for it was usually a toss-up
— and decided to accept
the command. Next day the mob surrounded the Tuileries in the name of
Liberty,
Fraternity and Equality. The Terrorists entreated the soldiers to throw
down
their arms, then they reviled and cajoled and cursed and sang, and the
women as
usual were in the vanguard. Paris recognized the divine right of
insurrection.
Who dare shoot into such a throng!
The young artillery major
dare. He gave the word and red death mowed wide swaths, and the balls
spat
against the walls and sang through. the windows of the Church of Saint
Roche
where the mob was centered. Again and again he fired. It began at four
by the
clock, and at six all good people, and bad, had retired to their homes,
and
Paris was law-abiding. The Convention named Napoleon, General of the
Interior,
and the French Revolution became from that moment a thing that was.
OF course, no one in Paris
was so much talked of as the young artillery officer. Josephine was a
bit proud
that she had met him, and possibly a little sorry that she had treated
him so,
coldly. He only wished to be polite!
Josephine was an honest
woman, but still, she was a woman. She desired to be well thought of,
and to be
well thought of by men in power. Her son Eugene was fifteen, and she
had
ambitions for him: and to this end she saw the need of keeping in touch
with
the Powers. Josephine was a politician and a diplomat, for all women
are
diplomats. She arrayed Eugene in his Sunday-best and told him to go to
the
General, of the Interior and explain that his name was Eugene
Beauharnais, that
his father was the martyred patriot, General Beauharnais, and that this
beloved
father's sword was in the archives over which Providence had placed the
General
of the Interior. Furthermore, the son should request that the sword of
his
father be given him so that it might be used in defense of France if
need be.
And it was so done.
The whole thing was
needlessly melodramatic, and Napoleon laughed. The poetry of war was to
him a
joke. But he stroked the youth's curls, asked after his mother, and
ordered his
secretary to go fetch that sword.
So the boy carried the sword
home and was very happy, and his mother was very happy and proud of
him, and
she kissed him on both cheeks and kissed the sword and thought of the
erring,
yet generous man who once had carried it. Then she thought it would be
but
proper for her to go and thank the man who had given the sword back;
for had he
not stroked her boy's curls and told him he was a fine young fellow,
and asked
after his mother.
So the next day she went to
call on the man who had so graciously given the sword back. She was
kept
waiting a little while in the anteroom, for Napoleon always kept people
waiting
— it was a good scheme. When admitted to the presence, the
General of the
Interior, in simple corporal's dress, did not remember her. Neither did
he
remember about giving the sword back — at least he said so.
He was always a
trifler with women, though; and it was so delicious to have this
tearful widow
remove her veil and explain-for gadzooks! had she not several times
allowed the
mercury to drop to zero for his benefit?
And so she explained, and
gradually it all came back to him — very slowly and after
cross-questioning —
and then he was so glad to see her. When she went away, he
accompanied her to
the outer door, bareheaded, and as they walked down the long hallway
she noted
the fact that he was not so tall as she by three inches. He shook hands
with
her as they parted, and said he would call on her when he had gotten a
bit over
the rush.
Josephine went home in a
glow. She did not like the man -he had humiliated her by making her
explain who
she was, and his manner, too, was offensively familiar. And yet he was
a power,
there was no denying that, and to know men of power is a satisfaction
to any
woman. He was twenty years younger than Beauharnais, the mourned
— twenty
years! Then Beauharnais was tall and had a splendid beard and wore a
dangling
sword. Beauharnais was of noble birth, educated, experienced, but he
was dead;
and here was a beardless boy being called the Chief Citizen of France.
Well,
well, well!
She was both pleased and
hurt — hurt to think she had been humbled, and pleased to
think such attentions
had been paid her. In a few days the young general called on the widow
to crave
forgiveness for not having recognized her when she had called on him.
It was
very stupid in him, very! She forgave him.
He complimented Eugene in
terse, lavish terms, and when he went away kissed Hortense, who was
thirteen
and thought herself too big to be kissed by a strange man. But Napoleon
said
they all seemed just like old friends. And seeming like old friends he
called
often.
Josephine knew Paris and
Parisian society thoroughly. Fifteen years of close contact in success
and
defeat with statesmen, soldiers, diplomats, artists and literati had
taught her
much. It is probable that she was the most gifted woman in Paris. Now,
Napoleon
learned by induction as Josephine had, and as all women do, and as
genius must,
for life is short — only dullards spend eight years at
Oxford. He absorbed
Josephine as the devilfish does its prey. And to get every thought and
feeling
that a good woman possesses you must win her completest love. In this
close
contact she gives up all — unlike Sapphira —
holding nothing back.
Among
educated people, people of breeding and
culture, Napoleon felt ill at ease. With this woman at his side he
would be at
home anywhere. And feeling at once that he could win her only by
honorable
marriage he decided to marry her. He was ambitious. Has that been
remarked
before? Well, one can not always be original — still I think
the facts bear out
the statement. Josephine was ambitious, too, but someway in this
partnership
she felt that she would bring more capital into the concern than he,
and she
hesitated. But power had given dignity to the Little Man; his
face had taken
on the cold beauty of marble. Success was better than sarsaparilla.
Josephine
was aware of his growing power, and his persistency was irresistible;
and so
one evening when he dropped in for a moment, her manner told all. He
just took
her in his arms, and kissing her very tenderly whispered, "My dear,
together we will win," and went his way. When he wished to be, Napoleon
was the ideal lover; he was master of that fine forbearance, flavored
with a
dash of audacity, that women so appreciate. He never wore love to a
frazzle, nor
caressed the object of his affections into fidgets; neither did he let
her
starve, although at times she might go hungry.
However, the fact remains
that Josephine married the man to get rid of him; but that’s
a thing women are
constantly doing.
The ceremony was performed
by a justice of the Peace, March Ninth, Seventeen Hundred Ninety-six.
It was
just five months since the bride had called to thank the groom for
giving back
her husband's sword, and fifteen months after this husband's death.
Napoleon
was twenty-seven; Josephine was thirty-three, but the bridegroom swore
he was
twenty-eight and the lady twenty-nine. As a fabricator he wins our
admiration.
Twelve days after the
marriage, Napoleon set out for Italy as Commander-in-Chief of the army.
To
trace the brilliant campaign of that year, when the tricolor of France
was
carried from the Bay of Biscay to the Adriatic Sea, is not my business.
Suffice
it to say that it placed the name of Bonaparte among the foremost names
of
military leaders of all time. But amid the restless movement of grim
war and
the glamor of success he never for a day forgot his Josephine. His
letters
breathe a youthful lover's affection, and all the fond desires of his
heart
were hers. Through her he also knew the pulse and temperature of Paris
— its
form and pressure.
It was a year before they
saw each other. She came on to Milan and met him there. They settled in
Montebello, at a beautiful country seat, six miles from the city. From
there he
conducted negotiations for peace — and she presided over the
gay social circles
of the ancient capital. "I gain provinces; you win hearts," said
Napoleon. It was a very Napoleonic remark.
Napoleon had already had
Eugene with him, and together they had seen the glory of battle. Now
Hortense
was sent for, and they were made Napoleon's children by adoption. These
were
days of glowing sunshine and success and warm affection.
And so Napoleon with his
family returned to France amid bursts of applause, proclaimed
everywhere the
Savior of the State, its Protector, and all that. Civil troubles had
all
vanished in the smoke of war with foreign enemies. Prosperity
was everywhere,
the fruits of conquest had satisfied all, and the discontented class
had been
drawn off into the army and killed or else was now cheerfully boozy
with
success. Napoleon made allies of all powers he could not easily undo,
and
proffered his support — biding his time. Across the English
Channel he looked
and stared with envious eyes. Josephine had tasted success and known
defeat.
Napoleon had only tasted success. She begged that he would rest content
and
hold secure that which he had gained. Success in its very nature must
be
limited, she said. He laughed and would not hear it. For the first time
she
felt her influence over him was waning. She had given her all; he
greedily
absorbed, and now had come to believe in his own omniscience.
He told her that
on a pinch he could get along without her — within himself he
held all power.
Then he kissed her hand in mock gallantry and led her to the door, as
he would
be alone.
When Napoleon started on the
Egyptian campaign, Josephine begged to go with him; other
women went, dozens
of them. They seemed to look upon it as a picnic party. But Napoleon,
insisting
that absence makes the heart grow fonder, said his wife should remain
behind.
Josephine was too good and
great for the wife of such a man. She saw through him. She understood
him, and
only honest men are willing to be understood. He was tired of her, for
she no
longer ministered to his vanity. He had captured her, and now he was
done with
her. Besides that, she sided with the peace party, and this was
intolerable.
Still he did not beat her with a stick; he treated her most graciously,
and
installing her at beautiful Malmaison, provided her everything to make
her
happy.
And if "things"
could make one happy, she would have been. And as far the Egyptian
campaign, it
surely was a picnic party, or it was until things got so serious that
frolic
was supplanted by fear. You can't frolic with your hair on end like
quills upon
the fretful porcupine. Napoleon did not write to his wife. He
frolicked.
Occasionally his secretary sent her a formal letter of instruction, and
when
she at last wrote him asking an explanation for such strange silence,
the
Little Man answered her with accusations of infidelity.
Josephine decided to secure
a divorce, and there is pretty good proof that papers were prepared;
and had
the affair been carried along, the courts would have at once allowed
the
separation on statutory grounds. However, the papers were destroyed,
and
Josephine decided to live it out. But Napoleon had heard of these
proposed
divorce proceedings and was furious. When he came back, it was with the
intention of immediate legal separation — in any event
separation.
He came back and held out
haughtily for three days, addressing her as "Madame," and
refusing
so much as to shake hands. After the three days he sued for peace and
cried it
out on his knees with his head in her lap. It was not genuine humility,
only
the humility that follows debauch. Napoleon had many kind impulses, but
his
mood was selfish indifference to the rights or wishes of
others. He did not
hold hate, yet the thought of a divorce from Josephine was palliated in
his own
mind by the thought that she had first suggested it. "I took her at her
word," he once said to Bertram, as if the thing were pricking him.
And so matters moved on.
There was war, and rumors of war, always, but the vanquished paid the
expenses.
It was thought best that France should be ruled by three consuls. Three
men
were elected, with Napoleon as First Consul. The First Consul bought
off the
Second and Third Consuls and replaced them with two wooden men from the
Twenty-first
Ward.
Josephine worked for the
glory of France and for her husband: she was diplomat and
adviser. She
placated enemies and made friends.
France prospered, and in the
wars the foreigner usually not only paid the bills, but a goodly
tribute
beside. Nothing is so good as war to make peace at home. An
insurrectionist at
home makes a splendid soldier abroad. Napoleon's battles were won by
the
"dangerous class."
As the First Consul was
Emperor in fact, the wires were pulled, and he was made so in name. His
wife
was made Empress: it must be so, as a breath of disapproval might ruin
the
whole scheme. Josephine was beloved by the people, and the people must
know
that she was honored by her husband. With a woman's intuition,
Josephine saw
the end — power grows until it topples. She pleaded, begged
— it was of no
avail — the tide swept her with it, but whither, whither? she
kept asking.
Meantime Hortense had been
married to Louis, brother of Napoleon. In due time Napoleon found
himself a
grandfather. He both liked it and didn't. He considered himself a youth
and
took a pride in being occasionally mistaken for a recruit, and here
some
newspaper had called him "granddaddy," and people had laughed! He was
not even a father, except by law — not Nature — and
that's no father at all,
for Nature does not recognize law. He joked with Josephine about it,
and she
turned pale.
There is no subject on which
men so deceive themselves as concerning their motives for doing certain
things.
On no subject do mortals so deceive themselves as their motives for
marriage.
Their acts may be all right, but the reasons they give for doing them
never
are. Napoleon desired a new wife, because he wished a son to found a
dynasty.
"You have Eugene!" said Josephine.
"He's my son by
proxy," said Napoleon, with a weary smile.
All motives, like ores, are
found mixed, and counting the whole at one hundred, Napoleon's desire
for a son
after the flesh should stand as ten — other reasons ninety.
All men wish to be
thought young. Napoleon was forty, and his wife was forty-seven.
Talleyrand had
spoken of them as Old Mr. and Mrs. Bonaparte.
A man of forty is only a
giddy youth, according to his own estimate. Girls of twenty are his
playfellows. A man of sixty, with a wife forty, and babies coming, is
not old —
bless me! But suppose his wife is nearly seventy — what then!
Napoleon must have
a young wife. Then by marrying Marie Louise, Austria could be held as
friend:
it was very necessary to do this. Austria must be secured as an ally at
any
cost — even at the cost of Josephine. It was painful, but
must be done for the
good of France. The State should stand first in the mind of every
loyal, honest
man: all else is secondary.
So Josephine was divorced,
but was provided with an annuity that was preposterous in its lavish
proportions. It amounted to over half a million dollars a year.
I once knew a man who, on
getting home from the club at two o'clock in the morning, was
reproached by his
wife for his shocking condition. He promptly threw the lady over the
banisters.
Next day he purchased her a diamond necklace at the cost of a year's
salary, but
she could not wear it out in society for a month on account of her
black eye.
Napoleon divorced Josephine that he might be the father of a line of
kings.
When he abdicated in Eighteen Hundred Fifteen, he declared his son, the
child
of Marie Louise, "Napoleon the Second, Emperor of France," and the
world laughed. The son died before he had fairly reached
manhood's estate.
Napoleon the Third, son of Hortense, Queen of Holland, the grandson of
Josephine, reigned long and well as Emperor of France. The Prince
Imperial — a
noble youth — great-grandson of Josephine, was killed in
Africa while fighting
the battle of the nation that undid Napoleon.
Josephine was a parent of
kings: Napoleon was not. When Bonaparte was banished to Elba, and Marie
Louise
was nowhere to be seen, Josephine wrote to him words of consolation,
offering
to share his exile.
She died not long after
— on
the Second of June, Eighteen Hundred Fourteen. After viewing that gaudy
tomb at
the Invalides, and thinking of the treasure in tears and broken hearts
that it
took to build it, it will rest you to go to the simple village church
at Ruel,
a half-hour's ride from the Arc de Triomphe, where sleeps Josephine,
Empress of
France.
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