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EMPRESS JOSEPHINE WIFE OF THE FIRST CONSUL
BY
IMBERT DE SAINT-AMAND
TRANSLATED BY
Introduction
PART I.
I. The Formal Entrance into the Tuileries
PART II.
I. The Palace of Saint Cloud
THE WIFE OF THE FIRST CONSUL.
INTRODUCTION.
INTRODUCTION.
In the modest church of Rueil,
on each side of the altar, there stand, face to face, two funeral monuments
which call forth a host of memories. The one to the right represents a woman
kneeling at a prayerdesk, in full dress, but with no
royal insignia, and the simple inscription runs thus: “To Josephine. Eugene and
Hortense, 1825.” The statue, which is of Carrara marble, is the work of the
sculptor Cartellier. In the foundation of the
pedestal rests the body of the woman who was Empress of the French and Queen of
Italy. Opposite, a group in white marble, the work of the sculptor Barre,
represents a woman and an angel. The woman, who is kneeling, wears a regal
diadem, and she is wrapped in the folds of a long veil. Her attitude is that of
prayer, with her hands lowered towards the earth, and her eyes raised towards
heaven. Before her one may see a crown, a few laurels, and a lyre, but her
melancholy face expresses a feeling of contempt for these toys which are so
trivial on earth, and so much more trivial in face of eternity. It is indeed
the sad woman, rid of all illusions, who in 1807 said to Napoleon: “My
reputation is tainted, my health broken, I expect no further happiness in this
life; expel me from your heart, if you wish it, bury me in a convent, I desire
neither throne nor wealth. Give my mother peace, grant to Eugene the glory
which he deserves, but let me live quiet and alone.” Above the statue floats an
angel who, with a gesture at once protecting and consoling, shows to the
unhappy queen the eternal spheres. On the pedestal is cut this inscription; “To
Queen Hortense, her son Napoleon III.”
The remains of the Queen do not lie in the foundation
of this monument; they rest beneath it in a crypt shut off by a gate of wrought
iron, to which leads a staircase in the corner of the church. The arches of the
vault are upheld by clusters of short and massive columns. A funeral lamp and
two bronze candelabra cast a dim glow over this vault, into which the light of
day never falls. At the back of the crypt, beneath an arcade, may be descried
the huge tomb, which seems to be covered with a royal mantle, carved in stone,
and surmounted by a golden palm, with the arms of the French Empire and those
of Holland. On the tomb is this inscription: “Hortense Eugenie de Beauharnais,
Duchess of Saint-Leu, Queen of Holland, born in Paris, April 10, 1783; daughter
by her first marriage of Marie Rose Josephine Tascher de la Pagerie, Empress of the French, and of Viscount
Alexandre de Beauharnais; daughter-in-law and sister-in-law of Napoleon I,
Emperor of the French; married in Paris, January 3, 1802, to Louis Napoleon,
King of Holland; died at her castle of Arenenberg,
October 5, 1837.” The two women, the mother and the daughter, are united in
death, as they were in life. It is impossible to look without emotion at this
last resting-place of such vanished splendor, of such fallen greatness, and
Bossuet’s thoughts on the nothingness of human things occur to one in this
village church with its two eloquent graves.
These two graves are appropriately placed under the
vaults of the modest church, the bells of which, according to Bourrienne, made a deep impression upon Bonaparte. Nearby
is the estate of Malmaison, which was for Josephine what the Little Trianon was
for Marie Antoinette, a poetic and fateful spot, which, after having been the
abode of enchantments, success, and boundless hopes, became that of despair,
humiliation, of cruel struggles, of agony, of death, and which finally deserved
its name of evil omen, Malmaison, mala mansio.
I am approaching the region of legend, and recall Isabey’s celebrated drawing; I seem to see the First Consul
walking alone, in uniform, before the building. I summon memories of the
beautiful days and starlit nights, of Malmaison in the year VIII, of the
dinners in the open air, the games upon the grass, of the balls in which all
the women are dressed in white. I see Hortense de Beauharnais, a bright and
merry girl, running, swift as Atalanta, in the garden; or in the theatre at the
end of the gallery, playing Rosina in the “Barber of Seville” like a consummate
actress. I am back in the consular court, which is still republican, full of
charm, of vivacity, rich in youth, glory, and hope, with but little dread of
the catastrophes hid in the dark future.
Nine years pass, and what a change! Poor Josephine,
broken with grief, enters once more the house where not long before she had
arrived in joy. Her dark presentiments have been realized. The woman to whom
the conqueror of Italy used to write burning love-letters is now disgraced,
disowned, and driven forever from the Tuileries. She has just drunk to the
dregs the chalice of the bitterness of divorce which she had prayed to be
spared. It is a cold, wet December night; the withered leaves lie about like
dead illusions; the wind wails, and nature moans. The abode of happiness is
become a Calvary. What a night the wretched woman passes in the room which she
used to occupy with Napoleon! And when she wakes in the morning, what a sad eye
she turns towards the trees which once shaded so much happiness! In the course
of the day Napoleon comes to pay an icy visit to his divorced wife; he walks
for a few moments with her in the park and leaves her without a kiss.
I picture to myself the melancholy scenes of May 29,
1814, Whitsunday. Josephine is lying at the point of death in that chamber of
Malmaison, surrounded by her children, visitors, and friends, “as gentle in the
face of death as she always had been to everyone.” When the Emperor left for
the island of Elba, she said, “Napoleon is in distress, and I can’t be with
him.” The impossibility of devoting herself to him was a terrible blow to her.
“I have been a witness,” said Mademoiselle Avrillon,
“of the sleeplessness of the Empress Josephine, and her terrible dreams. I have
known her to pass whole days buried in gloomy thoughts. I know what I have seen
and heard, and I am sure that it was grief that killed her.” In her last
moments she awoke from her stupor only at intervals, and in a sort of quiet
delirium these few words escaped her, betraying all the anguish of her heart:
“Bonaparte, Elba, Marie-Louise!”
A year later, during the Hundred Days, Napoleon went
to Malmaison before the ceremony of the Champ de Mai. He was received by Queen
Hortense, and at his entrance into the vestibule he betrayed profound emotion.
This he controlled, however, with his wonted energy, and he desired to visit
everything, the house and the park. He wandered about, deep in thought; one
would have said that from one path to another he was pursuing a shadow. Then he
took his place at the table, where he saw the place that Josephine had left
empty. The breakfast was short and silent. On rising from the table, the
Emperor passed into the gallery, and looked at every one of the pictures, which
were fixed in his memory. Then he went upstairs, and came to the door of the
room where his wife, whom he had loved so warmly, had died. Hortense wished to
follow him. “No, my daughter,” he said; “I wish to go in alone.” Abandoned by
the ungrateful Marie-Louise, Napoleon fell into meditation before the death-bed
of the grateful Josephine. Doubtless he craved forgiveness for the divorce; and
he said to himself, at the bottom of his heart, “It’s because I deserted this
woman that fortune has deserted me.” The whole drama of his life unrolled
itself before his eyes. A world of memories rose before him like a tide. Oh, if
one could but seize some part of the past! If hope could take the place of
memory! If faded flowers would but bloom again! But, alas ! everything had
slipped through his fingers. Napoleon left Josephine’s room with tears in his
eyes.
Possibly he had thought that at Malmaison he would, as
it were, dip into a healthful spring, and that there, in this home of his
glorious youth, he should find again his self-confidence, his faith in his
star; but it was a vain hope. The wife who had brought him good fortune was no
more. Once again he was to return to Malmaison, but after Waterloo; and it was
there that he stayed after his second abdication for five days, from the 25th
to the 29th of June, 1815. It was again Queen Hortense who received him, a
respectful and faithful friend in his misfortune. The sky was clear, the sun
brilliant, but the heart of the man who was about to become a prisoner was as
dark as the tomb. Long before he had said: “One sees everything through a
gilded veil which makes it bright and clear. Gradually, as one goes on, this
veil thickens, until at last it becomes almost black.” This moment had come; a
long crape veil stretched over the shadows over the horizon. The beaten
soldier of Waterloo walked until he was worn out in the park of Malmaison,
where he passed his last hours as a free man, talking continually to Hortense
about Josephine, whose portrait he wished to have. But what did he hear? The
roar of the cannon in the plain of Saint Denis. What did he see? Officers and
old soldiers arriving in ragged uniforms, stained with dust, who told him of
the progress of the enemy. Blucher had unwisely separated himself from Wellington;
the Allies were advancing in two columns of about sixty thousand men each,
leaving so much space between them that either could be crushed before the
other could come to its rescue. The man of battle felt all his genius aroused.
In the night between the 28th and the 29th of June he made his plans; if he
could be given the command, he promised to beat in detail the Prussians and the
English with the ruins of his Waterloo army. In the morning of the 29th he
commissioned General Beker to carry the following message to Fouche and the
other members of the Provisional Government, sitting at the Tuileries. “I
offer,” he said, “to place myself at the head of the army, which at the sight
of me will recover all its spirit, to fall upon the enemy with desperate
energy, and to punish him for his rashness. I give my word as a general, a
soldier, and a citizen, not to retain the command for one hour after the
certain and crushing victory which I promise to gain, not for myself, but for
France.”
Napoleon, in full uniform, waited with his aides for
the answer of the Provisional Government; if it were favorable,, he meant to
mount his horse at once. General Beker returned, bringing a refusal, and the
man of Austerlitz submitted. If Napoleon sinned by pride, how severely he was
punished! He, who a short time ago made the world tremble, was compelled to
consult a regicide, a former accomplice of the cruelties of the comedian Collot d’Herbois. He, the hero of battles, consecrated by
the Pope, the man of destiny, the modern Caesar, the new Charlemagne, obliged
to submit to the refusal and the contempt of Fouché!
It is easy to imagine the wrath of the young
aides-de-camp, impatient to follow him, certain of victory, when they were
obliged to sheathe their swords again, to unsaddle their impatient steeds, and
to see the last dream of patriotism and glory disappear. Who can describe the
torture of such an hour for a character like Napoleon’s? The plaudits of the
multitude, the enthusiastic shouts of the soldiers, the intoxicating joys of
the triumph, the solemn entry within the walls of conquered capitals, the
bulletins of famous victories, ovations, hosannas,—they were all cruelly
avenged!
All was over. He had to bow before an implacable fate;
he had to leave before the end of the day. The preparations for departure were
completed. The Prussians were advancing on the left bank of the Seine, between
Argenteuil and Chaton; if he had remained a few hours longer, he would have
been their prisoner. He had just taken off his uniform and put on citizen’s
dress. His mother, his brothers, and a few soldiers, a few courtiers of
misfortune, had assembled to bid him an eternal farewell. Since he had not
thought of providing himself with money, Queen Hortense begged him to accept a
diamond necklace. At first he refused; but when she insisted with tears, he let
her hide the necklace in his coat. After having urged unity and courage upon
them all, he embraced his faithful friends for the last time. The last one of
whom he took leave was his mother. Their separation recalls the grand scenes of
antiquity, which were sublime in their simplicity. “Farewell, my son,” said
Madame Letitia. The Emperor answered, “Mother, farewell.” He got into his
carriage, and left Malmaison forever.
To the right of the castle is to be seen a stone
pedestal, on which there stood, until 1870, a bronze eagle with this touching
inscription: “ The last step of Napoleon, when leaving for Rochefort, June
29,1815, at four o’clock in the afternoon.” Why was the eagle torn from the
pedestal with the inscription? It could not excite anger. It was no longer the
royal bird, floating in the clouds, gazing at the sun; it was the wounded
eagle, fluttering along the ground, like the swallow before a storm. Oh, the
melancholy of greatness! Vicissitudes of fate! how eloquent is your language in
these times of revolution, when fortune seems to make sport of kings and
emperors! How insignificant is man, and how hard it is to find any trace of his
footsteps!
In the month of August, 1831, a woman was weeping
before the iron gate of Malmaison; with her was a young man of twenty-three,
who shared her grief. This young man was her son. She insisted on being
admitted, but entrance was obstinately refused. This woman was Queen Hortense;
the young man was the future emperor Napoleon III. The mother and the son had
just been kneeling before the tomb of Josephine in the church of Rueil, and it is thus that the former queen describes the
emotion that she felt then: “What a drear feeling came over me when I knelt
before that cherished image and sadly thought that of all whom she had loved I
alone remained with my son, isolated, and compelled to flee the spot where she
reposed. The great number of flowers covering this monument, which my brother
and I had such difficulty in getting permission to build, proved to me that at
any rate she was lying among friends who held her memory dear. Her daughter
only was forgotten.”
It was after this pious visit to the church of Rueil, where she herself was one day to be buried, that
Queen Hortense and her son wished to revisit Malmaison. She said: “I stopped at
the gate of the castle, and insisted upon entering. It is from there that the
Emperor started to leave France forever... It was impossible to secure any
remission of the orders of the new proprietor, who had forbidden entrance to
the castle without a card. My nephew had sold Malmaison to a banker, who kept a
part of the gardens and the castle, and had sold the rest. It was difficult to
recognize the place, and I could not believe myself at the same spot which I
had left so beautiful, where I had always been so gladly received, when
admission to it was so cruelly denied me.”
How painful it must have been to see strangers thus
occupying a dwelling which she had inhabited with those she loved! It is a bit
of the irony of fate, which seems to take a pleasure in persecuting wretched
humanity with refined cruelty. The Malmaison of Napoleon and of Josephine, the
home of his glory as consul, the last refuge of the defeated soldier of
Waterloo before his departure for the rock of Saint Helena, all this belonging
to strangers, while the woman who had so shone there had not the right to enter
the house to go and pray in the room where she had seen her mother draw her
last breath ! No one recognized her. She had hoped to find there what her heart
had left, to catch in the song of the birds some trace of departed joys, or of
her old griefs in the murmur of the wind. But nature is insensible to our
sorrows, and nothing remains of our dreams and illusions.
In 1842 another unhappy sovereign, Queen Christina of
Spain, in one of her excursions in the neighborhood of Paris, visited the
estate of Malmaison, attracted by the painful memories which clung about the
place. She bought the castle and lived in it until 1861. On one side she built
a chapel, now empty; but the arms of the Spanish Bourbons yet remain above the
place where the Queen used to pray. In 1861 she consented to sell Malmaison to
the Emperor, who paid eleven hundred thousand francs and presented it to the
state as a sort of national jewel. The castle was restored and decorated, and
assumed its former aspect under the days of the Consulate and the Empire. One
day Napoleon III shut himself for several hours in the gallery, and with his
own hands hung up the principal pictures in the places where he remembered
having seen them when he was a child.
In 1867, at the time of the Exposition, the Empress
Eugenie conceived the excellent idea of collecting at Malmaison and the Little
Trianon the various objects, pictures and furniture, which could be proved to
have belonged to the illustrious occupants of these two historic mansions. The
French, and even more noticeably foreigners, crowded thither and gazed with, a
sort of awe at the two valuable museums; for foreigners take perhaps a deeper
interest in the glories of France than do the French themselves. At Malmaison
they saw the council-table of the ministers, Josephine’s tapestry-frame and
harp, the Emperor’s field-desk, the clock that stood in his room at Saint
Helena, the little iron bed with green silk curtains in which he died.
Malmaison had never been so crowded with visitors; but this climax of its fame
was not far removed from a probably final decay.
The janitress, who was in the service of Queen
Christina, and has been in the castle ever since, describes the last incidents
that have come under notice, with a sort of vigorous and popular eloquence. She
says that in 1867 she noticed in the park some Germans in civil dress, who were
examining everything about them with the greatest care, and that in the war she
saw the same Germans again, this time in uniform, take possession of the castle; and that a few days before the war broke out, the young Prince Imperial came
to visit Malmaison, and that she was struck by his melancholy expression. She
adds, that just as he was leaving, a thunder-storm broke forth, and a tree
which had been planted by Napoleon and Josephine was half shattered by the
lightning. “An evil omen,” she said. Then she goes on to tell how they managed
to bind up the old tree-trunk; but that when they began to divide the place
into house-lots, in 1879, the tree was cut down and uprooted. At the same time
Josephine’s descendant, the heir of the Napoleons, was dying in Zululand.
After the fall of the Second Empire, the state sold
Malmaison to a private person. The park was cut up into lots and sold to
different buyers, who are building houses. The façade of the castle is intact,
but the interior is in a melancholy state of dilapidation, shorn of ornaments,
furniture, and hangings.
Malmaison, which at the beginning of the century was,
as it were, a symbol of France under the Consulate; Malmaison, still full of
the gigantic plans and the proud dreams of the ambitious hero of Marengo;
Malmaison, sacked in 1815 by Blucher’s soldiers,—became in the last war a
Prussian barrack. The troops of the victor at Sedan installed themselves in
triumph where the First Consul, in Iris military court, had worn his most
martial air. Silent and deserted, Malmaison seems like a tomb. Its bare walls
are gloomier than ruins. Yet there is a certain majesty in their bareness. The
stones of the castle speak that mysterious language which may be heard in the
silence. No man with feeling for poetry, or history can enter this house
without being filled with respect. One lowers one’s voice and steps softly, as
if dreading to disturb the sleep of illustrious hosts. The deserted halls seem
to be tenanted by phantoms of the past. In the twilight one would say that it
is a haunted spot, and haunted by what ghosts!
How many cataclysms there have been in France during the last century! The scythe wielded by war and revolution commits more grievous ravages than those of time. Of all the buildings which were the scene of the last agonies of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, what is now left? The Tuileries are burned. There is not one stone left of the Manage where Louis XVI was tried, of the Temple tower which served as prison for the unhappy monarch and his family. The little dungeon of the Queen in the Conciergerie alone remains, and the crowds who daily pass through the place of her execution do not know even where the martyr’s scaffold stood. And what is left of what one may call the scenery of the consular epoch? The house in the rue de la Victoire, whence issued the 18th Brumaire, is destroyed, its very site is not to be determined; Saint Cloud and the Tuileries are mere stone skeletons. Shells and petroleum have destroyed everything. Great stretches of the sky appear through the empty arches, and one would say that these fresh ruins are as old as Pompeii or Herculaneum. The superb appearance of the two palaces which they were in their splendor is so deeply printed on the memory, that at certain moments one, gazing at the ruins, would think himself the victim of a nightmare, and would expect on waking to find the two monuments as they were before the fire. If Josephine could come back to life, how surprised she would be at this destruction! What would be her reflections before the ruins of the Tuileries and of Saint Cloud! What an impression would be produced by Malmaison dilapidated and deserted! Well, if revolutions destroy, let history yet try to
build up what they have pitilessly overthrown! History is a reconstruction,
which will permit us to see again with the eyes of our soul what we can no
longer see with our real eyes, to build up ruins, to people empty halls, to
hear amid the silence the echo of conversation, of the trumpets, of the
orchestras of former days. There may reach our ear the distant sound of
Josephine’s gentle voice which the First Consul used to prefer to the applause
of his people and his army. Let us summon forth the image of this woman under
the ancient trees which have survived so many disasters. While we think of her,
we shall gaze at the views which so often charmed her, at the prospect which
was for her a consoling friend, at the river which flowed beneath her feet. Let
us consult her friends: here are her husband’s secretaries, Bourrienne and Méneval; here is
the lady in waiting, Madame de Rémusat; there is the Duchess of Abrantès, Miot de Mélito,
Roederer, General de Ségur, Thibaudeau, Marmont, Lavalette. After long study of
their memoirs, one seems to know the authors, to be near them, in the same
room, exchanging ideas with them, listening to their reminiscences, hearing
their anecdotes and their talk about the persons and events of bygone days. Let
us ask them, in this sketch, to make us understand the character of the wife of
the First Consul, and the part she played, to describe to us this period of
four years and a half which was so brilliant and busy, to show us society forming
itself anew, with drawing-rooms opening again, the foreign aristocracy resuming
its journeys to Paris, the reopening of the opera balls, as luxury, elegance,
and fashion reassert themselves, while at the same time the populace easily
exchanges liberty for glory, and sets a man above every institution.
Fox said in 1802 that in the person of the First
Consul there were three Bonapartes equally worthy of study; the one of
Malmaison, of Saint Cloud, and of the Tuileries. As for Josephine, she was
always and everywhere the same: affable, gracious, obliging, always seeking
peace, sharing none of the severities, the anger, or the petulance of her
husband, dissuading him from thoughts of vengeance, anxious to see him kind,
generous, and inclined to pity. This modest, disinterested woman, who was
essentially tender and good, is one of the most amiable and sympathetic figures
of history. If her statue has been removed from the avenue leading from the
Arch of Triumph which bore her name, her memory at any rate cannot perish. The
charm which she exercised upon her contemporaries has survived, and even when
one thinks, whether rightly or wrongly, that he has discovered flaws in her
private life, one feels an attraction towards her. Whether alive or dead, good
women deserve our love. That greatest quality, a woman’s real ornament,
kindness, would make us pardon many faults. Josephine wished to call forth no
tears but those of joy and gratitude. Her ambition was to be Bonaparte’s good
angel. She often gave him wise advice, and the time of his most earnest
devotion to her was that of his greatest success.
In our opinion the Consulate is Napoleon’s highwater
mark; his fall began with the murder of the Duke of Enghien,
the inauguration of the imperial period. From that moment a cloud hangs over
his star; this cloud is at first but a black point, but it grew from year to
year, and at last produced the dense gloom of the final catastrophe. It was in
vain that Napoleon accumulated crown upon crown for himself and his family; the
glory of the Emperor could not outshine the glory of the citizen. Josephine had
a presentiment of this, and the throne filled her with a secret dread. She knew
that as her greatness increased, her happiness would diminish, and yearned to
descend as much as her husband aspired to rise.
PART I.
THE TEMPORARY CONSULATE.
1
THE LUXEMBOURG.
ON the 21st Brumaire, year VIII there appeared in the Moniteur the following short paragraph: “Paris, 20th
Brumaire. The three Consuls have taken their seats in the Luxembourg. In the
evening the public buildings and many private houses were illuminated.” From
the moment of his installation at the Luxembourg the future Caesar regarded
himself as the absolute head of the state. “He is a pike who will swallow the
two other fish,” said Madame de Permont to his
mother, Madame Bonaparte. “O Panoria!” replied Madame
Letitia, with reproachful accent, for at this moment she still believed in the
genuine republicanism of her son. “The surprising thing,” said Edgar Quinet, “is
the way in which all combined to blind themselves. In fact, everyone was new to
servitude. Even those who ran towards it most eagerly imagined that they were
acquiring a new form of liberty...Not a day passed without an approach to
absolute power, but no one seemed to perceive it.” Bonaparte, a sovereign in
fact, was not yet one in appearance; he regarded republican susceptibility, but
gradually, by crafty and astute steps, he began to accustom men to his rule.
The old customs begin to reappear one by one. Josephine ceases to be called Citoyenne Bonaparte, and the woman who is soon to be
Empress of the French and Queen of Italy is designated as Madame Bonaparte. For
a little while there are preserved the names of things which no longer exist,
such as liberty and the Republic, and the future Emperor is still called the
citizen First Consul.
Bonaparte occupied in the little Luxembourg the
apartment on the ground floor, to the right as one enters from the rue de Vaugirard. His office was near a hidden staircase leading
to the first floor, where Josephine lived. After breakfast, which was served at
ten o’clock, Bonaparte used to talk for a few minutes with his aides-de-camp,
and then he betook himself to Iris work.
“On leaving the council,” says his secretary, Bourrienne, “he would go to his office singing, and Heaven
knows how out of tune he used to sing. He would sign a few letters, stretch
himself in his easy-chair, and read a few letters of the evening before and the
occasional publications of the day. When there was no council, he would stay in
his office and talk with me, always singing and cutting the arm of his chair,
sometimes looking like a big boy. Then he would start up, and sketch the plan
of some monument which was to be built, or dictate the vast things which were
to astonish or appal the world... Dinner was at five
o’clock. After dinner the First Consul used to go up to Josephine’s apartment,
where he was accustomed to receive the ministers; he always took pleasure in
seeing the minister of foreign affairs, especially after that portfolio was in
the hands of M. de Talleyrand. At midnight, and often earlier, he used to give
the signal for breaking up, by saying suddenly, ‘Let us go to bed!’ ”
Josephine began to receive at the Luxembourg people of
the old régime. The title of Madame pained more than one
Republican who longed for the simpler Citoyenne. “They
consoled themselves afterwards at the Tuileries,” says Bourrienne,
“by using Your Highness, on occasions of great ceremony, and merely Monseigneur
in private.” The First Consul took the most careful precautions to combine certain
revolutionary memories with the symptoms of reaction. He abolished the holiday
of January 21, the anniversary of the execution of Louis XVI, but he preserved
as national holidays the 14th of July and the 1st of Vendémiaire, in memory of
the taking of the Bastille and the establishment of the Republic. He let his
wife surround herself with people of the old court, but he married his third
sister to a soldier of fortune, the son of an innkeeper of Cahors.
It was at the Luxembourg that was celebrated, January
20, 1800, the civil marriage of Caroline Bonaparte with Murat, a general in
command of a division. Not till two years later was the nuptial benediction
given to the couple, on the occasion of the marriage of Hortense de Beauharnais
with Louis Bonaparte. Murat, who was born at Cahons,
March 25,1771, was not yet twenty-nine years old when he was married. Caroline,
who was born at Ajaccio, March 25, 1782, was under eighteen. According to the
author of the Recollections of Madame Récamier (Madame Récamier was very
intimate with Madame Murat), “of all the sisters of Napoleon Caroline was the
one who most resembled him. She was not so regularly beautiful as his sister
Pauline (Madame Leclerc), but she belonged distinctly to the Napoleonic type;
she was of a marvellously rich coloring; her
intelligence was quick, her will imperious, and the contrast of the girlish
grace of her face with the decision of her character made her a very attractive
person. She continued to come, as she had done when a young girl, to all the
entertainments at Madame R6camier’s, in the rue du Mont Blanc.” This is the
portrait which the Duchess of Abrantes drew of her: “Caroline Bonaparte was a
very pretty girl, as fresh as a rose, but in no way comparable, in regularity
of feature, to Madame Leclerc. Still, she was very attractive on account of her
expression and the astounding brilliancy of her complexion. Her skin was like
white satin tinted with pink; her feet, hands, and arms were even perfect
models, her teeth were charming, like those of all the Bonapartes.” Prince
Metternich, who was a great admirer of her, said of her: “Caroline combined
with an agreeable face a rare mind. She had carefully studied her brother’s
character, and had no illusion about any of his faults; she also knew the weak
points in her husband’s character, and would have guided him if he had
submitted to guidance.”
Young, handsome, full of military enthusiasm, Murat
shone in the first rank among these knights-errant of democracy; he was one of
those illustrious plebeians who have no need of ancestors, because they are
themselves ancestors. In the whole French army there was not such a proud
cavalier. His proverbial bravery, his dashing steeds, his rich uniforms, the
fire and gayety of his southern nature made him a popular figure. He could not
make his appearance on the battlefield or at a review without attracting every
eye. Yet, in fact, the First Consul had no sympathy for this brilliant officer.
The Duchess of Abrantes thus explains his coolness: “ The true cause of
Napoleon’s moderate friendship for Murat (for in spite of their relationship,
he never loved him) was nothing but Murat’s rash conduct when he came to Paris
to bring the first flags won by the army of Italy. Those who know Napoleon’s
character will easily understand how Murat injured himself by quietly boasting
of his influence in the Directory, at the Ministry of War, through Madame
Bonaparte and Madame Tallien.”
In his Memoirs, Bourrienne refers to the same incident. He says that Madame Bonaparte and Madame Tallien had Murat appointed brigadier-general; that on his
return to Italy he had incurred the disapproval of the commander-in-chief; that
by the influence of these ladies he obtained a place in the army of Egypt, but
that on the voyage thither, on board of the Orient, Bonaparte did not once
speak to him. Bourrienne, indeed, goes so far as to
insinuate that at Messoudiah, Murat’s was one of the
two names mentioned by Junot to excite Bonaparte’s jealousy and his distrust of
Josephine. But the bold officer performed such prodigies of valor, and was
notably so conspicuous on the field of Aboukir, that the commander-in-chief
could not refuse him the expression of his satisfaction.
Murat’s conduct at Saint Cloud on the 19th Brumaire
brought about a perfect reconciliation with Bonaparte, who appointed him
commander of the Consular Guard. Nevertheless, when he came to the Luxembourg
to ask for the hand of Caroline, Bonaparte at first did not favor his suit. He
hesitated to give to a plebeian his sister, who had already been sought by a
great Italian nobleman, the Prince of Santa Croce. He thought, too, that there
were in the army abler and more famous generals than Murat; as, for example,
Moreau and Augereau. But Caroline and Murat had been
in love since the Italian campaign, and their marriage was warmly favored by
Josephine.
When Murat made his demand, Bonaparte received him
with unbending gravity, and gave no positive answer. In the evening this
proposal was the subject of conversation in the drawing-room of the Luxembourg.
Josephine, Hortense, and Bourrienne warmly pleaded
Murat’s cause. To their earnest arguments the First Consul replied: “Murat is
the son of an innkeeper. In the lofty rank in which fortune and glory have
placed me, I cannot mingle his blood with mine. Besides, there is no hurry; I
will see about it later.” Murat’s two supporters were not discouraged; they
spoke earnestly of his love for Caroline, of his devotion to the First Consul,
of his excellent conduct in Egypt. “Yes, I acknowledge,” said Bonaparte, “that
Murat was superb at Aboukir.” Josephine and Hortense redoubled their
solicitations, and before the end of the evening the First Consul had given his
consent. Before he went to bed he said to Bourrienne,
“Well, you ought to be satisfied; and I am, too. On the whole, Murat suits my
sister, and then people won’t say that I am proud, and seeking grand marriages.
If I had given my sister to a nobleman, all your Jacobins would have been
shrieking out, Counter-revolution.”
According to General de Ségur, two considerations had
decided the First Consul: “one, which the study of the innermost secrets of the
human heart, everywhere the same, can alone explain, was the secret
satisfaction that he felt at Madame Bonaparte’s intercession in favor of the
marriage; the other, which was entirely political, proved the truth of what
Napoleon said about himself; namely, that his ambitious advance was gradual and
the result of events; that his ambition grew always according to the
circumstances, and that finally the lofty height to which it attained was in no
way premeditated at the beginning.” If, in 1800, he married his sister to the
son of an innkeeper, it was because he was not at all sure of becoming one day
Emperor, and because he wanted to please the army, reassure the Republicans,
and give a pledge to the democracy. As General de Ségur points out, the man who
accepted Murat for his brother-in-law was probably not thinking of ever putting
on his head the crown of Charlemagne or of allying himself with the house of
Austria.
Bonaparte’s regard for the Republican opinions could
not last long. It would have had a longer life if public sentiment had shown
itself firmer, and there would have been no Emperor if the citizens had not
transformed themselves into subjects.
“What a pleasure for a master,” says Edgar Quinet, “to
feel beneath his feet the proud spirit of a people which but just now was
defying heaven and earth! That a general, drunk with victory, should impose
himself upon a nation which adores him, is in the order of events. That armies
which, had sworn to live free or die should carry their leader on a shield, is
a thing to be read in every history. But that a nation should not feel the
yoke that is heavy on its neck; that, far from suffering from it, it should
accept it as a benefit and a deliverance ; that the men of liberty, Daunou, Cabnis, Gregoire, and Carnot, even La Fayette,
should be the first to glorify their own overthrow; that they should run to
their suicide with no presentiment to warn them; that evidence should not
affect them; that the bare sword should not warn them,—all this is a new fact
such as the world had not yet seen.” Reaction appeared everywhere. Carnot
accepted the Ministry of War. The destroyer of the Bastille, Palloy, “the lifelong patriot,” celebrated the accession of
the First Consul with a handsome engraved medallion. The “Almanack of the
Nineteenth Century” contained the following dialogue between Diogenes and a man
of the Revolution: —
What did you do to be a man ?
I made the 10th of August, the 31st of May, the 18th
Fructidor, the 30th Prairial.
You are a mere destroyer; you are not a man.
I have worked at three constitutions with which people
have become disgusted.
You are a mere fool.
I have made more than a hundred speeches from the
tribune. You are a mere babbler.
I have understood how to please all parties.
You are a mere weather-cock.
I have proposed more than two hundred toasts to
equality and fraternity.
You are a mere sot.
I cursed Robespierre the eve of his death, and spoke
against Barras the 29th Brumaire.
You are a mere slave.
I invented some fine phrases about liberty.
You are a mere rhetorician.
I wrote a good book on morality.
You are a mere hypocrite.
I have had my enemies shot, who were accused of being
hostile to the state.
You are a mere monster.
I followed orders.
You are a hangman.
The demagogic fury had died out, and to call a man a
Jacobin was the deepest insult. The phrases which previously had aroused and
inspired the masses now seemed like old-fashioned empty formulas. The following
chapter of the “Brief Revolutionary Catechism” was on every one’s lips: —
Question. What is the aim of a revolution?
Answer. To destroy in order to change, and to change
in order to destroy.
Q. How many elements are there in a revolution ?
A. Four: deficit, poverty, audacity, and fear.
Q. How many virtues?
A. Two: robbery and assassination.
Q. Who profit by revolutions?
A. The rascals and the ambitious.
Q. What becomes of the people in a revolution ?
A. They cut a sorry figure.
Q. Why so ?
A. Because whether they take part in it or not, they
are always the victims.
Q. In what way ?
A. In this way: all means are good for crime in
attack, but not for virtue in defence.
Q. How does a revolution end ?
A. By an excess of evil, in the blindness of the
leaders, and in the awakening of the people.
Aided by such a state of public opinion, Napoleon
himself must have been astonished at the ease and rapidity with which his plans
were accomplished. Nevertheless, he deemed it wise to take many precautions in
the form, at least, if not in the substance. He preserved some appearance of
respect for the ideas and the institutions which he had so often sworn to
defend. He saw that if he changed too suddenly, he would be exposed to the
bitter reproaches of his old fellow-soldiers, before whom he had so often
protested his faith in the Republic. He had seen too clearly the grand and
terrible side of the Revolution to trifle with it. Since the hour for throwing
off his mask had not yet struck, he assumed the appearance of a sort of
citizen-king, who, while really the master of France, continued to call himself
simply General. He decided to install himself at the Tuileries; but the
Convention and the Committee of Public Safety had sat there, and the famous
palace recalled both royal and revolutionary memories. Besides, it was called
the Government Palace; and since the First Consul was averse to living there
alone, he determined to bring the Third Consul there too, but to establish him
in the Pavilion of Flora, and take for himself the royal apartments, which had
been occupied by Louis XIV, Louis XV, and Louis XVI.
While the First Consul was thus aspiring to the
palaces of kings, Josephine gave no evidence of any desire to leave the
Luxembourg, which would have been perfectly satisfactory as a winter residence;
as a summer residence, she could ask for nothing better than Malmaison, and she
did not care for Saint Cloud or Compiègne or Fontainebleau.
She was passionately fond of jewels, but she did not
care to wear them fastened in a royal crown. She did not deem it necessary to
change into ladiesin-waiting those women of the old
regime whose society she enjoyed. Singularly enough, she would have been a
monarchist, but on the condition that the monarch should not be her husband,
and one of her greatest fears was that of seeing Bonaparte become emperor or
king. The Tuileries, which were yet full of memories of the 20th of June, the
10th of August, and of the Convention, seemed to her a fatal residence, and she
felt that if she were to live there, she should be assuming a position that did
not belong to her, that she would be like a servant taking possession of the
master’s drawing-room. She said to herself that those who climb too high are
exposed to giddiness, and she feared lofty mountaintops because of the
precipices beneath them. She had presentiments and scruples which made her
regret leaving first her little house in the rue de la Victoire, and then the
Luxembourg. But Bonaparte did not trouble himself about Josephine’s uneasiness;
he was driven by a secret impulse, by a mysterious and irresistible force, to
pursue his onward course swiftly and victoriously. Whatever height of fortune
he reached, it never occurred to him to say, This is enough. The Tuileries will
not satisfy him. One day he will want Potsdam, the next the Escurial; one
(Jay Schoenbrunn, and another the Kremlin.
II.THE FORMAL ENTRANCE INTO THE TUILERIES.
“ON the 30th Pluviose, year VIII (February 19, 1800), Bonaparte, when he woke up in the
Luxembourg, said to his secretary, “Well, Bourrienne,
here’s the day when we are going to sleep at the Tuileries. You are very
lucky, for you haven’t got to make a show of yourself; you will go your own
way. As for me, I have got to go in a procession. It’s a great bore; but we
must make a show and impress the people. The Directory was too simple, and so
was not respected. Simplicity is all very well in the army; but in a large
city, in a palace, the head of the government must attract all eyes in every
possible way.”
The Tuileries of Catherine of Medicis,
of Louis XIV, of Louis XV, of Louis XVI, of the Convention, is now about to become
the Tuileries of the First Consul. His removal to this palace was to show
himself as master; for there is a certain relation between men and public
buildings. Bonaparte knew from his instinct of power what an influence a name
has on the imagination of the masses. Does not the man who installs himself in
the abode of kings substitute himself for them? From the moment when the First
Consul occupies a palace, he will necessarily have a court and courtiers.
Etiquette will grow up of itself. The friends of childhood and his college
comrades will not dare to be too intimate with the head of the state.
Republican familiarity will disappear before the monarchical spirit. The people
who are accustomed to live on the favors of princes will feel themselves
attracted to the Tuileries, as if Bonaparte were a Bourbon. The manners, the
ideas, the language of royalty, will gradually reappear.
At one o’clock in the afternoon all Paris was astir;
everyone wanted to see the procession starting from the Luxembourg for the
Tuileries. Madame Bonaparte had already gone there; since she possessed no
claims to royal honors, she had come modestly with her daughter Hortense and
with her sisterin-law, Madame Murat, and the three
stationed themselves, not on the balcony of the Pavilion of the Clock, which
would have been too formal, but at the windows of the apartment of Consul
Lebrun, in the Pavilion of Flora. Then the procession arrived with the
regiments commanded by Lannes, Murat, and Bessières. The three Consuls were in
a carriage drawn by six white horses presented to General Bonaparte by the
Emperor of Germany after the peace of Campo Formio.
The First Consul was on the back seat, with Cambac6rds at his left and Lebrun
opposite. Then followed the Council of State and the senators, most of them in
cabs with the numbers hidden by pieces of paper. The impressive thing in the
procession was the fineness of the troops,—three thousand picked soldiers,
all veterans. The whole Carrousel was filled by a dense crowd who shouted
wildly, “Long live the First Consul; long live Bonaparte!” Everywhere on the
way people were saying, “How young he is! What a fine head! What a fine face !
The Emperor of Germany gave him those white horses, and he gave him his sabre too. Do you see Josephine? She has brought him good
luck.”
Patriotic joy shone on every face. The people, the
workmen, the poorer classes, were contented. All the social classes, indeed,
were united in one common thought. Windows were bought at high prices from
which to view this grand spectacle, this review, which would become a matter of
history. What pretty women! what rich dresses! Napoleon was not sincere when he
told Bourrienne in the morning that he did not care
for this pomp and show. His entrance into the Tuileries would be one of the
finest days of his life, full as it was of triumphs. There was a keen joy in
hearing the shouts of the populace mingling with those of the troops, and real
intoxication in all this military display, in the blare of the trumpets, and
the roar of the drums. Starting from nothing, to be everything, what a dream !
and to get to the topmost pinnacle at thirty years of age, what a wonder it is!
The Consular Guard formed a line on both sides from
the entrance into the Carrousel to the door of the Tuileries. There was a
certain contrast between this imitation of royalty and the inscription which
still stood there, on the guard-house to the right of the middle grating:
“August 10, 1792, Royalty was abolished in France, never to reappear.” As they
looked at this inscription, many of the soldiers broke out into denunciation of
royalty, with no notion that at this moment they were bringing it back. When
they had got into the Tuileries, the troops drew up in order of battle. The
Consuls’ carriage passed the gateway and stopped. Bonaparte got out quickly and
vaulted on the horse which was brought up for him, while Cambacérès and Lebrun
made their way slowly to the reception rooms.
He was now in his element, and had become really
himself in the presence of the troops, of the men to whom he owed everything.
For if he had entered the Tuileries, it was the soldiers who had led him there;
and he acknowledged himself their debtor, for it was through them that he had
become allpowerful. Hence he ’was glad to find
himself among his companions in arms, those brave men whose sunburnt faces
recalled many victories. He was happy to see the old bullet-riddled flags,
black with powder, and in rags, which were real treasures, holy talismans. Was
there one of the three thousand soldiers there who would not have given his
life to defend these glorious insignia? The marching past began, and Bonaparte
took his place before the Pavilion of the Clock, with Murat at his right and
Lannes at his left. The 43d half-brigade advanced, and the color-bearer saluted
the First Consul with the flag which was a mere staff with a few shreds of
bunting full of bullet-holes. Bonaparte regarded it with respect and emotion,
taking off his hat and returning the salute. The flags of the 30th and 96th
were in the same state. When they passed, Bonaparte saluted them too, and his
emotion appeared to increase. All this time his mother was weeping with joy.
When the review was over, the First Consul descended
from his horse, entered the Pavilion of the Clock, and ascended briskly the
staircase of the king’s palace. The next day there was to be read in the Moniteur: “30 Pluviose, Year VIII. The Government
installed itself in its Palace today; the Councillors and Secretaries of State, the Secretary General, the Ministers and the Consuls,
all in full dress, drove to the Tuileries, preceded by a band, and accompanied
by the staff of the 17th Division. The First Consul, alighting from his
carriage, mounted his horse, and passed by the lines of the different bodies of
troops drawn up in the courtyard. Later, in one of the halls, of the Palace,
the Minister of the Interior presented to the Consuls the members of the
governing boards of Paris. This ceremony was accomplished with perfect order.
The public testified its satisfaction by warm applause : hope and joy shone on
every face.”
Bonaparte then installed himself in the chamber of
Louis XIV, the Sunlike King; Josephine had the room of Marie Antoinette. Who, a
few years earlier, could have foreseen so strange a thing? When the future
conqueror of Arcola, obscure in, lost in the crowd, looked in anger at the invading
rabble of the 20th of June and the 10th of August, could he have thought that
he would so soon take the place at the Tuileries of the sovereign whose
humiliations so moved him?
The next morning, on entering Bonaparte’s room, Bourrienne said to him: “Well, general, here you are at
last, without difficulty, with the applause of the people. Do you remember what
you said to me two years ago in the rue Sainte Anne? ‘I could make myself king,
but it’s not yet time.” “Yes, that is true; but do you know we have done a good
many things since then? On the whole, I am perfectly satisfied; yesterday went
off very well. Do you think that all those people who came to toady me are
sincere? Of course not; but the joy of the people was genuine. The people are
right. And then, you can consult the real thermometer of public opinion. Look
at the stocks. So I can let the Jacobins grumble; but they mustn’t grumble too
loud.”
Then the First Consul dressed and went to stroll in
the Gallery of Diana. He looked at the busts which had been placed there by his
orders,—Demosthenes, Alexander, Hannibal, Scipio, Brutus, Cicero, Cato, Caesar,
Gustavus Adolphus, Turenne, Condé, Duguay-Trouin,
Marlborough, Prince Eugene, Marshal Saxe, Washington, Frederick the Great, Mirabeau,
and four generals of the Republic who had been killed in battle, Dugommier, Dampierre, Marceau,
and Joubert. Then he passed through the halls, which were full of memories of
the youth of Louis XIV, of the childhood of Louis XV, of the agonies of the
martyred king and queen, of the bloody rule of Robespierre. In the Pavilion of
Flora is the room where the terrible Committee of Public Safety used to sit. At
the other end of the Gallery of Diana is the Council Hall of the Ministry,
where were held all the important meetings during the minority of Louis XV, and
in the last hours of the monarchy. There is the bed-chamber, a showy room,
where the Sunlike King used to appear in such majesty, and where the Imperial
throne was soon to be raised. It was in the next room that, on the 20th of
June, the rioters put the red cap on the head of Louis XVI. After that is the
large room, which under the king used to be called the Hall of the Hundred
Swiss, where, at the time of the Convention, Robespierre appeared in triumph at
the festival of the Supreme Being. In the future this is to be the Hall of the
Marshals. As he passed these rooms, Bonaparte, who was deeply impressed, said
to Bourrienne: “Getting into the Tuileries isn’t
everything: the thing is to stay here. Who is there who hasn’t lived in the
palace? Thieves, and members of the National Convention. Do you see? There’s your
brother’s house. It’s from there that I saw them besiege the Tuileries, and
carry the good Louis XVI away. But don’t be uneasy. Let them try it.”
The same day Bonaparte had the Liberty Trees, which
had been planted in the courtyard of the Tuileries, cut down. Liberty was
itself disappearing, and nothing really takes its place, not even glory.
III. THE TUILERIES AT THE BEGINNING OF THE CONSULATE.
THE First Consul installed himself at the Tuileries,
on the first floor in that part which, in the time of Louis XIV, had been
called His Majesty’s winter apartment. The windows looked upon the garden. The
working-room was of moderate size and lit by but one window. This room, by the
side of which there was a closet full of maps, opened into a large bedroom,
containing a gorgeous bed, which was not that of Louis XVI. “I must not forget
to say,” Bourrienne tells us, “that the First Consul
slept there very seldom; for he troubled himself very
little about his quarters, and concerned himself about external luxury only out
of calculation, regarding it as a means of impressing people. To speak plainly,
Bonaparte, at the Luxembourg, at Malmaison, and during the first part of his
stay at the Tuileries, occupied the same room with his wife.” Every evening he
went down a little staircase to Josephine’s apartment below, on the ground
floor. She had taken the apartment of Marie Antoinette, and had fitted it up
very simply. By the side of her dressing-room were the rooms of her daughter
Hortense, consisting of a bed-chamber and a little sitting-room.
As yet there was no thought of appointing chamberlains,
equerries, and ladies-in-waiting. Public opinion was not prepared for them, and
nothing more was demanded than could be performed by Statecounsellor Bénezech, who was a sort of master of ceremonies in
charge of the domestic administration of the palace, and in fact really managed
the court. On the occasion of the First Consul’s solemn entry into the
Tuileries, Josephine had modestly stationed herself at a window of the Pavilion
of Flora, but a few days later, the 2d Ventose, when her husband was receiving
the ambassadors of Spain and Rome, the ministers of Prussia, Denmark, Sweden,
Baden, and Hesse-Cassel, and the ambassadors of the Cisalpine, Batavian, Swiss,
and Ligurian Republics, she had all the diplomats presented to her, and held a
levee very much like a queen. It was B6nezech who made the presentations.
This return to the old ways did not fail to displease
those who still nourished republican sentiments. Thibaudeau, the author of “Memoirs
on the Consulate,” says about this: “So high was the respect for the civil
magistracies, and so strong the hostility to court etiquette, that the
Counsellors of State were scandalized at seeing a former Minister of the
Interior, one of their colleagues, with an usher’s rod in his hand, playing the
part of master of ceremonies, and even of head butler of the First Consul.
There were as yet no titled servants, called chamberlains; the aides-de-camp
took charge of what would have been their duties, but that had too much the air
of the camp. It was clear that the Tuileries required a regular court and fixed
etiquette, just as a temple requires priests and service. A court in process of
formation was a new sight for most of the spectators as well as for the courtiers
themselves.”
At first it was not very easy to make up the society
of the Tuileries. The “Memorial of Saint Helena” describes the First Consul’s
difficulties. Since he had spent the last few years in the army, he knew very
few people, and he was continually obliged to consult Consul Lebrun about men
and things. The Republicans, and especially the generals, would have been
horrified if he had received people who belonged to the old regime, royalists, émigrés.
All these did not begin at once to mount the grand staircase of the Tuileries,
familiar as they grew with it later. Under the pretence of discriminating between the wife and the husband, they began by appearing
only on the ground floor, in Josephine’s apartments, visiting her in the
morning. The bankers and business men who set the tone under the Directory,
were anxious to gather about Bonaparte; but the First Consul, who disliked
doubtful characters, repelled their advances with some severity. Their wives
were pretty, amiable, and charming, but could not fascinate him, and he told
Josephine not to admit them to the Tuileries. It was he who said in regard to
the contractors and speculators who were very influential at the Luxembourg in
the time of Barras: “ One of the ways in which I most furthered the reaction of
society towards the condition and habits of the past was by driving all this
false brilliancy back into the crowd; I never wanted to raise one of these men
to honor, for of all forms of aristocracy that seemed to me the worst.”
Since the nobility and the bankers were thus excluded,
the First Consul could at first have no other society than that of officials,
civil and military, and their wives. “At first,” he says in his “Memorial of
Saint Helena,” “everything for a while was like a magic-lantern, very mixed and
forever changing. The combination soon acquired a color, a tone of its own, and
was by no means without its good side. At Moscow, the Viceroy (Prince Eugene)
found some letters of the Princess Dolgorouki, who
had been in Paris at that time. She spoke very well of the Tuileries; she said
it was not exactly a Court, but that on the other hand it was not a camp; that
the etiquette and the ways were quite new; that the First Consul did not carry
his hat under his arm, or wear a rapier, to be sure, but that he was not a
rough soldier.” The ladies who attended these receptions were, for the most
part, young, timid, and without experience of the world; but Madame Bonaparte
set them at their ease by her amiable grace and kindness, and the young women who
at first were intimidated by the growing etiquette of a palace, and especially
by the rank and glory of the First Consul, gradually acquired familiarity with
the customs of good society, and were wise enough to take Josephine for a
model. At that time Madame Bonaparte used to give breakfasts from which men
were rigorously excluded.
“ In my opinion,” said the Duchess of Abrantès, “it
was a delightful custom, that of inviting to such entertainments women who were
still too timid to be agreeable in a drawing-room in the presence of men so
much their superiors as to alarm them. By talking at these informal breakfasts
about the fashions, the new plays, the little commonplaces of society, the
young women acquired courage, and ceased to be mere wallflowers in the
drawing-room of the First Consul, when he sought distraction there. Madame
Bonaparte did the honors of the breakfast with charming grace. Generally there
were about half-a-dozen of us, and all, with the exception of our hostess, of
about the same age.”
Let us once more consult the Duchess of Abrantès,
whose graceful, womanly Memoirs, and “History of the Paris Drawing-rooms,” with
its curious and amusing details, give a most vivid and attractive picture of
this period. In the chapter called “Madame Bonaparte’s Drawing-room,” she
describes all the women who were intimately allied with Josephine in 1800 and
1801. There was Madame de La Rochefoucauld, a little hunchback, a very kind woman,
although witty,” who was related to the family of Beauharnais; then Madame de
La Valette, “sweet, good, always pretty, in spite of the smallpox, and of the
many who found her too handsome notwithstanding her misfortune.” And Madame de Lameth, “round as a ball and bearded,—two unattractive
things in a woman, but good and witty,—two very attractive qualities”; then
Madame de Lauriston, “kind to every one and generally
popular”; Madame de Rémusat, “a superior woman and very charming to those who
understood her”; Madame de Talhonet, “who remembered
too well that she had been pretty, and forgot that she was so no longer”; and
Madame d’Harville, “systematically impolite, and only
polite by accident.”
The intimate friends of Madame Bonaparte used to meet
in the drawing-room on the ground floor, and the official visitors used to
appear on the first flight, in the grand reception rooms. But there were many
different types, curious combinations, and striking contrasts even in the
society downstairs. All opinions met there. An émigré just a few days
returned would sit by the side of a former member of the Convention, who a few
years earlier had condemned him to death; a Republican general would elbow a
member of the Vendean army; but, by her exquisite tact, Josephine was able to
enforce, if not peace, at least a truce between men whose antecedents seemed to
make them irreconcilable enemies, and from the beginning of the Consulate she
worked more energetically than any one to bring about
the reconciliation and fusion which her husband desired.
The great receptions of the first floor were called
mobs by those who had admission to the ground floor. Every decade, or week of
ten days, there was served, in the Gallery of Diana, a dinner of two hundred
plates. The senators and the generals were received on the second day of the
decade; the members of the Legislature, on the fourth day; the Tribunes and the
members of the Court of Appeal, on the sixth day.
The question of a consulate for life, or of making the
position hereditary, had not yet arisen. The First Consul, who was not called
the President of the Republic, was, according to the constitution, merely a
temporary magistrate, whose powers were limited to a period of ten years, and
who shared the government with two colleagues, called, like him, consuls. But
if we examine the state of affairs, what is Cambacérès, what is Lebrun, in
comparison with the sun of which they are the satellites? In all the receptions
and important functions Bonaparte is the only one who is looked at; everywhere
and always, as the poet said later. Anyone who wishes to get an idea of this
man’s ascendancy has only to consider what took place every fifth day at noon
in the courtyard. It was the favorite spectacle of the Parisians, and the
great attraction for the provincials and foreigners who happened to be in
Paris. In France nothing produces so strong an impression as the sight of the
warriors who flatter its national pride and its warlike instincts. At the sight
of such soldiers the whole people grew enthusiastic, and felt themselves
capable of unheard-of prodigies. It seemed as if they could defy all Europe,
and they were tempted to cry out, like their ancestors, the Gauls, “ There is
only one thing I fear: that the heavens will fall.” They said to themselves,
“We are a great nation.”
All the regiments came in turn to Paris to take part
in the reviews on every fifth day of the decade before the First Consul. They
dazzled the capital, and the capital dazzled them. Parisians and soldiers got
on very well together, and after the review retained very pleasant memories of
each other. Thibaudeau shows us Bonaparte, one moment on foot, the next on
horseback, going through the ranks to make acquaintance with the officers and
soldiers, and to let them learn to know him, interesting himself in the
pettiest details of their equipment, their armament, and drill, busying
himself indefatigably with everything that concerned the welfare of his troops,
welcoming his former companions in Italy, and addressing them with some
flattering speech that drove them wild with enthusiasm. “ It was interesting to
see,” says Madame de Rémusat, “ how well he understood how to talk with the
soldiers, how he would ask one soldier after another about his campaigns or his
wounds ... I have heard Madame Bonaparte say that he was accustomed to study
every evening, when he was going to bed, the army lists. He would sleep on the
names of the corps, and on those of some of the men who composed the corps,
retaining them in a corner of his memory; and in this way he had the wonderful
gift of recognizing the soldiers and of giving them the pleasure of being
picked out by their commander. In talking with the men he assumed a tone of
good-fellowship which delighted them; he addressed each one with thou, and
recalled the feats of arms they had performed together.”
This was the time when, preserving some of the
republican familiarity, he wrote to the non-commissioned officer, Sergeant Léon
Aune of the Grenadiers, the following letter: “I have received your letter, my
dear comrade; you don’t need to tell me what you have done; I know very well
you are one of the bravest grenadiers in the army since the death of Bénezeth.
You received one of the hundred sabres of honor which
I had distributed. All the soldiers of your corps agreed that you were the one
who deserved it most. I am very anxious to see you again. The Minister of War
sends you an order to come to Paris.” Never, except perhaps among the members
of Caesar’s legions, has there been seen such a fanatical love of military
life. Second lieutenants would not have given up their epaulettes for millions.
Every officer, every soldier, was proud of his uniform, of his regiment, of his
colors. No one has ever understood better than Bonaparte how to impress the
imagination of the soldier. He controlled him with a word, with a glance, and
appeared to him like a supernatural being, like a demi-god. Even after his
defeats he preserved his authority; what must it have been when his comrades
who had always seen him victorious thought him always invincible? Each one of
the fifth day reviews was a new apotheosis for him. “ If it happened to rain,
or if the day was cloudy,” says Thibaudeau, an eye-witness, “it often happened
that at the moment Bonaparte appeared the rain stopped, the clouds broke, and
the sun shone out. The multitude, always greedy of miracles, and the courtiers,
always profuse in flattery, used to cry out, ‘ The First Consul controls the
elements!’. ”
The wife of General Junot, afterwards the Duchess of
Abrantes, describes one of these reviews which greatly delighted her. A little
before noon, Josephine, her daughter, Hortense de Beauharnais, her
sisters-in-law, a number of pretty women, of officials, of distinguished
strangers; appeared at the palace windows. After the parade, sixteen
magnificent horses, the gift of the King of Spain, were to be presented to the
First Consul. The officers walked up and down among the soldiers,
speaking to them from time to time, in a low voice, to correct a faulty
position or some trifle in their dress. Everyone was most zealous, for the
First Consul must be satisfied. The trumpets sounded, the drums beat, and Bonaparte
appeared on his white horse, Désiré. His soldiers gazed at him with an
expression which seemed to say, “Yes, we will die that France may be great, and
its name the first in the world. Whither shall we go? We are ready.” He stopped
beneath the window at which Madame Junot happened to be with some ladies, and
turning to a young drummer who seemed to be about sixteen or seventeen years
old, he said, “So, my boy, it was you who beat the charge at Zurich with a
bullet through your right arm?” The little drummer blushed, and answered, “Yes,
General.” “And it’s you, too, who showed great presence of mind at Weser?” The
boy blushed more deeply, and answered in a lower voice, “Yes, General.” “Well,
I ought to pay the country’s debt. You shall receive, not a drumstick of honor,
but a sabre of honor. I appoint you a
non-commissioned officer in the Consular Guard. Go on as well as you have
begun, and I shall take care of you.” Then the First Consul, with a pleasant
smile, touched his hat to the ladies, who had been listening to him. The little
drummer was as pale as death with emotion, but his face is eloquent. He may have
grown pale before Bonaparte, but he would not turn pale before the enemy.
IV.PARISIAN SOCIETY IN THE YEAR 1800.
PARIS, in 1800, knew only two passions,—glory and
pleasure. The once magic word, liberty, was now scarcely ever on men’s lips,
except as a matter of habit. The great city, always fickle in its tastes and
emotions, was now thoroughly weary of politics, of parliamentary disputes, of
clubs, newspapers, and outbreaks, and had become totally indifferent to all
these things which a short time previous used to arouse it to fury. It scarcely
remembered that it had been tom by a revolution. Edgar Quinet has described
most admirably the state of feeling at the beginning of the Consulate, and he
is borne out by all the contemporary authorities. “When men,” he says, “after a
heroic effort, are tired of the duties of freedom, and suddenly abandon the
control of themselves, they experience a singular sensation of relief. There
are many instances of this in antiquity. After centuries of civil war, the
Romans felt a profound peace, a happy satisfaction, in laying their conscience
in the hands of a master. The French felt something of the sort after the
events of the 18th Brumaire, which relieved them of the care of their own
destinies. Doubtless this period is, except for the lack of dignity, one of the
happiest in the memory of man.” People began to say that, after all, the
guillotine was not ornamental in a public square, and that a well-dressed,
well-drilled regiment was far superior to a rabble of men with pikes; that, as
its name implies, the Reign of Terror is the most disagreeable and alarming of
systems of government; that Paris will never be a really austere city; that a
good dinner is better than the black broth of Sparta; that a pretty woman who
chats is far preferable to a speech-making tribune; people began to see some
merit in the good old times; they acknowledged that social entertainments, life
in the drawing-room, in the castles, that courtesy, gallantry, French gayety,
songs, theatres, balls, and all the amusements which for centuries had been the
joy and pride of the great capital were, after all, really indispensable. The
reaction was as marked as the Revolution had been; and it was just because
Madame Bonaparte was a woman of the old regime that she so well pleased
Parisian society, which asked nothing better than to go back to the customs and
pleasures of the past.
The official world set the fashion of festivity, and
the winter was tolerably gay. Especially successful were the balls of Lucien
Bonaparte, who occupied the sumptuous Brissac mansion, as Minister of the Interior. He was then in love with the fashionable
beauty, Madame Récamier, the most charming woman in Paris. Since her first name
was Juliette, he expressed his devotion under the pseudonym of Romeo: “Romeo
writes to you, Juliette; if you should refuse to read him, you would be more
cruel than our relatives, who have just become reconciled ... O Juliette! life
without love is only a long sleep. The loveliest of women ought to be
tender-hearted. Happy the man who shall become the friend of your heart!” It
seems that Madame Récamier did not let herself be moved by Lucien, although she
was much flattered by his attentions. Her husband, moreover, advised her to be
gentle with the brother of the First Consul. So Madame Récamier was one of the
principal ornaments of the balls given by the Minister of the Interior. The
author of the delightful book, “Recollections of Madame Récamier,” tells us
that she produced a very great effect at a dinner, followed by a concert, which
Lucien gave to his brother, General Bonaparte. “She was dressed in white satin,
and wore a necklace and bracelets of pearls, as if she took a certain
satisfaction in covering herself with things conspicuous for their whiteness,
in order to efface them by the beauty of her complexion.” Fouche, the member of
the Convention, afterwards the Duke of Otranto, came behind the chair in which
she sat, and said to her in a low tone, “ The First Consul finds you charming.”
At that moment Napoleon was holding the hand of one of
Lucien’s daughters, a little girl of not more than four, and in talking he
thought no more about the child, who grew tired of her captivity and began to
cry. “Oh! you poor little thing,” said the First Consul, with genuine pity; “I
had forgotten you.” Lucien had gone up to Madame Récamier, and Napoleon, who
knew all about his brother’s devotion, said quite loud, “I should like to go to
Clichy myself.” (Clichy was where Madame Recamier lived.) Dinner was announced,
and Napoleon went in first without offering his arm to any one of the ladies.
He placed his mother on his right, and the place on his left remained empty, no
one daring to take it. Then he turned towards the guests who were still
standing, and said suddenly to Garat, the singer, “Well, Garat, sit down here.”
At the same moment Cambacérès took the place next to Madame Récamier, and Napoleon
called out, “Ah, citizen Consul, next to the handsomest woman!” After dinner he
asked Madame Récamier, “Why didn’t you sit next to me? ” “I should not have
dared,” she replied. He answered, “It was your place.”
Madame Méchin, Madame Régnault de Saint-Jean-d’Angély,
and Madame Visconti shone, even by the side of Madame Récamier, at the balls of
the Minister of the Interior. The First Consul’s three sisters were like
princesses on those occasions. Josephine, in her seat at the end of the
gallery, already assumed the bearing of a sovereign. The women all rose when
she entered the ball-room and when she left. Besides the entertainments of
official society, there were those of the great bankers, Messrs. Perregaux, Seguin, Hainguerlot, Récamier,
who renewed the traditions of the farmers-general. The Faubourg Saint Germain
was not yet reconstituted, and the aristocracy gave no entertainments, but they
amused themselves nevertheless; there were Garat’s concerts, the theatre,
dinners, Tivoli, Frascati, and the Hanoverian Pavilion. All classes of society
were eager for pleasure, and dancing was especially the rage. “Next to money,”
says a contemporary pamphlet, “the dance has become the idol of the Parisians.
With small and great, with rich and poor, it has become a universal passion.
There is dancing at the Carmes, where the crowds are enormous; at the Jesuits’
College; at the Seminary of Saint Sulpice; at the Filles Sainte Marie; in three
or four churches; at Ruggieri’s, Lucquet’s, Manduit’s, Wentzel’s; at the Thelusson mansion.”
The reopening of the Opera balls was the great
attraction of the Carnival in 1800. For ten years the Parisians had been
deprived of this favorite pleasure. In a period of furious hatred and of
general slaughter, a masked ball would have been an impossibility. Under the
rule of Robespierre the spies would not have respected the secrecy and security
of a mask. The knife of the guillotine would have been the punishment of a
witticism. And after the Terror, men were still so excited that those who wore
a mask would have been exposed to the bitterest recriminations and the most
violent abuse. Bonaparte, who was dreaming of the triumph of a policy of
conciliation and fusion, thought that under his government the Opera balls had
become once more possible, and would even further the work of appeasement which
was part of his plan. He was not mistaken: the reopening of the Opera balls
seemed to him an event of real social importance. Hence it was that he had two
long articles, which to-day are a real historical curiosity, inserted on the
first page of the Moniteur Univer sei, in the
numbers of the 8th and 9th of Ventose, year VIII. (February 26 and 27, 1800).
“The Opera House is open,” it is stated in the first of these articles, “it is
crowded; people arrive in dense crowds; five or six thousand persons are massed
in a space too small to hold them. Thousands of different disguises, thousands
of elegant, odd, or amusing costumes, call forth jests and merry-making; satire
has free scope, and nothing is heard but laughter; all faces are lit with joy
and confidence; a leader of the riding-school, without a mask, elbows a
returned exile.” The official sheet, which saw in this ball a sign that the
various parties were laying down their arms, adds with keen satisfaction: “ It
is a curious and touching picture, less interesting for the times it recalls
than for those it foretells. It shows that the revolutionary leaven has ceased
to ferment; that Frenchmen, tired of hatred and fear, now only care to join
hands and forgive one another.”
Enthusiastic over these happy results, the Moniteur thus apostrophized the foes of the new
regime : “Pupils of Chaumette and Marat, go and count
the receipts at the opera; consider that the twenty-five or thirty thousand
francs, paid in at the door, will carry comfort and happiness in a hundred
families of actors or workmen connected with this theatre; calculate how much
the shop-keepers of Paris have made out of those expensive costumes, those
disguises hired for large sums (it is estimated that dominoes were let for
twenty-five, thirty-six, and as much as forty-eight francs), out of the
carriages which were insufficient in number to accommodate those who sought
them.” Of course the Moniteur took pains to
give Bonaparte credit for all this: “When some of the persons of the First
Consul’s family were seen at this entertainment, it was supposed that he had
himself come to look from a grated box upon the scene, which might well have
given him the sensation of noble vanity. Everyone who thought that he saw him
would have had a chance to say, ‘Nobis haec otia fecit.” The other article,
of the 9th of Ventose, expressed the same satisfaction, although there are some
reserves in regard to the unfamiliarity of some Parisians with masked balls: “These
scenes of coquetry have their rules which ought to be known, and a language of
their own, which ought to be every one’s possession, but it must be said that
among the Parisians of the present day, some have never known the manners of a
masquerade, and others have forgotten them. A mask, moreover, implies a role;
a role presupposes an actor, and not everyone is an actor, and consequently
among the crowd of maskers man seemed to have forgotten their names and their
characters. We saw a good many undignified Spaniards, ungraceful dancing-girls,
commonplace Orientals; we saw discreet nuns, silent lawyers, solemn clowns, and
statue-like Harlequins.” The Moniteur consoled itself
with the hope of speedy improvement: “This is a misfortune,” it says; “but
confiding in the native intelligence of the happy Parisians, we feel sure that
they will soon find once more the talents required by these new sports: there
is no occasion for uneasiness.”
Women of the highest society went in great numbers to
the Opera balls. They wore masks and dominoes, and amused themselves with the
men of their acquaintance, who went in dress suits, without masks. Madame Réamier, who was very timid when her face was visible,
became lively and sportive behind a domino. Madame de Stael, on the other hand,
as soon as she was masked, lost her usual high spirits and eloquence. In Paris,
nothing was talked about but the Opera balls which delighted every one. The young were delighted to see an entertainment
which they had so often heard warmly spoken of, while their elders hoped in the
lamplight to go back ten years, and liked to fancy that the horrors of the
Revolution were only a bad dream which vanished at the sound of the joyous
music.
While Paris was thus happy in feeling itself still
frivolous, and was trying to make up for time lost in the way of distractions
and pleasures, the émigrés who were compelled to conceal themselves
under false names, began to make their way back to the city where so many
different things had happened since their departure. It was a great joy to them
to see once more their native soil; but there was much sadness mingled with it.
Chateaubriand has described his return. It was one Sunday, at about three in
the afternoon, that the future author of the “Genius of Christianity” entered
Paris on foot by the gate of the Etoile, after an absence of eight years. Poor
and obscure, no one recognized him. “We have now no idea,” he says, “ of the
impression that the excesses of the Revolution made upon the minds of men
throughout Europe, and especially upon those away from France during the
Terror. It seemed to me as if I were actually about to descend into hell.” To
his great surprise, he heard violins, horns, clarionets,
and drums. As he passed down the Champs Elysées, he
saw little halls where men and women were dancing. The Place Louis XV seemed
to him an accursed spot: “It was dilapidated, as melancholy and deserted as an
old amphitheatre.” Before the place where stood the
scaffold of Louis XVI he was overcome by profound emotion. “ I was afraid,” he
says, “ of stepping in the blood of which no trace was left. I imagined that
I saw my brother and my sister-in-law, with their hands bound, near the bloody
instrument. In spite of the merriment of the streets, the church-towers
were dumb; I seemed to have got back on some day of great solemnity, like Good
Friday.”
In her Memoirs, Madame de Genlis has also well described her return, her emotion when she crossed the frontier
and entered into France, when she heard the people speaking French, when she
drew near Paris and made out from a distance the towers of Notre Dame, when she
found how the city had changed during her absence. Everything seemed novel; she
was like a foreigner whose curiosity stops her at every step. The names of the
streets were changed. Cabs passed her which she recognized as confiscated
carriages of her friends. She entered a little secondhand shop where were some
twenty portraits. “I recognized them all, and my eyes filled with tears as I
thought that three-quarters of the nobles they represented had been
guillotined, and that the others, robbed of every penny and exiled, were
perhaps still wandering in foreign lands.”
What consoled Madame de Genlis for so many sorrows was the military glory of France. “I was glad to meet the
son of one of my gamekeepers, now a captain, who had served in our successful
armies with great distinction. His fine bearing and his martial air reminded
me of what La Rochefoucauld had said: ‘Vulgarity is never lost at court; it
always is in the army”. The émigrés who returned soon grew accustomed to
the new regime. They used to talk calmly with the murderers of their relatives.
Jacobins and the men of Coblenz used to meet every day in the theatres, in the
promenades, and a sort of calm succeeded the paroxysm of wrath and hatred.
V.THE TWO NATIONAL FESTIVALS.
THE consular government was very strong in 1800, and
yet it could not have survived a defeat; the baptism of victory was
absolutely necessary to its existence. If the First Consul had been beaten at
Marengo, all the recent framework of his power and glory would have fallen like
a house of cards. He was well aware of this, and before he started for the
second Italian campaign he said that he was staking everything for everything.
In spite of an apparent truce the parties had not disarmed, and they awaited
with impatience the course of events on the other side of the Alps. Royalists,
Jacobins, bankers, speculators, wondered most anxiously what would be the
result of Bonaparte’s new challenge to fortune. His political foes pictured him
already beaten, overthrown, perhaps slain, and formed a thousand plans, as if
the succession were already open. All this agitation was of brief duration.
Bonaparte left Paris May 6, 1800; he returned July 2. In less than two months
he had accomplished great things.
As was usual with him, the conqueror had the gift of
setting his victories before the public. Everything was arranged for arousing
the Parisians, the modern Athenians, for impressing their imagination. General
de Ségur puts it thus: “We are all young, soldiers and generals. A third of our
number were fresh recruits. The oldest had had but eight years’ experience. A
threefold spring,—that of the year, of our life, of glory,—the rivalry within
us and about us, inspired us.” This imitation of Hannibal, the crossing of the
Alps, a bold undertaking, an army defiling man by man, one by one, by the
goat-paths, over the eternal snows; the artillery taken to pieces; the cannon
dragged by ropes; every soldier, every horse, in danger of death at the least
misstep; the Saint Bernard, with its monks and dogs; the avalanches, the
precipices ; the sudden entrance into the plains of Italy; the day of Marengo,
so hotly contested; the heroic and touching death of the brave Desaix; Italy
won back in a campaign of a few days,—this new heroic history worthy of
antiquity was the general subject of conversation, and aroused every one’s
enthusiasm. Never, at any period of his life, was Napoleon so popular, and yet
he was not sated with his glory. On his way to Paris, through Burgundy, he said
to Bourrienne, “Well, a few grand deeds like this
campaign, and I may be known to posterity.” “ It seems to me,” was the answer,
“ that you have already done enough to be talked about everywhere for some
time.” “Done enough!” said the hero of Marengo; “You are very kind! To be sure,
in less than two years I have conquered Cairo, Paris, and Milan; well, my dear
fellow, if I were to die tomorrow, after ten centuries I shouldn’t fill half a
page in a universal history.”
Bonaparte passed through France amid ovations. At
Dijon he was congratulated by a company of young women wearing flowers in their
hair, who resembled the groups of women who, in the days of ancient Greece,
used to dance about the victor in the Olympic games. At Sens he passed beneath
a triumphant arch on which was inscribed the three historic words, “ Veni, vidi, vici.” When he re-entered Paris, in the night of July
2, the enthusiasm was indescribable. All, rich and poor, rejoiced, and the next
day a vast crowd gathered in the Tuileries gardens. Every
one wanted to see the conquering hero. When the chief officials of the
state came to congratulate him, he said to them: “Well, have you done much work
while I was away?” And they answered, “ Not so much as you, General.” In the
evening the whole city was illuminated, and without orders; every window, even
to the garrets, showed a light. Twenty years later, at Saint Helena, Napoleon
spoke of this day as one of the proudest and happiest of his life. He was
delighted to see Josephine again; not a cloud had at that time arisen between
them, and their union was a real model of reciprocal affection. The hero of
Marengo felt that this woman, whom he dearly loved, was his good angel. “Bourrienne,” he said to his secretary, “do you hear the
hurrahs of the populace which have not stopped yet? It is as sweet to me as the
sound of Josephine’s voice.” As La Bruyère puts it: “The sweetest sound in
nature is that of the voice of the woman we love.”
Bonaparte’s ambition had never been more satisfied,
and never had the national pride of France been more flattered. “Military
glory,” to quote from Miot de Mélito, “was not yet a
burden to the citizens, because the soldiers and officers came from all ranks
of society without distinction, and returned to them without disturbance. The
army belonged to the country, and its victories, in appearance at least,
profited the country alone: it had not yet become the property of the Head of
the State. What, then, was needed to assure this prosperity? What was lacking
to give Europe the example of a great nation, regenerated, in the enjoyment of
freedom without license, triumphant under skilful leaders, and yet not their slave? A Washington.” And he adds sadly, “The man on
whom our destinies depended professed to carry us back into the old paths; and
unfortunately for him as for us, he was only too ingenious, and too much aided
in this undertaking.”
In 1800 Bonaparte, apparently at least, was still a
Republican. Twelve days after his return to Paris occurred the national
festival of July 14, the anniversary of the taking of the Bastille and of the
Federation. This festival, one of the finest which had ever been seen in Paris,
still preserved its democratic and military character. The people and the army
joined hands. The Consular Guard, which had left Milan June 22, had been
ordered to get to Paris in the morning of July 14. At Geneva it was invited by
the authorities to a great banquet; and each officer found a laurel wreath
under his napkin, with a poem by Madame de Stael, who did the honors. The
Guard, to which had been entrusted the care of bringing the. Austrian flags
captured at Marengo, was exact at the rendezvous appointed by the First Consul.
At ten o’clock in the morning of July 14, it was in the courtyard of the
Tuileries, whence it departed for the Invalides, and then for the Champ de
Mars. Prince Eugene, who belonged to it, says in his Memoirs, “ The members of
the Guard who had been left on duty in Paris presented a striking contrast,
with their neat and smart appearance, to the troops just back from Italy, who
were all gaunt, worn, and covered with dust. This contrast only redoubled the
enthusiasm and respect of the Parisians, which the mere presence of the
soldiers had evoked. It was one of the proudest moments of my life.” Josephine
was very happy to see her son taking part in such a triumph.The celebration was held at the Invalides, the chapel of which was called the
Temple of Mars. Lucien Bonaparte, as Minister of the Interior, made a speech,
full of republican sentiment. Doubtless he remembered that at Saint Cloud on
the 19th Brumaire he had sworn to kill his brother with his sword if he should
ever lay a hand upon the liberties of France. He uttered a warm eulogy of the
Revolution, and spoke of the capture of the Bastille: “The Bastille is taken, O
France! Republic, cemented by the blood of heroes and martyrs, may Liberty,
more precious for what it has cost us, and Peace, healer of every evil, be
forever thy preserving deities!” By a singular association of ideas, the
brother of the First Consul combined the 14th of July and the 18th of Brumaire.
“The 18th Brumaire completed the work of July 14. All that the earlier day
destroyed shall never be renewed; all that the later has built up is never to
be destroyed... Frenchmen, let us bear with pride the name of the great people
; let this name be an object of universal love and admiration, so that in the
remotest ages the heroes of the 14th of July, the defenders and supporters of
the Empire, may be held up to the respect of our descendants, and so that the
Republic founded by their efforts may be as eternal as their glory.”
The word Empire is, perhaps, a little startling in
this passage. It sounds like a prophecy, but it must be remembered that in 1800
it was regarded as synonymous with state. The celebrated song, “Let us guard
the Welfare of the Empire,” was written by Republicans in the days of the
Republic. It was a national hymn.
When Lucien had finished, three bands played
simultaneously the “Song of the 25th Messidor”
(July 14), the words by Citizen Fontanes, the music by
Citizen . M4hul. It was the first time that the experiment had been tried of a
concert by three bands at some distance from one another. The solos and
choruses produced a great effect.
O glorious destiny!
Applaud, people of France!
Soon, crowned
with palms,
Victory will establish peace.
The brow of the Alps humbles itself :
We have crossed its ice;
And all the forts of Italy
Open a second time to our soldiers.
Solo.
You die,
brave Desaix, you die! Ah,
can you believe
That the glory of your name expires with you ?
The Arab, in the desert, recounts your glory,
And his children will tell it to their children for
all time.
According to the Moniteur there was great emotion at this moment. All turned towards the monument raised
in his honor, which was topped by his bust, the work of Citizen Dupaty.
Chorus of Warriors.
O Conde, Dugommier, Turenne,
It is you whom I hear, whom I see;
You seek the great captain
Who has outdone all his exploits.
The sons are greater than their sires,
And your hearts are not jealous.
France, after so many sufferings,
Rises again better worthy of you
A great century ends, a great century begins.
Glory, virtues, fine arts, arise with it 1
O God ! see this great people bowed at thy feet.
The conquerors of Europe invoke thy aid.
Old Men.
From infancy and youth
To love work and good morals.
Young Men.
Give peace to the aged.
Young Women.
Grant to all happier days.
General Chorus.
Immortal Being, by thy light
Let France advance henceforth,
And to warlike merit
Add all the virtues of peace.
When the choral was over, the First Consul went into
the courtyard, behind the dome, where he visited the disabled soldiers. The
five whom their companions had picked out as most worthy of national reward,
were presented to him, and he gave them gold medals inscribed with their name,
age, birthplace, and exploits. Then he went to the Champ de Mars, where the
troops were waiting for him under arms. Every bit of high ground was densely
crowded, and all the windows of the Military School were packed with
spectators.
The Minister of War presented to the three Consuls the
officers who carried the captured battle-flags. Every one wanted to get a nearer view of these trophies of the heroes who had deserved so
well of their country, of the victorious general who had accomplished so much.
They left the high ground and rushed into the Champ de Mars in the midst of the
troops. Nothing could oppose them. No orders, no obstacles, stopped this
irresistible throng. Every one shouted, “ Long live the Republic! Long live
Bonaparte! ” “These two names,” said the Moniteur,
“are equally dear to the French. Let the friends of liberty rejoice; so
touching a spectacle was never seen. What a people is this! Happy is he who can
serve it and win its love!” The celebration ended with all sorts of amusements:
foot and horse races, a balloon ascent, illuminations, music and dancing in the
Champs Elysées, fireworks, and a concert. At the
grand dinner, at which Bonaparte was present with the principal officials of
the Republic, were to be seen the disabled soldiers who had that morning
received the medals at the Temple of Mars, and with them two of their comrades,
one aged one hundred and four; the other, one hundred and seven. The First
Consul proposed this toast: “To the 14th of July and the French People, our
sovereign! ”
The celebration of the 1st Vendémiaire, year IX, was
also a Republican festival; it was the anniversary of the foundation of the
Republic; it introduced, however, some monarchical memories. The First Consul
wished to make combination of all forms of glory. The festival of the 1st Vendémiaire,
year IX, was preluded, as it were, by that of the fifth complementary day of
the year VIII. On that day the remains of Turenne, with his sword and the
bullet that killed him, were transported in great pomp to the Temple of Mars
(the Chapel of the Invalides), where Carnot, the Minister of War, made a
speech.
The former member of the Convention spoke in the
highest praise of the great general of Louis XIV. “ On the tomb of Turenne the
old man will every day shed tears of admiration; thither the young man will
come to test his talent for a military life. In our days Turenne would have been the first
to spring into the path which our Republican phalanxes have followed. Words
cannot describe our feelings here. What have I to say of Turenne? There he is
himself. Of his victories? There is the sword which his victorious arm wielded.
Of his death? There is the fatal bullet which tore him from France, from all
humanity.”
In the evening of the same day there were free
performances in the theatres. The First Consul and his wife went to the Français,
where the “ Cid ” and “Tartufe” were given. In the
morning, Turenne; in the evening, Corneille and Molière.
Another reminiscence of Louis XIV: On the 1st Vendémiaire
it was in the Place des Victoires, the spot where
that king’s statue had been placed that Bonaparte laid the corner-stone of the
monument to Kleber and Desaix. In the middle of the square there had been put
up a building like an Egyptian temple with a dome, beneath which stood the
busts of the two heroes. The windows, balconies, even the roofs of the houses,
were crowded with spectators, who burst into frantic applause the moment the
First Consul appeared.
Bonaparte afterwards went to the Invalides, where he
found inscribed in gold letters on marble tablets the names of the men who had
received arms of honor. In the Temple of Mars was given the “Song of the 1st of
Vendémiaire,” with words by Esmenard and music by
Lesueur, a Republican hymn, in which this stanza was noted: —
Liberty, banished from the walls of Romulus
Far from the degraded Tiber, fleeing from tyranny,
Hastens at your voice ;
And on the happy banks which the Seine fertilizes,
It comes to raise again, for the happiness of the
world,
Its altars and its laws.
Lucien Bonaparte, the Minister of the Interior, then
spoke in the Temple of Mars, in honor of the establishment of the Republic.
“Though but just born,” he said, “Republican France, stronger than all thrones,
advances with a giant’s stride, visiting and forming again the old boundaries
of ancient Gaul. The sceptre of Henry IV and of Louis
XIV rolls shattered in the dust: at once the government of the sovereign people
seizes all the sceptres of Charlemagne. So eight
years of our era have filled our annals with more victories and wonders than
eight hundred years of the rule of kings. To our Revolution alone belongs this
gigantic and wonderful character; the evils which afflicted us belong to all.
Happy is the generation which sees a revolution begun under a monarchy ended by
the Republic.” He ended with this lyrical outburst: “It seems to me as if
upright on a broken statue or on the ruined tomb of an old king of France, the
century just ending takes its flight, and says to the beginning century: ‘I
leave you a grand heritage. I have augmented all branches of human knowledge; I
have been called the age of philosophy. I disappeared, and the storms re-enter
with me into the night of time. Preserve peace and liberty; do not disappoint
the hope of sages’ . And then, at the height of his enthusiasm: “The century
that begins will be the grand century. I swear by the people, whose instrument
I am, by the wisdom of the first magistrates, by the union of citizens. The
great destinies of Republican France are accomplished.”
When the orator had ceased, cries of, “Long live the
Republic!” resounded from all parts. The liberal promises of the consular
government still inspired confidence; and it was in thus piously uttering the
name of Liberty, in exalting the capture of the Bastille, in celebrating with
pomp the Republican holidays, that the preparations were laid for the speedy
re-establishment of absolute monarchy.
VI.MALMAISON IN 1800.
WE have just seen Bonaparte and Josephine in all the
brilliancy of official life in the palace of the Tuileries, surrounded by all
the pomp of real sovereignty. Let us now study them in their rustic life, in an
agreeable, modest country-house. The husband and wife appear without formality,
showing their domestic qualities, and one soon grows interested in the
slightest details of their lives. We are almost like their guests, and we may
learn to know them as if we had spent years in their company. We should study
them especially at Malmaison, for no other mansion is so rich in memories of
them. By going through it as it is today, deserted and empty, it is possible
to imagine it as it was in 1800. Some day, perhaps,
it will be torn down, the victim of some revolutionary mob; now, however,
while it is still standing as it existed in the beginning of the century, it is
easy to give each room its old physiognomy, to recall its former animation, to
renew its past.
On the left bank of the Seine, close to the village of Rueil, at the foot of the charming amphitheatre topped in the distance by the aqueduct of
Marly, stands the famous mansion amid dense verdure. I walk up the avenue of
palm-trees to the castle gate; passing through this, I enter the main
courtyard, with gravel paths intersecting the grass-plots and flower-beds as in
old times. I gaze at its front with its three stories, its two wings, its slate
roof; everything is as it was in 1800. Under a tent-shaped veranda, surmounted
by gilded crescents, I enter the great hall paved with squares of black and
white marble. This runs through the mansion, giving a view of the park beyond.
The roof above is vaulted, and is upheld by four stucco columns. To the left of
the hall are the dining-room, the council-chamber, the library; to the right,
the billiard-room, Josephine’s boudoir and drawing-room, the picture-gallery.
The dining-room is decorated with six nymphs, in black
and white, on a stucco ground. In old times there was a large window of
plate-glass between the hall and the dining-room, through which Josephine used
to watch the children coming to receive toys and sweetmeats. On the mosaic
floor I see a rose which marked the place where she used to sit at table. Then
there is the council-chamber where so many important deliberations were held,
the library with a door on which are painted two helmets and two inscriptions
from the Greek and from the time of chivalry. This was the taste of the time—reminiscences of antiquity and of the Middle Ages. There is not a single book
on the shelves, but I notice the medallions of Plutarch’s heroes and the
mahogany arches Separated by windows. I picture to myself Bonaparte in this
room, studying, reading, meditating, and unfolding his maps. From the library
there is a passage into the garden, over a little bridge across the moat, which
on this side lies close to the castle. In 1800 this bridge was covered by a
canvas tent which gave the First Consul another room. He used to have his table
carried thither, and would work there alone, stepping every moment from the
bridge out into the garden, and from the garden back to the bridge. “When I am
in the open air,” he used to. say, “ I become conscious that my ideas expand
more freely. I can’t understand men who can sit by the stove and work without
any view of the sky.”
Retracing my steps, I return by the library,
council-hall, and dining-room to the hall, and pass through it to the
billiard-room, which is wainscoted with wood painted light green. I see the
billiard-table, or rather its frame, for in 1870 the Prussians took away its cloth
and the bed. I then look at the boudoir, which is perfectly bare, and go into
the drawing-room, which is equally empty. The mantelpiece, into which were set
mosaic medallions, a present from the Pope, has been damaged, but the
arabesques, which represent flowers and birds in gold on a white ground, have
not been destroyed. It was in this room that Josephine used to hold her levees,
and here, a few days before her death, she received the visit of the Emperor
Alexander. The mirrors which reflected so many beautiful faces, so many
gorgeous uniforms, are broken; but one would say that the graceful shade of
Josephine wanders silently through this drawing-room of which she was the central
figure. On one side is the gallery where the musicians used to stand, and where
Garat and other great artists sang, where Queen Hortense, who was a charming
composer and performer, used to play the harp and sing,—the gallery where were
many pictures and objects of art, now all dispersed.
We have examined the ground floor, and will now ascend
the staircase opening on the billiard-room, and go up to the first floor. To
the right an anteroom leads up to Josephine’s bed-chamber, a round room. In
old times it was hung with red. We can still make out the painting on the
ceiling, a blue sky with clouds and a few dashes of gold on the woodwork. The
place where the bed stood is empty. Napoleon and Josephine occupied this room
for a long time, and it was of this period of his life that Napoleon said at Saint
Helena, “Not one of my thoughts, not one of my actions, escaped Josephine; she
followed, grasped, guessed everything,—a fact which sometimes inconvenienced
me in my occupations.” It was there that she wrote to her mother, who had
stayed in Martinique, “You ought to love Bonaparte; he makes your daughter very
happy; he is kind, amiable, in a word, a charming man.” This room was also the
scene of her unhappiness. To it, when driven from the Tuileries, she returned
to sleep the evening of the day when her divorce was pronounced. In it she
drew her last breath; and there, after his return from Elba, he locked himself
up to muse in solitude. The next room was his retiringroom during the Consulate. Another room and a bathroom completed their private
apartment. At the other end of the castle were the rooms which Hortense
occupied after her marriage.
In the middle of the first floor is a long corridor,
lit by eight windows opening on the courtyard. It leads to the little rooms
which are generally assigned to guests. During the Consulate they were simply
furnished. The aides-de-camp and visitors used to occupy them.
Descending the staircase to the hall, we may go out
into the garden, over a little bridge decorated with two obelisks of red
granite, a reminiscence of the campaign in Egypt. Here is the broad lawn where,
in 1800, they used to play prisoners’ base, and where they dined in pleasant
weather. It is covered with clumps of trees, and by streams flowing from a
spring over which stood a little temple hidden by the trees. In the gardens
there were places for all sorts of games to amuse the aides-de-camp and the
young people of the family and the court. Like Marie Antoinette’s Little
Trianon, Josephine’s Malmaison had its summer-houses, its sheepfolds, its
cottages, its exotic trees, its rare plants, belvederes, its greensward, its
little lakes with swans both white and black, its Temple of Love. The temple
still exists; I see its Ionic columns of red marble, but the god is no longer
there; I do not find the statue of Eros, who, on a pedestal garlanded with
roses, held his bow to wound another conquest with his dart: my eyes seek in
vain Voltaire’s famous distich : —
Whoe’er thou art, thy master see;
He is, or was, or soon shall be.
In 1800 Malmaison was the resting-place, the favorite
resort, of the First Consul. Thither he went for distraction from the cares of
power and the fatigue of greatness. There in the springtime he used to take
what he called his furlough; that is to say, the evening of the ninth day, the
whole of the tenth day, and the next morning. In summer, after his return from
Italy, he used to spend many days every week in this dear Malmaison where
Josephine had established herself. There the great man was amiable, familiar,
and kind. He was more than informal; he was companionable. He used to take part
in the games with all the zest of a young man. He would make jokes and admit
discussions, and he told stories with astounding brilliancy and wit. As host he
was considerate, affable, entertaining, and he left his guests perfect freedom.
The entertainments were likewise informal and merry. Those about the first
magistrate of the Republic did not suffer from the wearisome formality, the
servile refinements, the insipid flattery, the childishly intricate etiquette
which became so onerous under the Empire. Bonaparte, who had not yet abandoned
republican ways, was not yet intoxicated by the monarchical incense. His meals
were simple; he sat scarcely half an hour at table. After dinner, when he was
in a good humor and the weather was fine, he was free to steal a few minutes
from his work, and he used to play prisoners’ base with all the eagerness of a
schoolboy.
Let us watch these sports. Here is the First Consul,
the hero of Arcole, of the Pyramids, of Marengo,' who
takes off his coat and runs about like a boy of fifteen. Among the women I
distinguish his three sisters, Elisa, Pauline, and Caroline; Madame Campan’s two nieces, Egle and Adele Auguier (one of whom became the wife of Marshal Ney, the other Madame de Broc); Madame Cochelet; Sophie de Barbé-Marbois (afterwards the Duchess of Piacenza); Miss Clarke; Mesdemoiselles de Lally-Tollendal, Victorine Victor, Isabey;
Elisa Monroe, the daughter of the future President of the United States; and
above all Hortense de Beauharnais, Hortense, who is everywhere the first in the games, in study, and in society. Among the men, the First
Consul’s three brothers, Lucien, Louis, and Jerome, then the future Prince
Eugene, Lauriston, Isabey, Didelot, Lucay, Savary, and finally Bourrienne,
who thus describes the merrymaking: “The game begins, and two lines of
prisoners start from the two sides, but the number is equal and the victory
uncertain; it is the moment for a bold stroke, the guard is about to yield.
Bonaparte springs forward with most eager activity, and chases Hortense; she
dodges him most actively, but he is close behind, and about to catch her, when
his foot trips on a root hidden in the grass, and he falls at full length on
the battlefield; all utter a cry, but Bonaparte gets up laughing, and
surrenders himself to the victors.” Bourrienne adds
that almost always unexpected falls would stop the illustrious player in the
midst of his triumph.
Is not this a miniature representation of what was to
happen to him afterwards in more serious matters ? Unexpected falls at the
moment of triumph, is not that Napoleon’s destiny? But the falls at prisoners’
base are attended only with innocent pleasantry, while those of the successful
general will be followed by deep anathemas. “Then came the exchange of
prisoners, which was always the source of hot dispute; Hortense was always
considered equal to two, for her boldness knew no bounds. In point of fact, these
differences formed the only aristocracy at tire Malmaison.” But soon the
progress of etiquette interrupted these sports, which were thought too
democratic; tumbles on the grass seemed to lower the dignity of the head of a
state, and one was averse to thinking that the First Consul could be captured
by his aides-de-camp. The games continued in the summer of 1801, but in 1802
they stopped; they disappeared, like many other things, with the republican
simplicity.
The game finished, they would walk in the park, enjoying
the cool evening air. In the moonlight, beneath the huge trees, the women, in
their white dresses, resembled graceful phantoms. Nothing pleased Bonaparte
more than the sight of a pretty woman, wearing gracefully a white dress; and
Josephine, knowing this, almost always wore dresses of white India muslin.
Later they would return to the house, and in the ground-floor rooms the First
Consul used to display his marvellous talent as a
talker. The Revolution, philosophy, the East, were his favorite subjects. His
emphatic manner, his highly imaginative language, his novel and bold ideas,
which were always original and poetical, aroused interest, surprise, and
admiration. As for Josephine, her mind was nothing extraordinary, but no one
understood better than she did how to do the honors of a drawing-room. Bourrienne said of her, “I have never seen a woman carry
into society such an equable character, or such a spirit of kindness, which is
the essential quality of an amiable character.”
At that time Josephine was rejoicing in her
happiness. She did not yet see the vision of divorce rising before her, she
no longer gave Bonaparte any excuse for jealousy, she rather treated him with
the tenderest, most affectionate solicitude. At Malmaison she was really happy,
for there she led a life after her own heart. No palace, however splendid,
could appear to her preferable to this simple countryhouse.
Yet she was uneasy; and while she was enjoying this agreeable leisure, plots
were weaving against her husband’s life. When she was expecting his arrival she
would start and tremble at the slightest sound. In 1800 the neighborhood of Malmaison
was not secure. People coming from Paris were often fearful of attack from
thieves hidden in the quarries between Chant du Coq and Nanterre. But there was
no attempt at Malmaison; Paris was the scene of Ceracchi’s conspiracy and of the explosion of the infernal machine, before the end of the
year 1800, which had begun so brilliantly and happily.
EMPRESS JOSEPHINE, WIFE OF THE FIRST CONSUL
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