The Girls' Book of Famous Queens

Some days before the divorce, Josephine is reported to have thus addressed Napoleon: —

“Bonaparte, even now you have no confidence in the stability of your power. You want an ally; and the very sovereign whom you have lately vanquished, the sovereign who has just grounds to hate you, sees himself flattered by the very man who has so lately overrun his country. If such an enormous sacrifice as the giving his daughter to you in marriage be necessary to give peace to his subjects, you cannot but know that he will secretly despise you, and say to himself: —

“‘The man who so lately made me tremble, who imposed such cruel conditions upon me, is on the eve of some dreadful catastrophe. Did he suppose himself firmly seated upon his throne, he would not need to resort to a foreign alliance; and the very circumstance that the mighty conqueror is so anxious to obtain a companion of illustrious birth, is evidence that he intends, should a storm ever arise, to lean upon that foreign support.’”

It was indeed strange that the cry of the Revolution, “Down with the Autrichienne!” did not warn Napoleon that it would be an impolitic action to place another Austrian woman upon the throne of France.

The Empress Josephine, after having long dreaded the terrible misfortune which at length overwhelmed her, was totally unprepared for the shock when it fell. She had for a time been lulled into a fancied security, and had regained tranquillity just as the blow came. Nothing had been done to prepare her for it. Even when all Europe was talking of this probable event, and after negotiations had been entered into regarding her successor, still no direct word had been spoken to the poor victim of this atrocious cruelty and perfidious crime.

The letter in which Napoleon told her of his approaching arrival at Fontainebleau still exists. Its tone is particularly affectionate; and he thus wrote: “I am feasting on the thought of seeing thee again;– I embrace thee. Ever thine.” These were his words sent from Nymphenburg, Oct. 21, 1809. When he arrived at Fontainebleau, however, Josephine perceived that he was constrained and cold, which alarmed her; and the triumphant airs of her sworn enemies, his sisters and brothers and mother, who hastened to greet him with officious homage, betokened that some new effront would soon be offered her.

While she was obliged to conceal beneath a smiling countenance her consuming anxieties, in the midst of the brilliant fêtes of the court, she found that the communication between her suite of apartments and those of the emperor had been closed by his orders, which announced to her that her dreaded doom was nigh.

The Duchesse D’Abrantes gives this account of a visit to Josephine just previous to the public announcement of the divorce: “I had an interview with the empress at Malmaison. I had sent her a plant from the Pyrenees, and she wished me to see it in the hot-house. But in vain she attempted to employ herself with those objects which pleased her the most; her eyes were frequently suffused with tears; she was pale, and her whole manner marked indisposition. ‘It is very cold!’ she said, drawing her shawl about her; but, alas! it was the chill of grief creeping about her heart, like the cold hand of death. ‘Madame Junot,’ she said, ‘remember what I say to you this day here, in this hot-house, – this place which is now a paradise, but which may soon become a desert to me, – remember that this separation will be my death, and it is they who will have killed me! I shall be driven in disgrace from him who has given me a crown! Yet God is my witness that I love him more than my life, and much more than that throne, that crown, which he has given me.’ The empress may have appeared more beautiful, but never more attractive than at that moment. If Napoleon had seen her then, surely he could never have divorced her.” Lanfrey thus comments upon this event: “On the evening of Nov. 30, the prefect of the palace was on duty in an apartment adjoining the drawing-room where the emperor and Josephine were sitting, when he heard piercing cries, and with amazement recognized the voice of the empress. A few moments afterwards the door opened, and Napoleon having called him in, he beheld the empress suffering from a violent nervous attack, and uttering exclamations of distress and despair. He then helped Napoleon to carry her into her own apartment. In fact, the much-dreaded explosion had taken place. The emperor had at first determined to await the arrival of the Prince Eugène in Paris, in order that the presence and consolations of the son whom Josephine so tenderly loved might soften the bitterness of his intended communication. When he announced the terrible news to her who alone was ignorant of it, – to the woman who, by having brought him among her wedding presents the chief command of the army in Italy, had so eminently contributed towards his exalted fortune, – eight days had already elapsed since he had desired Champagny to ask for him the hand of the Emperor Alexander’s sister. It was Russia, his ally, not Austria, whom he thought it better to address first.

“As the sad scene which had revealed the domestic trouble in the imperial family was soon publicly known, the divorce became the subject of conversation at the court and throughout the nation. The unfortunate Josephine was supported, it is true, by the affection of her children, who felt the blow scarcely less keenly than herself; but being convinced of the absolute futility of resistance, she had, after the deepest anguish, submitted, rather than resigned herself to that strong will which henceforward became inflexible.

“In order to feign consent, it was necessary that she should show herself in public. Hence she was dragged about to all the grand official receptions, and the scandal-loving public watched her closely, in order to note the extent and progress of her misfortune. The echoes of the palace more than once repeated her sobs and complaints; but it was desirable that this victim of pride and policy should appear content to sacrifice herself, and she was not allowed the satisfaction even of a display of grief. In the fêtes given at the commencement of December, to celebrate the anniversary of the coronation, Paris beheld her, with death in her heart and a smile on her lips, bearing the despair which was a torture to her, with grace playing her part of sovereign for the last time; surrounded by her children, who, to use the expression of a contemporary, were dancing at their mother’s funeral.”

Upon his arrival in Paris, after the blow had fallen upon poor Josephine, Prince Eugène had a mournful interview with his afflicted mother.

“’Tis not,” said that noble woman in the agony of her heart, “’tis not that I regret the throne, my son, but I feel that I am leaving the emperor a prey to the evil-minded men who seek his ruin. I shall be no longer here to warn him against their false-hearted counsels. The task reserved for me henceforth will be to pity him, and to pray for him and the French people whom I love. My children will imitate my example.”

Bourrienne gives the following words of Josephine, regarding her divorce: —

“I was ushered into the drawing-room at Malmaison, where I found Josephine and Hortense. When I entered, Josephine stretched out her hand to me, saying, ‘Ah, my friend!’ These words she pronounced with deep emotion, and tears prevented her from continuing. She threw herself on the ottoman on the left of the fireplace, and beckoned me to sit down beside her. Hortense stood by the fireplace, endeavoring to conceal her tears. After a struggle to overcome her feelings, Josephine said: —

“‘I have drained my cup of misery. He has cast me off! – forsaken me! He conferred upon me the vain title of empress only to render my fall the more marked. Ah! I knew the destiny that awaited me; for what would he not sacrifice to his ambition!’ As she finished these words, one of Queen Hortense’s ladies entered with a message to her; Hortense withdrew, so that I was left alone with Josephine.

“She seemed to wish for the relief of disclosing her sorrows. Josephine confirmed what Duroc had told me respecting the two apartments at Fontainebleau; then, coming to the period when Bonaparte had declared to her the necessity of a separation, she said: —

“‘My dear Bourrienne, during all the years you were with us you know I made you the confidant of my thoughts, and kept you acquainted with my sad forebodings. They are now cruelly fulfilled. I acted the part of a good wife to the very last. I have suffered all, and I am resigned!

“‘What fortitude did it require latterly to endure my situation, when, though no longer his wife, I was obliged to seem so in the eyes of the world! With what eyes do courtiers look upon a repudiated wife! I was in a state of vague uncertainty worse than death, until the fatal day when he at length avowed to me what I had long before read in his looks!

“‘On the 30th of November, 1809, we were dining together as usual. I had not uttered a word during that sad dinner, and he had broken silence only to ask one of the servants what it was o’clock. As soon as Bonaparte had taken his coffee, he dismissed all the attendants, and I remained alone with him. I saw in the expression of his countenance what was passing in his mind, and I knew that my hour was come.

“‘He stepped up to me, – he was trembling, and I shuddered; he took my hand, pressed it to his heart, and after gazing at me a few moments in silence, he uttered these fatal words: —

“‘“Josephine! my dear Josephine! You know how I have loved you!.. To you, to you alone, I owe the only moments of happiness I have tasted in this world. But, Josephine, my destiny is not to be controlled by my will. My dearest affections must yield to the interests of France.”

“‘“Say no more!” I exclaimed, “I understand you: I expected this; but the blow is not the less mortal.”

“‘I could not say another word,’ continued Josephine. ‘I know not what happened after. I seemed to lose my reason; I became insensible, and when I recovered I found myself in my chamber. Your friend Corvisart and my poor daughter were with me. Bonaparte came to see me in the evening; and oh! Bourrienne, how can I describe to you what I felt at sight of him! even the interest he evinced for me seemed an additional cruelty. Alas! I had good reason to fear ever becoming an empress!’”

The 15th of December, 1809, was the fatal day appointed for the consummation of the divorce. The imperial council of state was convened, and the official announcements of the coming separation were made. Napoleon’s address on this occasion is well known. The prepared response which Josephine attempted to read in acceptation of this cruel decree, was too much for even her marvellous fortitude to endure; and Eugène was obliged to take the paper from his weeping mother, and finish for her the heart-breaking avowal which her quivering lips refused to utter.

Upon the following day the council was again assembled with the imperial family in the grand salon at the Tuileries, to witness the legal consummation of the divorce.

All were in court costume. Napoleon entered the apartment, clothed in the imposing robes of state. Pale as a corpse, he stood leaning against a pillar, with folded arms, motionless as a statue.

Again the poor victim of this cruel sacrifice must appear. The keen-edged knife of the political guillotine of blind ambition must this day perform its final act of political decapitation.

The door opens; a sad figure appears. Some reports clothe this sorrowful, weeping woman in white muslin; others in black satin. As the latter seems more fitting: to this funereal scene, we incline to that supposition, which would surely appear more appropriate than bridal white for this moment of public repudiation.

The graceful woman, bending like a weeping-willow before the storm of sorrow which is crushing her to the earth, walks slowly to the seat prepared for her, followed by her son and daughter. The pallor of death is upon her brow. A coffin would have seemed less cruel than the mocking chair of state waiting for her. Had she been Marie Antoinette upon the scaffold, she could scarcely have suffered more; for Marie Antoinette could at least love her dead husband without reproach; while the living husband of poor Josephine holds in his hand the cruel dagger which is piercing her bleeding heart, and his word tears from her brow her rightful royal diadem of wifehood.

The iniquitous decree is read. The quivering victim must pronounce her own sentence. Pressing her handkerchief to her streaming eyes for a moment, she slowly rises, and the oath of acceptance passes her pallid lips. The pen is handed to her, and she signs her own death-warrant; and then glides like a mournful spectre from the grand salon of state, the imperial grandeur of which, together with the presence of her triumphant foes, mock her unutterable woe.

It is the evening of the same day. The weeping woman has still another heart-rending duty to perform. She must take her final farewell of the man who has stabbed her to the heart; of the husband whom she still adores with every heart-beat of her loyal, loving soul; of the emperor who has crowned her, only to tear from her brow his royal gift and bestow it upon another. Was ever woman’s soul torn with such conflicting emotions? Pride and love have fought a terrible battle within her heart, since the cruel public sacrifice of the morning. But love has conquered; yes, so royally conquered, that there is no place left in her soul for aught but overpowering devotion to the adored husband of her heart.

Napoleon had retired to his apartments. His valet was about to be dismissed for the night when the door opens, and upon the threshold stands Josephine! – more irresistible in her infinite sorrow than in her most imperial robes of dazzling splendor. Her tender eyes are glistening through her tears; her hair falls in disordered locks around her quivering face; her hands are clasped in agonizing despair. For one moment she gazes upon the face of him who has been her life and happiness; – then, forgetting all but her overpowering love, she throws herself into his arms, exclaiming, in tones of commingled tenderness and heart-broken anguish, – “My husband! – My husband!”

Napoleon was overpowered at last. With streaming eyes he beckoned to his valet to retire, and the husband and wife were left alone for their last sad interview. When an hour afterwards Josephine retired from the apartment, still sobbing with irresistible emotion, the valet entered to remove the lights, and found Napoleon with face buried in the pillow and form convulsed with choking sobs.

The next morning, at eleven o’clock, Josephine was to bid a last adieu to the Tuileries. At the appointed hour she appeared, heavily veiled and leaning upon the arm of one of her lady attendants. Silently she walked through the spacious halls, where all the household had assembled to take final leave of their loved mistress. Not a word was spoken; and as Josephine entered the close carriage she waved an adieu to the weeping friends around her, and without another glance at the grand palace which had witnessed her proud happiness and unutterable woe, she was driven rapidly to her future sad retreat at Malmaison.

But the envious hate of the Bonaparte family received its just reward on the occasion of the marriage of Napoleon to Maria Louisa; and they were then obliged to swallow a more bitter pill of mortified pride than any which had been administered to them during the reign of Josephine.

Madame Mère Bonaparte and the queens of Holland and Naples, the princesses Eliza and Pauline, and the kings Louis and Jerome, were gathered to discuss the coming marriage ceremony of the future empress. Murat, the handsome king of Naples, entered, attired in his rich gala dress of fawn-colored satin embroidered with silver, and wearing a purple mantle lined with ermine and clasped with jewels. The hilt and sheath of his sword sparkled with gems, and his belt was covered with rubies. He wore a sort of cap, of purple, surrounded by an open crown of precious stones, while his boots were of purple velvet edged with fur, and his knee-breeches and vest were of white satin. As he entered the apartment, so proud and so handsome, all of his family exclaimed:

“What a handsome dress!”

“Yes, I flatter myself!” said Murat, gazing into the long mirror before which la Princesse Borghèse was paying court to her own beauty; “but do you know, fair ladies, that you are about to be disgraced in the eyes of all Europe?” continued Murat, holding up a printed paper.

“What is it?” exclaimed all in a breath.

“Read! —mesdames les reines!” replied Murat, “and you will learn that all, queens as you are, you will to-morrow, in the chapel of the Louvre, during the marriage ceremony, have the honor of bearing the train of the imperial mantle of your august sister-in-law.”

“Napoleon can never request of us such an insulting office,” said one.

“It is no request,” said Jerome, “the emperor commands it.”

“As for me,” cried la Princesse Borghèse, “I would like to see myself touch her odious mantle!”

“Do not excite yourself, sister,” said the queen of Naples, “this matter does not concern either you or the grande duchesse; you are neither of you queens.”

“But I am more than a parvenue queen,” gasped Pauline, between her sobs, “my husband was a noble from birth.”

“I, for one, will not officiate as the waiting-woman of my sister-in-law,” said the queen of Naples haughtily.

“I could not venture to hint at such a degradation to my wife, – the daughter of the king of Wurtemberg,” declared Jerome.

“Sons and daughters, son-in-law and daughter-in-law,” said Madame Mère, “bear in mind that Napoléoné is accustomed to be obeyed. He is entirely wrong in this matter; but if he is resolved, you will obey.”

“The others may do as they like; but not I, Madame Mère” said the spoiled beauty, Pauline.

“You, like the rest,” replied Madame Bonaparte, with decision.