CHAPTER XXXV. THE CASHMERES AND THE LETTER.
As mighty events always exercise an influence on minor ones, so this fearful attempt at murder became the occasion for the introduction into France of a new branch of industry, which had hitherto drawn millions from Europe to the East.
Josephine, gratefully remembering her truly wonderful deliverance through the means of her Persian shawl, wore it afterward in preference to any other. Until then she had never fancied it, for when Bonaparte sent it to her from Egypt, she wrote to him: “I have received the shawl. It may be very beautiful and very costly, but I find it unsightly. Its great advantage consists in its lightness. I doubt, however, if this new fashion will meet with approbation. Notwithstanding, I am pleased with it, for it is rare and warm.” [Footnote: “Memoires sur l’Imperatrice,” par Mademoiselle Ducrest, vol. iii., p. 227.]
But after it had saved her life, she no longer thought it unsightly, she was fond of wrapping herself up in it, and the natural consequence was, that these Persian shawls soon formed the most fashionable and costly article of apparel.
Every lady of the higher classes considered it a necessity to cover her tender shoulders with this valuable foreign material, and it soon became “comme il faut” a duty of position, to possess a collection of such Persian shawls, and to wear them at the balls and receptions in the Tuileries.
The desire to possess such a precious article of fashion led these ladies oftentimes to “corriger la fortune” and to obtain, by some bold but not very creditable act, possession of such a shawl, which had now become in a certain measure the escutcheon of the new French aristocracy.
The Duchess d’Abrantes, in reference to this matter, relates two thefts which at that time troubled the aristocratic society of the Tuileries, which prove that the ladies had taken instructions from the gentlemen, and that dishonest persons of both sexes were admitted into the society of heroes and their beautiful wives!
At a morning reception in the Tuileries, the shawl of the Countess de St. Martin had been stolen; and this lady was very much distressed at the loss, for this cashmere was not only a present from Madame Murat, but was one of uncommon beauty, on account of the rarity of the design, consisting of paroquets in artistic groups, instead of the ordinary palm. The countess was therefore untiring in recounting to every one her irreparable loss, and uttered bitter curses against the bold female who had stolen her treasure.
“A few weeks later,” relates the duchess, “at a ball given by the minister Talleyrand, the countess came toward me with a bright countenance and told me that she had just now found her shawl, and, strange to say, upon the shoulders of a young lady at the ball!
“‘But,’ said I to her, ‘you will not accuse this lady before the whole company!’
“‘And why not?’
“‘Because that would be wrong. Leave this matter to me.’
“She would not at first, but I pressed the subject on her consideration, and she agreed at length to remain somewhat behind, while I approached the young lady, who stood near the door, and was just going to leave the ballroom. I told her in a low voice that in all probability she had made a mistake; that she had perhaps mislaid her own cashmere, and had through carelessness taken the shawl of the Countess de St. Martin.
“I was as polite as I could possibly be in such a communication; but the young lady looked at me unpleasantly for such an impertinent intrusion, and replied that ‘since the time the Countess de St. Martin had deafened the ears of every one with the story of her stolen shawl, she had had ample leisure to recognize as her property the cashmere she wore.’ Her mother, who stood a few steps from her, and was conversing with another lady, turned toward her when she heard her daughter speak in so loud a voice. But the Countess de St. Martin, who had overheard that she ‘had deafened the ears of every one with the story of her stolen shawl,’ rushed in to the rescue of her case.
“‘This cashmere belongs to me,’ said she, haughtily—seizing, at the same time, the shawl with one hand, while the young lady with her fist thrust her back violently. I saw that in a moment they would come to blows.
“‘It will be easy to end this difficulty,’ said I to the Countess de St. Martin. ‘Madame will be kind enough to tell us where she has purchased this shawl which is so much like yours, and then you will see your mistake, and be satisfied.’
“‘It does not suit me to tell where I got this shawl,’ replied the lady, looking at me contemptuously; ‘there is no necessity for my telling you where I purchased it.’
“‘Well, then,’ exclaimed eagerly the Countess de St. Martin, ‘you confess, madame, that the shawl really belongs to you?’
“The other answered with a sarcastic smile, and drew the shawl closer to her shoulders. A few persons, attracted by the strangeness of such a scene, had gathered around us, and seemed to wait for the end of so extraordinary an event.
“The countess continued with a loud voice:
“‘Well, then, madame, since the shawl belongs to you, you can explain to me why the name of Christine, which is my first name, is embroidered in red silk on the small edging. Madame Junot will be kind enough to look for this name.’
“The young woman became pale as death. I shall never during my life forget the despairing look which she gave me, as with trembling hand she passed me the shawl, just as her father appeared from a room near the place of the scene. I took the cashmere with an unsteady hand, and sought reluctantly for the name of Christine, for I trusted she would at least have taken it out; but the deathly paleness of the guilty one told the contrary, and in fact I had no sooner unfolded the shawl, than the name appeared, embroidered at the narrow edging.
“‘Ah!’ at last exclaimed the countess, in a triumphant tone, ‘I have—’ but as she raised her eyes to the young woman, she was touched by her despairing look. ‘Well, then,’ cried she, ‘this is one of those mistakes which so often happen. To-morrow I will return your cashmere.—We have exchanged cashmeres,’ said she, turning to the young lady’s father, who, surprised at seeing her naked shoulders, gazed at his daughter, not understanding the matter. ‘You will have the goodness to send me my shawl to-morrow,’ added she, noticing how the young woman trembled.
“We returned into the ballroom, and the next day the young lady sent to the Countess de St. Martin her precious shawl.
“Something similar to this happened at the same time to Madame Hamelin. She was at a ball; when rising from her seat to join in a contra-dance, she left there a very beautiful black shawl; when she returned, her shawl was no longer there, but she saw it on the shoulders of a well-known and distinguished lady. Approaching her, she said:
“‘Madame, you have my shawl!’
“‘Not at all, madame!’
“‘But, madame, this is my shawl, and, as an evidence, I can state the number of its palms—it has exactly thirteen, a very unusual number!’
“‘My shawl has also, by chance, precisely thirteen palms.’
“‘But,’ said Madame Hamelin, ‘I have torn it since I came here. You can see where it is torn, and by that means I recognize my shawl.’
“‘Ah, my goodness! my shawl has also been torn; that is precisely why I bought it, for I obtained it on that account somewhat cheaper.’
“It is useless to dispute with a person who is determined to follow Basil’s receipt, that ‘what is worth taking is worth keeping.’ Madame Hamelin lost her shawl, and had, as a sole consolation, the petty vengeance of relating to everybody how it was taken, and of pointing out the thief, who was in the meanwhile perfectly shameless.” [Footnote: Abrantes, “Memoires,” vol. ix., pp. 70-76.]
No one, however, had a larger and more choice selection of these cashmere shawls than Josephine. Mdlle. Ducrest relates that the deceased empress had more than one hundred and fifty of the most magnificent and costly cashmere shawls. She had sent to Constantinople patterns from which she had them made there, as pleasing to the eye as they were costly and precious. Every week M. Lenormant, the first man-milliner in Paris, came to Navarra, the country residence of the empress, and brought his most beautiful shawls for her selection. The empress possessed several (having a white ground covered with roses, violets, paroquets, peacocks, and other objects of beauty hitherto unknown in France) each of which cost from fifteen to twenty thousand francs.
The empress went so far in her passion for cashmeres as to have dresses made of the same material. One day she had put on one of these dresses, which was so beautiful, that some gentlemen invited to dinner could not withhold their admiration. One of them, Count Pourtales, thought that this splendid material would be well adapted for a gentleman’s vest. Josephine, in her large-heartedness, had a pair of scissors brought; she then cut her dress into several pieces sufficiently large for a vest, and divided them among the gentlemen present, so that only the bodice of the dress remained, with a small piece around the waist But this improvised spencer over the white richly-embroidered under-dress, was so exceedingly becoming to the empress, and brought out so exquisitely her beautiful bust, and slender graceful waist, that it would have been easy to consider as a piece of coquetry what was simply Josephine’s spontaneous generosity. [Footnote: Mademoiselle Ducrest.]
Josephine, however, did not so assiduously attend to her cashmere shawls as to forget the unfortunate victims of the infernal machine. On the contrary, she saw with deep pain how every one was busy in inculpating others, and in casting suspicions on royalists and Jacobins, so as to give a pretext to punish them. She noticed that all those who wished to gain the consul’s favor were zealous in spying out fresh culprits, for it was well known that Bonaparte was inclined to make of all hostile parties a terrible example, so that, through the severity of the punishment and the number of the punished, he might deter the dissatisfied from any further plots.
Josephine’s compassionate heart was distressed, through sympathy for so many unfortunate persons, whom wicked men maliciously were endeavoring to drag into guilt, so as to have them punished; and the injustice which the judges manifested at every hearing filled her with anger and horror. Ever ready to help the needy, and to protect the persecuted, she addressed herself to Fouche, the minister of police, and requested him to use mildness and compassion. She wrote to him:
“Citizen minister, while trembling at the frightful calamity which has taken place, I feel uneasy and pained at the fear of the punishments which hang over the poor creatures who, I am told, belong to families with which I have been connected in days past. I shall therefore be appealed to by mothers, sisters, and despairing wives; my heart will be lacerated by the sad consciousness that I cannot obtain pardon for all those who implore it.
“The generosity of the consul is great, his affection for me is boundless, I know it well; but the crime is of so awful a nature that he will deem it necessary to make an example of extreme severity. The supreme magistrate was not alone exposed to danger—many others were killed and wounded by this sad event, and it is this which will make the consul severe and implacable.
“I conjure you, then, citizen minister, to avoid extending your researches too far, and not always to spy out new persons who might be compromised by this horrible machine. Must France, which has been held in terror by so many executions, have to sigh over new victims? Is it not much more important to appease the minds of the people than to excite them by new terrors? Finally, would it not be advisable, so soon as the originators of this awful crime are captured, to have compassion and mercy upon subordinate persons who may have been entangled in it through dangerous sophisms and fanatical sentiments?
“Barely vested with the supreme authority, ought not the first consul study to win the hearts rather than to make slaves of his people? Moderate, therefore, by your advice, where in his first excitement he may be too severe. To punish is, alas, too often necessary! To pardon is, I trust, still more. In a word, be a protector to the unfortunate who, through their confession or repentance, have already made in part penance for their guilt.
“As I myself, without any fault on my part, nearly lost my life in the revolution, you can easily understand that I take an interest in those who can perhaps be saved without thereby endangering my husband’s life, which is so precious to me and to France. I therefore earnestly desire that you will make a distinction between the leaders of this conspiracy and those who, from fear or weakness, have been seduced into bringing upon themselves a portion of the guilt. As a woman, a wife, a mother, I can readily feel for all the heart-rending agonies of those families which appeal to me.
“Do what you possibly can, citizen minister, to diminish their numbers; you will thereby spare me much anxiety. I can never be deaf to the cries of distress from the needy; but in this matter you can do a great deal more than I can, and therefore pardon what may seem strange in my pleadings with you.
“Believe in my gratitude and loyalty of sentiment.
“JOSEPHINE.” [Footnote: Ducrest, “Memoires,” vol. iii., p. 231.]