CHAPTER XIX. BONAPARTE AND JOSEPHINE.
Bonaparte had scarcely deigned to glance at the French ambassadors and their ladies, who had received him at the foot of the staircase. All his thoughts centred in Josephine. And bowing slightly to the ladies and gentlemen, he had impetuously rushed upstairs and opened the door, satisfied that she would be there and receive him with open arms. When he did not see her, he passed on, pale, with a gloomy face, and resembling an angry lion.
Thus he now rushed into the front room where he found Josephine. Without saluting her, and merely fixing his flashing eyes upon her, he asked in a subdued, angry voice: “Madame, you do not even deem it worth the trouble to salute me! You do not come to meet me!”
“But, Bonaparte, you have given me no time for it,” said Josephine, with a charming smile. “While I thought you were just about to alight from your carriage, you burst already into this room like a thunder-bolt from heaven.”
“Oh, and that has dazzled your eyes so much that you are even unable to salute me?” he asked angrily.
“And you, Bonaparte?” she asked, tenderly. “You do not open your arms to me! You do not welcome me! Instead of pressing me to your heart, you scold me! Oh, come, my friend, let us not pass this first hour in so unpleasant a manner! We have not seen each other for almost two months, and—”
“Ah, madame, then you know that at least,” exclaimed Bonaparte; “then you have not entirely forgotten that you took leave of me two months ago, and that you swore to me at that time eternal love and fidelity, and promised most sacredly to write to me every day. You have not kept your oaths and pledges, madame!”
“But, my friend, I have written to you whenever I was told that a courier would set out for your headquarters.”
“You ought to have sent every day a courier of your own for the purpose of transmitting your letters to me,” exclaimed Bonaparte, wildly stamping his foot, so that the jars and vials on the table rattled violently, while Zephyr jumped down from his arm-chair and commenced snarling. Josephine looked anxiously at him and tried to calm him by her gestures.
Bonaparte continued: “Letters! But those scraps I received from time to time were not even letters. Official bulletins of your health they were, and as cold as ice. Madame, how could you write such letters to me, and moreover only every fourth day? If you really loved me, you would have written every day. But you do not love me any longer; I know it. Your love was but a passing whim. You feel now how ridiculous it would be for you to love a poor man who is nothing but a soldier, and who has to offer nothing to you but a little glory and his love. But I shall banish this love from my heart, should I have to tear my heart with my own teeth.” [Footnote: Bonaparte’s own words.—Vide “Lettres a Josephine. Memoires d’une Contemporaine,” vol. i., p. 853.]
“Bonaparte,” exclaimed Josephine, half tenderly, half anxiously, “what have I done that you should be angry with me? Why do you accuse me of indifference, while you know very well that I love you?”
“Ah, it is a very cold love, at all events,” he said, sarcastically. “It is true, I am only your husband, and it is not in accordance with aristocratic manners to love one’s husband; that is mean, vulgar, republican! But I am a republican, and I do not want any wife with the manners and habits of the ANCIEN REGIME. I am your husband, but woe to him who seeks to become my wife’s lover! I would not even need my sword in order to kill him. My eyes alone would crush him![Footnote: Bonaparte’s own words.—Ibid.] And I shall know how to find him; and if he should escape to the most remote regions, my arm is a far-reaching one, and I will extend it over the whole world in order to grasp him.”
“But whom do you allude to?” asked Josephine, in dismay.
“Whom?” he exclaimed in a thundering voice. “Ah, madame, you believe I do not know what has occurred? You believe I see and hear nothing when I am no longer with you? Let me compliment you, madame! The handsome aide-de-camp of Leclerc is a conquest which the ladies of Milan must have been jealous of; and Botot, the spy, whom Barras sent after me, passes even at Paris for an Adonis. What do you mean by your familiarities with these two men, madame? You received Adjutant Charles at eleven o’clock in the morning, while you never leave your bed before one o’clock. Oh, that handsome young fellow wanted to tell you how he was yearning for his home in Paris, and what his mother and sister had written to him, I suppose? For that reason so convenient an hour had to be chosen? For that reason he came at eleven o’clock while you were in bed yet. His ardor was so intense, and if he had been compelled to wait until one o’clock, impatience would have burned his soul to ashes!” [Footnote: Bonaparte’s own words.—Vide “Memoires d’un Contemporaine,” vol. ii., p. 80.]
“He wanted to set out for Paris precisely at twelve o’clock. That was the only reason why I received him so early, my friend,” said Josephine, gently.
“Oh, then, you do not deny that you have actually received him?” shouted Bonaparte, and his face turned livid. With flaming eyes and uplifted hand, he stepped up close to Josephine. “Madame,” he exclaimed, in a thundering voice, “then you dare to acknowledge that Charles is your lover?”
Before Josephine had time to reply to him Zephyr, who saw him threaten his mistress, furiously pounced upon Bonaparte, barking and howling, showing his teeth, and quite ready to lacerate whom he supposed to be Josephine’s enemy.
“Ah, this accursed dog is here, too, to torment me!” exclaimed Bonaparte, and raising his foot, he stamped with crushing force on the body of the little dog. A single piercing yell was heard; then the blood gushed from Zephyr’s mouth, and the poor beast lay writhing convulsively on the floor. [Footnote: Vide “Rheinischer-Antiquar.,” vol. ii., p. 574.]
“Bonaparte, you have killed my dog,” exclaimed Josephine, reproachfully, and bent over the dying animal.
“Yes,” he said, with an air of savage joy, “I have killed your dog, and in the same manner I shall crush every living being that dares to step between you and myself!”
Josephine had taken no notice of his words. She had knelt down by the side of the dog, and tenderly patted his head and writhing limbs till they ceased moving.
“Zephyr is dead,” she said rising. “Poor little fellow, he died because he loved me. Pardon me, general, if I weep for him. But Zephyr was a cherished souvenir from a friend who died only a short while ago. General Hoche had given the dog to me.”
“Hoche?” asked Bonaparte, in some confusion.
“Yes, Lazarus Hoche, who died a few weeks ago. A few days before his death he sent the dog to me while at Milan—Lazarus Hoche who, you know it very well, loved me, and whose hand I rejected because I loved you,” said Josephine, with a noble dignity and calmness, which made a deeper impression upon Bonaparte than the most poignant rebuke would have done.
“And now, general,” she proceeded, “I will reply to your reproaches. I do not say that I shall JUSTIFY myself, because I thereby would acknowledge the justice of your charges, but I will merely answer them. I told you already why I admitted Charles at so early an hour. He was about to set out for Paris, and I wished to intrust to him important and secret letters and other commissions.”
“Why did not you send them by a special courier?” asked Bonaparte, but in a much gentler voice than before.
“Because it would have been dangerous to send my letters to Botot by a courier,” said Josephine, calmly.
“To Botot? Then you admit your familiarities with Botot, too? People did not deceive me, then, when they told me that you received this spy Botot, whom Barras had sent after me, in order to watch me, every morning in your boudoir—that you always sent your maid away as soon as he came, and that your interviews with him frequently lasted for hours?”
“That is quite true; I do not deny it,” said Josephine, proudly.
Bonaparte uttered an oath, and was about to rush at her. But she receded a step, and pointing at the dead dog with a rapid gesture, she said: “General, take care! There is no other dog here for you to kill, and I am only a weak, defenceless woman; it would assuredly not behoove the victor of Arcole to attack me!”
Bonaparte dropped his arm, and, evidently ashamed of himself, stepped back several paces.
“Then you do not deny your intimate intercourse with Botot and Charles?”
“I do not deny that both of them love me, that I know it, and that I have taken advantage of their love. Listen to me, general: I have taken advantage of their love. That is mean and abominable; it is playing in an execrable manner with the most exalted feelings of others, I know it very well, but I did so for your sake, general—I did so in your interest.”
“In my interest?” asked Bonaparte, in surprise.
“Yes, in your interest,” she said. “Now I can tell and confess every thing to you. But as long as Charles and Botot were present, I could not do so, for if you had ceased being jealous—if, warned by myself, you had treated these two men kindly instead of showing your jealous distrust of them by a hostile and surly demeanor, they might have suspected my game and divined my intrigue, and I would have been unable to avail myself any longer of their services.”
“But, for God’s sake, tell me what did you need their services for?”
“Ah, sir, I perceive that you know better how to wield the sword than unravel intrigues,” said Josephine, with a charming smile. “Well, I made use of my two lovers in order to draw their secrets from them. And secrets they had, general, for you know Botot is the most intimate and influential friend of Barras, and Madame Tallien adores Charles, the handsome aide-de-camp. She has no secrets that he is not fully aware of, and she does whatever he wants her to do; and again, whatever she wants to be done, her husband will do—her husband, that excellent Tallien, who with Barras is one of the five directors of our republic.”
“Oh, women, women!” muttered Bonaparte.
Josephine continued: “In this manner, general, I learned every scheme and almost every idea of the Directory; in this manner, through my devoted friends, Botot and Charles, I have succeeded in averting many a foul blow from your own head. For you were menaced, general, and you are menaced still. And what is menacing you? That is your glory and your greatness—it is the jealousy of the five kings of France, who, under the name of directors, are now reigning at the Luxemburg. The Quintumvirate beheld your growing power and glory with terror and wrath, and all endeavors of theirs only aimed at lessening your influence. A favorite way of theirs for carrying out their designs against you was the circulation of false news concerning you. Botot told me that Barras had even hired editors to write against you, and to question your integrity. These editors now published letters purporting to come from Verona, and announcing that Bonaparte was about to proclaim himself dictator. Then, again, they stated in some letter from the frontier, or from a foreign country, that the whole of Lombardy was again on the eve of an insurrection; that the Italians detested the tyranny imposed upon them by the conqueror, and that they were anxious to recall their former sovereigns.”
“Ah, the miserable villains!” exclaimed Bonaparte, gnashing his teeth, “I—”
“Hush, general! listen to my whole reply to your reproaches,” said Josephine, with imperious calmness. “At some other time these hirelings of the press announced in a letter from Turin that an extensive conspiracy was about to break out at Paris; that the Directory was to be overthrown by this conspiracy, and that a dictatorship, at the head of which Bonaparte would be, was to take place. They further circulated the news all over the departments, that the ringleaders of the plot had been arrested and sent to the military commissions for trial; but that the conqueror of Italy had deemed it prudent to avoid arrest by running away.” [Footnote: Le Normand, Memoires, vol. i., p. 267.]
“That is a truly infernal web of lies and infamies!” ejaculated Bonaparte, furiously. “But I shall justify myself, I will go to Paris and hurl the calumnies of these miserable Directors back into their teeth!”
“General, there is no necessity for you to descend into the arena in order to defend yourself,” said Josephine, smiling. “Your actions speak for you, and your friends are watching over you. Whenever such an article appeared in the newspapers. Botot forwarded it to me; whenever the Directory sprang a new mine, Botot sent me word of it. And then I enlisted the assistance of my friend Charles, and he had to refute those articles through a journalist who was in my pay, and to foil the mine by means of a counter-mine.”
“Oh, Josephine, how can I thank you for what you have done for me!” exclaimed Bonaparte, enthusiastically. “How—”
“I am not through yet, general,” she interrupted him, coldly. “Those refutations and the true accounts of your glorious deeds found an enthusiastic echo throughout the whole of France, and every one was anxious to see you in the full splendor of your glory, and to do homage to you at Paris. But the jealous Directory calculated in advance how dangerous the splendor of your glory would be to the statesmen of the Republic, and how greatly your return would eclipse the five kings. For that reason they resolved to keep you away from Paris; for that reason exclusively they appointed you first plenipotentiary at the congress about to be opened at Rastadt, and intrusted the task to you to exert yourself here for the conclusion of peace. They wanted to chain the lion and make him feel that he has got a master whom he must obey.”
“But the lion will break the chain, and he will not obey,” exclaimed Bonaparte, angrily. “I shall leave Rastadt on this very day and hasten to Paris.”
“Wait a few days, general,” said Josephine, smiling. “It will be unnecessary for you to take violent steps, my friends Botot and Charles having worked with me for you. Botot alone not being sufficiently powerful, inasmuch as he could influence none but Barras, I sent Charles to his assistance in order to act upon Madame Tallien. And the stratagem was successful. Take this letter which I received only yesterday through a special messenger from Botot—you know Botot’s handwriting, I suppose?”
“Yes, I know it.”
“Well, then, satisfy yourself that he has really written it,” said Josephine, drawing a sheet of paper from her memorandum-book and handing it to Bonaparte.
He glanced at it without touching the paper. “Yes, it is Botot’s handwriting,” he murmured.
“Read it, general,” said Josephine.
“I do not want to read it; I believe all you tell me!” he exclaimed, impetuously.
“I shall read it to you,” she said, “for the contents will interest you. Listen therefore: ‘Adored Citoyenne Josephine.—We have reached the goal—we have conquered! The Directory have at length listened to wise remonstrances. They have perceived that they stand in need of a strong and powerful arm to support them, and of a pillar to lean against. They will recall Bonaparte in order that he may become their pillar and arm. In a few days a courier will reach Bonaparte at Rastadt and recall him to Paris.—BOTOT.’ That is all there is in the letter, General; it contains nothing about love, but only speaks of you.”
“I see that I am the happiest of mortals,” exclaimed Bonaparte, joyfully; “for I shall return to Paris, and my beautiful, noble, and adored Josephine will accompany me.”
“No, general,” she said, solemnly, “I shall return to Italy; I shall bury myself in some convent in order to weep there over the short dream of my happiness, and to pray for you. Now I have told you every thing I had to say to you. I have replied to your reproaches. You see that I have meanly profited by the love of these poor men, that I have made a disgraceful use of the most sacred feeling in order to promote your interests. I did so secretly, for I told you already, general, your valorous hand knows better how to wield the sword than to carry on intrigues. A strong grasp of this hand might have easily destroyed the whole artificial web of my plans, and for this reason I was silent. But I counted on your confidence, on your esteem. I perceive now, however, that I do not possess them, and this separates us forever. Unreserved confidence is not only the nourishment that imparts life to friendship, but without it love also pines away and dies. [Footnote: Josephine’s own words.—Vide Le Normand, vol. i., p. 248.] Farewell, then, general; I forgive your distrust, but I cannot expose myself any longer to your anger. Farewell!”
She bowed and turned to the door. But Bonaparte followed her, and keeping her back with both hands, he said, in a voice trembling with emotion: “Where are you going, Josephine?”
“I told you already,” she sighed, painfully; “I am going to a convent to weep and pray for you.”
“That means that you want to kill me!” he exclaimed, with flaming eyes. “For you know I cannot live without you. If I had to lose you, your love, your charming person, I would lose every thing rendering life pleasant and desirable for me. Josephine, you are to me a world that is incomprehensible to me, and every day I love you more passionately. Even when I do not see you, my love for you is constantly growing; for absence only destroys small passions; it increases great passions. [Footnote: Bonaparte’s words.—Vide “Memoires d’une Contemporaine,” vol. ii., p. 363.] My heart never felt any of the former. It proudly refused to fall in love, but you have filled it with a boundless passion, with an intoxication that seems to be almost degrading. You were always the predominant idea of my soul; your whims even were sacred laws for me. To see you is my highest bliss; you are beautiful and enchanting; your gentle, angelic soul is depicted in your features. Oh, I adore you just as you are; if you had been younger, I should have loved you less intensely. Every thing you do seems virtuous to me; every thing you like seems honorable to me. Glory is only valuable to me inasmuch as it is agreeable to you and flatters your vanity. Your portrait always rests on my heart, and whenever I am far from you, not an hour passes without my looking at it and covering it with kisses. [Footnote: Vide “Correspondance inedite avec Josephine,” Lettre v.] The glass broke the other day when I pressed it too violently against my breast. My despair knew no bounds, for love is superstitious, and every thing seems ominous to it. I took it for an announcement of your death, and my eyes knew no sleep, my heart knew no rest, till the courier whom I immediately dispatched to you, had brought me the news that you were well, and that no accident had befallen you. [Footnote: “Memoires sur Napoleon, par Constant,” vol. i.. p. 809.] See, woman, woman, such is my love! Will you now tell me again that you wish to leave me?”
“I must, general,” she said, firmly. “Love cannot be lasting without esteem, and you do not esteem me. Your suspicion has dishonored me, and a dishonored and insulted woman cannot be your wife any longer. Farewell!”
She wanted to disengage herself from his hands, but he held her only the more firmly. “Josephine,” he said, in a hollow voice, “listen to me, do not drive me to despair, for it would kill me to lose you. No duty, no title would attach me any longer to earth. Men are so contemptible, life is so wretched—you alone extinguish the ignominy of mankind in my eyes. [Footnote: “Correspondance inedite avec Josephine,” p. 875] Without you there is no hope, no happiness. I love you boundlessly.”
“No, general, you despise me; you do not love me!”
“No, no!” he shouted, wildly stamping his foot. “If you go on in this manner, I shall drop dead at your feet. Do not torment me so dreadfully. Remember what I have often told you: Nature has given to me a strong, decided soul, but it has made you of gauze and lace. You say I do not love. Hear it, then, for the last time. Since you have been away from me, I have not passed a single day without loving you, not a single night without mentally pressing you to my heart. I have not taken a single cup of tea without cursing the glory and ambition separating me from the soul of my life. [Footnote: “Correspondance,” etc., p. 532.] Amidst my absorbing occupations—at the head of my troops, on the march and in the field—my heavenly Josephine ever was foremost in my heart. She occupied my mind; she absorbed my thoughts. If I left you with the impetuosity of the Rhone, I only did so in order to return the sooner to your side. If I ran from my bed at night and continued working, I did so for the purpose of accelerating the moment of our reunion. The most beautiful women surrounded me, smiled upon me, gave me hopes of their favor, and tried to please me, but none of them resembled you; none had the gentle and melodious features so deeply imprinted on my heart. I only saw you, only thought of you, and that rendered all of them intolerable to me. I left the most beautiful women in order to throw myself on my couch and sigh, ‘When will my adored wife be again with me?’ [Footnote: Ibid., p. 349.] And if I just now gave way to an ebullition of anger, I only did so because I love you so boundlessly as to be jealous of every glance, of every smile. Forgive me, therefore, Josephine, forgive me for the sake of my infinite love! Tell me that you will think no more of it, and that you will forget and forgive every thing.”
He looked at her anxiously and inquiringly, but Josephine did not reply to his glances. She averted her eyes and remained silent.
“Josephine.” he exclaimed, perfectly beside himself, “make an end of it. Just touch my forehead; it is covered with cold perspiration, and my heart is trembling as it never trembled in battle. Make an end of it; I am utterly exhausted. Oh, Josephine, my dear Josephine, open your arms to me.”
“Well, come then, you dear, cruel husband,” she said, bursting into tears and extending her arms to him.
Bonaparte uttered a joyful cry, pressed her to his heart, and covered her with kisses.
“Now I am sure you have forgiven every thing,” he said, encircling her all the time with his arms. “You forgive my madness, my abominable jealousy?”
“I forgive every thing, Bonaparte, if you will promise not to be jealous again,” she said, with a charming smile.
“I promise never to be jealous again, but to think, whenever you give a rendezvous to another man, that you only do so for my sake, and for the purpose of conspiring for me. Ah, my excellent wife, you have worked bravely for me, and henceforth I know that I can intrust to your keeping my glory and my honor with implicit confidence. Yea, even the helm of the state I would fearlessly intrust to your hands. Pray, therefore, Josephine, pray that your husband may reach the pinnacle of distinction, for in that case I should give you a seat in my council of state and make you mistress of every thing except one point—” [Footnote: Le Normand, vol. i. p. 341.]
“And what is that?” asked Josephine, eagerly.
“The only thing I should not intrust to you, Josephine,” he said, laughing, “would be the keys of my treasury; you never would get them, my beautiful prodigal little wife of gauze, lace, diamonds, and pearls!” [Footnote: Ibid., vol. i., p. 342.]
“Ah, then you would deprive me of the right to distribute charities in your name?” she asked, sadly. “Is not that the most precious and sublime duty of the wife of a great man, to conquer Heaven for him by charities while he is conquering earth by his deeds? And you would take from me the means for doing so? Yours is a wild and passionate nature, and I shall often have to heal the wounds that you have inflicted in your outbursts of anger. Happy for me if I should always be able to heal them, and if your anger should be less fatal to men than to my poor little dog, who merely wanted to defend me against your violence.”
“Poor little dog!” said Bonaparte, casting a glance of confusion upon Zephyr. “I greatly regret the occurrence, particularly as the dog was a gift from Hoche. But no lamentations of mine being able to recall Zephyr to life, Josephine, I will immortalize him at all events. He shall not find an unknown grave, like many a hero; no, we will erect to this valiant and intrepid defender of the charming fortress Josephine, a monument which shall relate his exploits to the most remote posterity. Have Zephyr packed up in a box; couriers and convoys of troops will set out to-day for Milan. They shall take the corpse along, and I will issue orders that a monument be erected to your Zephyr in the garden of our villa. [Footnote: Bonaparte kept his word. The little victim of his Jealousy, Zephyr, the dog, was buried in the gardens of Mondeza, near Milan, and a marble monument was erected on his grave.—Le Normand, vol. i., p. 498.] But now, Josephine, I must leave you; life, with its stern realities, is calling me. I must go and receive the Austrian ambassadors.”