The really delightful part of Josephine’s life at Bayonne was the informal intimacy which she and Napoleon enjoyed. Never since the days at Malmaison had they been together so long and so freely. They made the most of their liberty, even romping before the eyes of the members of their small suite in a most unroyal way. The Castle of Marrac, which they occupied, was near the shore, and they spent much time on the beach, where the Emperor, dragging the Empress to the water, would push her into it or dash sand over her, laughing like a teasing boy as he did so. In one of these romps the little, low silk slippers which the Empress always wore slipped off, and Napoleon, seizing them, threw them into the surf, making Josephine walk back to her carriage in stocking feet. It was with such frolics that the two enlivened the days at Marrac, in the summer of 1808. Their journey back to Paris was a triumphal procession, wherein Josephine, by her tact, her amiability, her unflagging interest, won every heart. Never had she seemed more admirable to Napoleon as an Empress, never more charming as a woman.
It was in August, 1808, that Josephine returned to Paris, after four and a half months with her husband. A few days later, he left her for Erfurth, where he was to meet Alexander of Russia and the German sovereigns, for a conference on the affairs of Europe. At a gathering of the magnitude and splendor of this at Erfurth it would have been fitting that the Empress be present, but Napoleon did not deem it wise for her to leave France. That Napoleon meant to indicate by leaving her at home that his decision to have a divorce was taken and that this was the beginning of the separation is not clear, though it is certain that the subject was much in his mind at Erfurth. The stability an heir would give to his throne and the value of an alliance with one of the old houses of Europe, now became clearer than ever to him, and undoubtedly Napoleon came back to Josephine with the idea more firmly fixed in mind than before. Those who saw them together after Erfurth said to themselves, “He is meditating the divorce again.” Josephine feared it. What else could mean his short brusque remarks, his evident desire to escape her company, his averted eyes.
Dread the future as she might, she could do nothing. To question Napoleon was to irritate him, and nothing, she knew, was more unwise. To show a sad face, to weep, was to drive him from her presence, for he detested tears with all the force of the strong reasoning controlled creature who sees nothing but a meaningless waste of strength in them. She knew too well the empire of Napoleon over all those about him to attempt to build up a party of her own that at the issue would throw its influence in her favor. There was but one thing to oppose to the imperious will of her husband—his affection for her. To cherish that, doing nothing of which he could complain, nothing which would irritate or weary him; to show him at every meeting her amiability, her devotion, her tact, to win from him the confession that no woman could fill more gracefully and successfully than she was doing her difficult position,—this was Josephine’s course, and the one which she followed ceaselessly after the interview in 1807. Certainly the fear was continually in her heart after Erfurth, but to him she gave no sign. She was gentle, apparently trusting; tactful, and cautious—the very qualities which Napoleon admired most in women and found rarest. Every day of intercourse made it harder for him to come to a resolution, and every day increased her own anxiety.
It was only ten days after Erfurth that the war in Spain compelled Napoleon to leave Paris. Josephine was left alone. There was little in the letters she received from Spain to disturb her peace of mind; as always, they gave her details of the Emperor’s health, expressed concern for hers, gave brief bits of news—optimistic always; rarely a word of a disaster was put into a letter to Josephine—directions about fêtes, about the reception of persons to be sent to her, comments and inquiries on family matters: such letters, in short, as she had always received. Yet there was an uneasiness in Josephine’s mind which she could not conquer;—it was fed by rumors from idle and more or less malicious tongues in her circle.
It was not only the uncertainty of her own fate which distressed her; she had further reason for grief in the unhappiness of Hortense, who had been reconciled with her husband for a time, but was now more wretched than ever, and whose frequent letters to Josephine must have cut her to the heart again and again. Her tenderness and her wisdom in her councils to her daughter at this time, indeed at all times, are admirable. It would not have been surprising if in receiving daily the complaints of Hortense, at a moment of so much uneasiness regarding her true situation, she had resented the misery of her daughter; but there is never a shadow of irritation in her letters.
In January, Josephine had the joy of seeing Napoleon return. For the two months and a half he was in Paris she watched him closely, but to no purpose. Indeed public affairs were in such a condition that the Emperor had little or no time to give her. He was working day and night in a frenzied effort to clear France of the traitors who, within his government, indeed within his own family, were plotting his overthrow, and to put an army in order for the war he saw Austria and her allies preparing for him. There was no time in the winter of 1808 and 1809 for the consideration of divorce and marriage, and if a decision for a divorce had been taken at Erfurth, the realization was far enough off. To all outward appearances, Josephine was safe. She was gratified, too, when the day of the Emperor’s departure came in April, by being allowed to accompany him as far as Strasburg, where she set up her court for the next few months. Here were soon gathered about her several of the family: Hortense, with her two little sons, the Queen of Westphalia, and the Grand Duchess of Baden. Here she received from the Emperor himself the first news of the succession of victories with which the campaign of 1809 opened. First it was Abensberg, then Eckmuhl, then Ratisbonne, that he recounted to her. It was a triumphal march, as always; but at Ratisbonne something happened which threw Josephine into consternation. Napoleon was hit by a ball. The news came to the Empress indirectly, and she hurriedly sent a courier to find out the actual condition of the wound. “The ball which hit me did not wound me,” he replied, “it scarcely grazed Achilles’ heel. My health is very good. It is wrong for you to worry. Everything is going well.”
Four days later, the Empress received a special courier from the Emperor, who announced to her the surrender of Vienna. Josephine was very happy. It argued well for a speedy end to the campaign. Her happiness was brief. The defeat at Essling, and the death of Marshall Lannes, filled her with foreboding. She, with many others of her day, looked on the career of the Emperor with superstitious awe. It was luck—a star. The charm broken, the star obscured, all would go. It is doubtful if Josephine, any more than hundreds of others who surrounded the Emperor, ever realized his stupendous genius or the gigantic efforts the man made to wrest victories from fate. It was the common story of one who spends himself in achievement, and in the end hears himself called a “lucky fellow”. After the defeat at Essling, Josephine discerned on every side the joy of Napoleon’s enemies, saw the alarm of his friends, heard in her own heart the knell of fate. To complete her misery, she feared she had offended the Emperor. Hortense, who had been at Strasburg for some time, was ordered by her physician to go to Baden for the waters. It was the Emperor’s order that no one of the royal family should change quarters without his consent. Hortense went to Baden without consulting him, taking with her the two young princes. The Emperor was irritated. “My daughter,” he wrote her less than a week after Essling, “I am dissatisfied to find that you have left France without my permission, and above all that you have taken my nephews away. Since you are at Baden, stay; but within an hour after you receive this letter, send my two nephews to Strasburg to the Empress. They must never leave France. It is the first time I have had any occasion to be dissatisfied with you, but you should never make any arrangements for my nephews without my consent. You must feel the bad effect that would have.”
This letter was sent to Hortense through Josephine, who opened it, thinking to have news herself from Napoleon, about whom she was greatly concerned. It was a new cause of worry. Would he not blame her for Hortense’s act? At least the two children had already been sent back to her—that was one reason for congratulation; but she hastened to write to Hortense urging her to try and appease the Emperor. Her anxiety became so great that her health began to give way, and she, too, had to leave Strasburg, in June, for treatment at Plombières, in the Vosges.
Josephine had been frequently before at Plombières, but certainly never before so quietly since she was Empress. The usual suite accompanied her, the same imposing livery, the same magnificent wardrobe, but no reception, no balls, no excursions marked her sojourn. She lived like a retired Empress almost—scattering charities everywhere, and amusing herself principally with her little grandsons, upon whom she lavished toys of every description in the profusion and extravagance with which she had always heaped jewels and finery upon herself. Daily she enjoyed Louis more. “I am so happy to have your son here,” she wrote Hortense. “He is charming, and I am becoming more and more attached to him.... His little reasonings amuse me exceedingly.”
