EUGENE DE BEAUHARNAIS, NAPOLEON’S STEPSON. (“EUGENIO NAPOLEONE, PRINCE DI FRANCIA, VICE RE D’ITALIA, 1813.”)
Engraved by Longhi, after Gérard, Milan, 1813.
This was her condition when suddenly it was reported that Napoleon had returned unannounced from Russia. Amazed at the extent of the conspiracy which had arisen in his absence and at the instability of the throne at the mere report of his own death, and fearing still more serious results when the full news of the catastrophe in Russia reached France, the Emperor had driven night and day across Europe to Paris. His presence inspired courage, but it could not close the ears of France to the ghastly stories of the retreat from Moscow, nor blind her eyes to the haggard remnants of men who daily flocked into the city. There was an appearance of gaiety, because the Emperor ordered it; but there was little heart in the winter’s merry-making.
Napoleon’s return did not restore Josephine’s confidence. Her superstition, always lively, asserted itself to the full. The first day of the new year, 1813, was on Friday. Josephine’s presentiments were the darkest. This year would bring Napoleon sorrow and loss, she declared. France was to suffer. Nothing could restore her calm. In all this grief the thought was ever present with her that the divorce was the cause of Napoleon’s misfortunes. He had destroyed his Star. Nor was she by any means alone in this theory. Indeed, it is probable that she had adopted it from others, for many people in France had always believed it. Even in the Grand Army, during the campaign against Russia, soldiers said, after reverses began, that it was because of the divorce. “He shouldn’t have left the old girl,” they put it; “she brought him luck—and us too.”
In the spring of 1813, the Emperor was off again at the head of the army which by feverish efforts he had gathered and equipped. Josephine saw the new campaign begin with foreboding; she watched its doubtful progress with growing dismay, and finally when in November, the French army, defeated, and with its allies daily deserting, crossed the Rhine, her anguish was pitiful. Napoleon’s name was incessantly on her lips, and of everybody who came within her range that knew anything of him she asked a hundred eager questions. How did he look? Was he pale? Did he sleep? Did he believe his Star had deserted him?
When Eugène’s father-in-law, the King of Bavaria, abandoned his alliance with the Emperor, Josephine urged upon her son loyalty and energy; and when Louis Bonaparte moved by his brother’s misfortunes, hurried to offer his services, Josephine pointed out to Hortense, who, she thought, might reasonably expect new annoyance if Louis’s offer was accepted, that her husband’s act was a noble one and that Hortense should view it so. Hortense seems as a matter of fact, to have felt more respect for her husband when she heard of his offer to return than she had for many years.
During the advance of the allies towards Paris and the wonderful resistance Napoleon offered for many weeks, Josephine remained at Malmaison feverishly questioning everybody who came. As the battles grew nearer, she interested herself in hospital work, and set her household to making lint. Now and then she received a note from the Emperor—a characteristic note of triumph—never of fear or complaint. These notes she always retired to read and to weep over, and afterwards she spent hours talking of them to her women.
As the end of March approached the allies were so near Paris that Josephine saw bodies of strangely uniformed men passing and repassing near Malmaison—Cossacks, Austrians, Prussians. What could it all mean? Hortense, at the court of Marie Louise, sent her daily notes, telling her of the hopes and fears of Paris. Invariably these notes were courageous, showing perfect confidence in the final triumph of Napoleon. When at last, on March 28th, Hortense learned that Marie Louise and the court were leaving the city, her indignation was intense. She could do nothing, however. It was her duty to accompany Marie Louise, and she had only time before departing to send a note to Josephine, urging her to go to Navarre.
“My dear Hortense,” Josephine replied, “up to the moment I received your letter I kept my courage. I cannot endure the thought that I am to be separated from you, and God knows for how long! I am following your counsel; I shall go to-morrow to Navarre. I have only sixteen men in my guard here, and they are all wounded. I shall keep them; but as a matter of fact, I do not need them. I am so wretched at being separated from my children that I am indifferent about what happens to myself. Try to send me word how you are, what you will do, and where you will go. I shall try to follow you from afar, at least.”
Early on March 29th, the little household started through rain and mud. Josephine’s terror was complete. She fancied she would be waylaid by Cossacks; and once when she saw a band of soldiers approaching, she jumped from her carriage, and fled across the fields alone. It was with difficulty that her attendants convinced her that the strangers were French, not foreign soldiers.
Once at Navarre, she spent much of her time alone—a practice quite unlike her,—reading and re-reading Napoleon’s letters. One of them she carried always in her bosom. It had been sent from Brienne, only a short time before the abdication, and contained the most touching expressions of his affection for her to be found in any of his later letters: “I have sought death in numberless engagements; I no longer dread its approach; I should now hail it as a boon.... Nevertheless, I still wish to see Josephine once more.”