The Court of the Empress Josephine

by Imbert de Saint-Amand

The Empress had another cause of grief. At the Pyrenees her daughter Hortense had become reconciled with Louis, and was soon to be the mother of the child afterwards known as Napoleon III. But in a few weeks the incongeniality of their dispositions, for a moment forgotten in their common grief, asserted itself anew. On their return to Paris, at the end of August, the discord between the King and the Queen of Holland was as violent as ever. The King, more uneasy and suspicious than ever before, wanted to carry his wife to Holland, but the Queen had an aversion to the country where she had suffered so much, and to its fatal climate. She feared that if she should return there she might lose her second son like the first. Her health was wretched; she feared that her lungs were affected. In France she felt that the Emperor protected her from her husband's anger. Holland seemed to her a gloomy, damp, melancholy prison, of which the King, her husband, would be the jailor. Louis Bonaparte was furious at his wife's resistance, all the more that he was obliged to hide his feelings. Napoleon, who held his family, like his Empire, in absolute control, gave Louis, as well as his other brothers, orders which they had to obey without a word or a murmur. The King of Holland returned to his kingdom alone, his wife stayed in France, but in the gloomiest spirits, with mind and body disordered, disenchanted about all human things. "From that time," she said later, "I understood that my misfortunes were beyond cure; I looked upon my life as destroyed; I conceived a horror of grandeur, of a throne; I often cursed what so many called my good fortune; I felt lost to all enjoyment of life, shorn of all Illusions, nearly dead to everything going on about me." Under other conditions, the Empress would have been delighted to have her daughter with her, but she found her so dejected, so morose, and so unhappy, that her presence was quite as much a grief as a comfort for her. These were the feelings of the Empress of the French and of the Queen, of Holland when they went to Fontainebleau with the court at the end of September, 1807. There the Emperor lived more splendidly than ever, surrounding himself with all the pomp and majesty of monarchy.

XXV.

THE COURT AT FONTAINEBLEAU.

The court arrived at the Palace of Fontainebleau September 21, 1807, and stayed there until November 15. Napoleon felt the need of displaying unprecedented luxury. He wanted to have the Diplomatic Corps send to foreign powers the account of magnificent festivities. This splendid palace, with its proud memories of the old French monarchy, was a residence that pleased him. He liked to be surrounded by great persons, whether foreigners or Frenchmen, who rivalled one another in flattery, zeal, and homage towards him. In his opinion, festivities and battles added to the glory of the throne. Desiring to be in everything first, he was very anxious for his court to be esteemed the most brilliant in Europe.

There were various types among the guests at Fontainebleau. There was Napoleon's mother, rather Italian than French by birth, and in face and accent. She recalled the characters of antiquity, unspoiled by prosperity, austere in her life, simple in her taste, rigidly economical, less from avarice than a distrust of the continuance of her son's good fortune. There was the beautiful Princess Borghese, Duchess of Guastalla, more elegant, more fashionable, more attractive than ever; then Madame Murat, rich in freshness and brilliancy, not satisfied with being a French Princess and Grand Duchess of Berg, but yearning to be a Queen; the Queen of Holland, on the other hand, in despair at having ascended the throne, and plunged in a deep melancholy in marked contrast with the splendors surrounding her in spite of herself. Then Joseph Bonaparte's wife, the Queen of Naples, whose tastes were modest, and who preferred Paris to her Italian kingdom. There were many Princes and great lords in the crowd of courtiers, the satellites of the Imperial sun. In the Gallery of Henry II. were to be distinguished a cluster of German Princes: the Grand Duke of Würzburg,—who did not seem to sigh for his Grand Duchy of Tuscany, finding ample consolation in singing Italian pieces, for music was his passion; the Prince Primate of the Confederation of the Rhine, Archbishop of Regensburg, Sovereign Prince of that city and of Frankfort, who, in spite of his position in the church, joined the Emperor's hunt; Prince William of Prussia, who hoped by his devotion to alleviate the troubles of his country, and to modify the demands of the hero of Jena; the Prince of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, conspicuous for his formal German politeness; the young Prince of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. brother of the Queen of Prussia, less interested in the patriotic grievances of his sister, than in his assiduous court to the Empress Josephine, whose respectful platonic lover he was; the Prince of Baden, who, although the brother-in-law of the Emperor of Russia, the King of Bavaria, and the King of Sweden, was proud to have married a Mademoiselle de Beauharnais, daughter of a simple Senator of the Empire, with but one regret—that his wife did not love him enough; Jerome, the young and brilliant King of Westphalia, apparently forgetful of Elisabeth Paterson, and full of mad love for his new wife, Princess Catherine of Würtemberg.

In the Gallery of Henry II. was also to be seen Murat, who, after his triumphal entry into Warsaw, thought of nothing but crowns, anxiously wondering whether he was to be King of Poland, or of Portugal, of Spain, or of Naples. There were the high dignitaries of the Empire, the foreign ambassadors, the marshals, the ministers; M. de Talleyrand with his enormous salary, his high position as Grand Chamberlain and Vice-Elector, his title of Prince of Benevento, always sparkling with the cold, sceptical, politely contemptuous wit that distinguished those who belonged to the old régime—Talleyrand, who, in the Emperor's closet possibly spoke to him with a certain freedom, but in the Gallery of Henry II. resembled the other courtiers and kept a profound silence as his master drew near. Then the Count of Ségur, Grand Master of Ceremonies, as attractive in the court of Napoleon as he had been in that of Catherine II. as ambassador of Louis XVI.; Marshal Berthier, Grand Master of the Horse, Vice-Constable, Sovereign Prince of Neufchâtel, as devoted to Madame Visconti as if he were a youth of twenty; Count Tolstoi, the brilliant ambassador of the Emperor Alexander; M. de Metternich, the fascinating and skilful Austrian Ambassador, conspicuous by Ms admiration for Princess Murat.

When the Emperor entered, all eyes were turned towards him alone; about him centred all interest, all intrigues, all ambitions. He appeared as the dispenser of fortune, the arbiter of destiny, the exceptional being on whom depended individuals, kingdoms, empires. He filled it all with his presence; every one seemed to live only for and by the Emperor. A smile, a word, the slightest mark of attention on his part, seemed a precious reward, a marked honor, As soon as he entered, a quiver of admiration and of terror seemed to run through the air. Every one bowed like a horse who sniffs the approach of his master; they almost prostrated themselves before him. Any one to whom he spoke, stammered, feared to reply, turned pale and red; and he, rejoicing in their embarrassment, gloried in the wide gulf he had set between himself and all other human beings. Even foreigners seemed to be his subjects. Whatever their position, whatever their coat-of-arms, by his side they were vulgar supernumeraries. His power appeared to be limitless, like his genius; and believing everything possible, looking upon himself as a prodigy, a living miracle, he exulted proudly and majestically in his glory.

Under the second Empire, what were called the series of Compiègne and of Fontainebleau were much less ceremonious than under the first. All the guests of Napoleon III. breakfasted and dined at his table,—in the morning in frock-coat, in the evening in black coat and knee breeches; no uniforms were to be seen. Women appeared at breakfast in morning dress; they wore no especial dress at the hunt. Before dinner the Empress used to receive a few specially invited guests to drink tea. All day the Emperor left the company perfectly free. In the evening there was dancing to the music of a piano like a hand-organ, of which a chamberlain turned the handle. The Emperor was treated with great deference, but no one feared him, because his words were always marked by great affability. Napoleon I., on the other hand, was perhaps more feared than admired. Those who were charged with organizing his entertainments were perfectly happy if he was silent; for he almost never gave a word of praise and often criticised. It was a conspicuous and rare honor, even for Princes, to dine with him. There were besides at Fontainebleau, in 1807, several distinct tables: those of the Princes and Princesses of the Imperial family, who often gave grand dinners; that of the Grand Marshal of the Palace, with twenty-five places; that of the Empress's Maid of Honor, with the same number; and, finally, a last table for all those who had received no special invitation. The Princesses paid the cost—of installing themselves there out of their own purses, while under Napoleon III., at Fontainebleau, or at Compiègne, all the expenses were defrayed by the Emperor. Under the first Empire only those holding high official position were invited to the Imperial, residences; under the second, many were invited who were famous only for their elegance. Under Napoleon I., where everything was formal, scarcely anything but tragedy was played at the court; under Napoleon III., lighter plays were often given. The hunts were very simple under the second Emperor and very magnificent under the first, In 1807 Napoleon had ordered that women who went to the coursing should wear a special costume; that of the Empress and of all the ladies of her household was of amaranthine velvet, embroidered with gold, and a cap with white feathers; that of the Princesses, blue for the Queen of Holland, pink for the Princess Murat, lilac for the Princess Borghese, all adorned with silver embroidery. The Emperor and all his guests wore the same hunting-dress for coursing: a green coat with gold, buttons and lace, breeches of white cassimere, Hessian boots without tops; for shooting, a green coat, with no other ornament than white buttons, on which were carved hunting emblems. Under the first Empire, etiquette was most rigid; under the second, it hardly existed. At every moment of day and evening, Napoleon I. wore a twofold air as commander-in-chief and sovereign; Napoleon III. was like a man of the world receiving his friends in his own castle.

From September 21 to November 15, 1807, the great general had commanded that there should be amusement in the Palace of Fontainebleau. Pleasure was ordered, but it does not come at call. The Emperor, accustomed to have his every wish obeyed, was surprised to see that not every face was radiant. "Strange," he said, "I have gathered a good many people here at Fontainebleau; I want them to amuse themselves, I have arranged their pleasures, yet every one seems tired and sad." The Italian songs, even when sung by the best singers, in costume and with all the scenery, produced but a feeble impression. The tragedies seemed to induce slumber. The little balls, or, more exactly, the little hops in the apartment of the Maid of Honor, Madame de la Rochefoucauld, were very dull. Sometimes little games were played there; they gave a flash of gaiety, but as soon as the Emperor appeared, every one assumed a serious, composed air. Might one not say once more what La Bruyère said when speaking of the court of Louis XIV.: "Who would believe that this eagerness for shows, that meals, hunts, ballets, tilting-matches, crowned so many anxieties, pains, and diverse interests, so many fears and hopes, so many lively passions, and serious affairs?" A palace is not built for ease. All its formalities hang heavy on every guest; the whole of every day is spent in playing a part.

Amid all these empty pleasures and hollow joys there was no lack of sorrow. It was there that the wretched Queen Hortense, spitting blood, mourning the past and dreading the future, said to Napoleon: "My reputation is tainted, my health ruined, I expect no more happiness in life; banish me from your court; if you wish, lock me up in a convent, I desire neither throne nor fortune. Give peace to my mother, glory to Eugene, who deserves it, but let me live a calm and solitary life." She had been happier as an unknown schoolgirl at Madame Campan's, just as her mother, the Empress of the French and the Queen of Italy, must have often sighed for the island of Martinique, where she would have preferred the splash of the waves to the courtiers' murmur of obsequious flattery. Napoleon, himself, at the height of human glory, had lost the peace of heart which he enjoyed in his boyhood, and never found again.