“The jailer came one morning to the room occupied by the Duchess d’Aiguillon, two other ladies, and myself, and said that he came to remove my bed, which was to be given to another prisoner. ‘Why give it away?’ said the duchess eagerly: ‘is, then, Madame de Beauharnais to have a better?’ ‘No, no; she will not need one at all,’ said the wretch, with an atrocious smile; ‘she is to be taken to a new lodging, and thence to the guillotine.’ On hearing this, my companions shrieked aloud. I endeavored to console them. At length, wearied with their continued lamentations, I told them their grief was quite unreasonable; that not only I should not die, but that I should be queen of France. ‘Why do you not at once name the persons of your household?’ said Madame d’Aiguillon, with an air of resentment. ‘Very true; I had quite forgotten it. Well, my dear, you shall be lady of honor; you may rely upon my promise.’ The tears of the ladies now flowed afresh, for my composure made them think that my reason was affected. I assure you, however, that there was no affectation of courage on my part; I felt a conviction that the oracle would be fulfilled. Madame d’Aiguillon grew faint, and I led her towards the window, which I threw open, that she might breathe the fresh air; I suddenly caught sight of a poor woman who was making signs 228 to us. She was laying hold of her gown at every moment—a sign which we were at a loss to understand. At length I cried out to her,’ Robe.’ She nodded in assent, and then, picking up a stone, held it up with her other hand. ‘Pierre,’ I cried out. Her joy was unbounded when we understood her; and, bringing the gown close to the stone, she made quick and repeated signs of cutting her throat, and began to dance and clap her hands. This strange pantomime excited an emotion in our minds which it is impossible to describe, as we ventured to hope that it gave us the announcement of Robespierre’s death.
“Whilst we were in this state of suspense, we heard a great noise in the passage, and the formidable voice of the keeper, who, giving a kick to his dog, said to the animal, ‘Get out of the way, you d—d brute of a Robespierre.’ This energetic phraseology proved to us that France was rid of her tyrant. In fact, our companions in misfortune came in soon afterwards, and gave us the details of the important event. My hammock was brought back to me, and I never enjoyed a quieter night. I fell asleep, after saying to my friends, ‘You see that I am not guillotined; I shall yet be queen of France!’”
Notwithstanding this confidence, Josephine had devoted a portion of her last day to writing a last farewell to her children. Here are extracts from it: “My children, your father is dead, and your mother is about to follow him; but as, before that final stroke, the assassins leave me a few moments to myself, I wish to employ them in writing to you. Socrates, when condemned, philosophized with his disciples; a mother, 229 on the point of undergoing a similar fate, may discourse with her children. My last sigh will be for you, and I wish to make my last words a lasting lesson. Time was, when I gave you lessons in a more pleasing way; but the present will not be the less useful, that it is given at so serious a moment. I have the weakness to water it with my tears; I shall soon have the courage to seal it with my blood. * * * I am about to die as your father died, a victim of the fury he always opposed, but to which he fell a sacrifice. I leave life without hatred of France and its assassins; but I am penetrated with sorrow for the misfortunes of my country. Honor my memory in sharing my sentiments. I leave for your inheritance the glory of your father, and the name of your mother, whom some who have been unfortunate will bear in remembrance.” In more prosperous days, the poor and the distressed had ever found Josephine’s heart and hand open for their relief. She was now herself obliged to rely upon the benevolence of others for her own subsistence, and of the services she then received, she ever retained a grateful recollection. She had been most affected by the attentions of Madame Dumoulin, and felt great delight, in after years, in adverting to the subject. At this period of general scarcity, this benevolent lady every day entertained at her table a party of those whose means were more limited. Madame de Beauharnais was a regular guest. Bread was at this time so scarce as to be a subject of legal enactment, restricting the quantity allowed to each person to two ounces. Guests at the houses of the most opulent, even, were expected to bring their own bread. Aware that Madame de Beauharnais 230 was in more distressed circumstances than the rest, Madame Dumoulin dispensed with this practice in her favor, thereby justifying the expression of the latter, that she received her daily bread from her.
Tallien, Barras, and those who succeeded to power, on the fall of the terrorists, being themselves not destitute of refinement, were desirous that society should emerge from the state of barbarism into which it had fallen. Madame Tallien, distinguished for grace, beauty, and brilliancy of wit, exerted all her charms to diffuse a taste for the courtesies and amenities of civilized life, and thus to soften the sanguinary spirit which had led to so many atrocities. Calling to her assistance her intimate friend, Madame de Beauharnais, the task was soon, to some extent, accomplished. Private individuals did not yet dare to make any show of wealth by receiving company habitually at their own houses. Public balls, and public concerts at the Hotels Thelusson and Richelieu, were the fashion. Here persons of all opinions, of all castes, intermingled, and laughed and danced together in the utmost harmony. The influence of Madame Tallien was at this time very great, and under her protection many an emigré returned, and many a royalist emerged from the hiding-place to figure in these gay scenes. Most of them submitted with a good grace to the new order of things. It sometimes chanced, however, that curiosity or ennui would lead thither some who could not so readily lay aside feelings and habits acquired under the old régime, and scenes would occur not a little amusing to the philosophic observer, who, had he possessed the gift of second sight, would 231 have been doubly amused. One of these is thus related by a contemporary. Madame de D. was one evening persuaded, by the old Marquis d’Hautefort, so far to lay aside her prejudices as to accompany him, with her daughter, to a ball at Thelusson’s. The party arrived late. The room was crowded. By dint of elbowing and entreaties, they reached the centre. To find two seats together was impossible, and Madame de D., who was not of a timid nature, looked about on all sides to find at least one. Her eyes encountered a young and charming face, surrounded by a profusion of light hair, looking slyly forth from a pair of large, dark-blue eyes, and exhibiting altogether the image of the most graceful of sylphs. This young lady was conducted back to her seat by M. de T., which proved that she danced well; for none other were invited to be his partners. The graceful creature, after courtesying, with a blush, to the Vestris of the ball-rooms, sat down by the side of a female, who appeared to be her elder sister, and whose elegant dress excited the notice and envy of all the women at the ball. “Who are those persons?” said Madame de D. “What, is it possible that you do not know the Viscountess Beauharnais?” said the marquis. “It is she and her daughter. There is a vacant place by her; come and sit down; you may renew your acquaintance with her.” Madame de D., without making any reply, gave such a tug at the arm of the marquis as to draw him, whether he would or not, into one of the little saloons. “Are you mad?” said she to him. “A pretty place, truly, by the side of Madame Beauharnais! Ernestine would of course have been obliged 232 to make acquaintance with her daughter. Marquis, you must have lost your wits.”
In the month of May, 1795, Napoleon Bonaparte came to Paris. His energies and talents had already attracted the notice of some of the leading men, especially of Barras, who had witnessed his conduct at Toulon. Upon the establishment of the Directory, he was appointed general-in-chief of the army of the interior, and commandant of Paris. In this latter capacity he had his first particular interview with Josephine. It had been his duty to disarm the citizens, and he had thus become possessed of the sword of Viscount Beauharnais. Eugene, who had a reverential admiration of his father, wished to obtain so precious a relic. Though not yet fourteen, he presented himself at the levee of the commander-in-chief, and solicited the restoration of his father’s sword. His frank and gallant bearing pleased the general, who immediately granted the request.
The next day, Madame Beauharnais called at the head-quarters, to thank the general for his condescension to her son. They had before met at the table of Barras; but a disappointed, and, in some degree, disgraced officer was not likely to attract the regards of one already looked upon as among the most distinguished ladies in France. But the circumstances of their present interview served to infuse a particular interest into their previous acquaintance. Bonaparte returned the visit. He became a suitor in his turn. Josephine, besides her intimacy with Madame Tallien, herself exerted great influence over those in power, and could do much to secure the position of the young soldier. 233 Ambition, as well as love, being his prompters, Bonaparte was not the man to fail, gifted, as he appears to have been, from Josephine’s own confession, with unequalled powers of persuasion. The nuptials were celebrated March 9th, 1796, and twelve days after, Bonaparte left Paris to take the command of the army of Italy—an appointment which Barras had promised, as it were, as a dowry for Josephine.
Amidst the exciting, and, one would think, all-absorbing events of that wonderful campaign, Josephine was always in the thoughts of the youthful conqueror. His constant letters breathe the most romantic passion, couched in the most ardent language. By some accident, the glass of a miniature of his bride, which he constantly wore about his person, was broken; how he knew not. This simple occurrence he conceived to be a prognostication of the death of the original, and enjoyed no peace of mind, until a courier, despatched express, returned with tidings of her safety.
The campaign finished, Josephine joined her husband at the head-quarters at Montebello, where a crowd of princes, nobles, and ambassadors, had assembled to settle with the conqueror the terms of peace. Add to these a crowd of young and gallant Frenchmen, the officers of the army, flushed with victory, and we have a picture of a court as brilliant as can well be conceived. All vied in assiduous attention to her who was beloved and honored by the general. All was joy and festivity. The most magnificent entertainments were varied by excursions among the enchanting scenery around. For all this Josephine was indebted to her husband, and it was all enjoyed in 234 his company. In after life, she often reverted to this as the happiest period of her existence. Of her conduct in this new position, Bonaparte himself remarked, “I conquer provinces, Josephine gains hearts.”
When the expedition to Egypt was determined upon, a new armament was to be organized, and great difficulties to be overcome. While her husband passed the day, and frequently great part of the night, in his cabinet, or at the Luxemburg, in wringing from the Directory reluctant consent to his measures, Josephine, in the saloon, was equally active in attaching new or confirming old adherents. Never were those conciliating manners for which she was so celebrated more successfully employed, than in the dawn of her husband’s fortunes. Not a few were thus won to a standard which they were destined to display over so many prostrate capitals of Europe. Under her auspices, too, were formed some unions, more in consonance with her own gentle nature. “Habit,” said the empress, long afterwards, “has rendered the practice familiar; but there is only one occasion on which I should voluntarily say, I will; namely, when I would say, I will that all around me be happy.”
The greater portion of the time of her husband’s absence in the East was passed by her at Malmaison, an estate which she purchased, about twelve miles from Paris. Here she occupied herself in the education of her daughter, in the improvement of the grounds, and in watching over and securing the interests of her husband. To this end it was necessary that she should see much company; but she received 235 none to her intimacy, except a few of her ancient female friends.