FIRST LADY
Ten in the morning, Madame. You forget
You asked the same but a brief while ago.
JOSÉPHINE
Did I? I thought it was so long ago!...
I wish to go to Elba with him so much,
But the Allies prevented me. And why?
I would not have disgraced him, or themselves!
I would have gone to him at Fontainebleau,
With my eight horses and my household train
In dignity, and quitted him no more....
Although I am his wife no longer now,
I think I should have gone in spite of them,
Had I not feared perversions might be sown
Between him and the woman of his choice
For whom he sacrificed me.
SECOND LADY
It is more
Than she thought fit to do, your Majesty.
JOSÉPHINE
Perhaps she was influenced by her father’s ire,
Or diplomatic reasons told against her.
And yet I was surprised she should allow
Aught secondary on earth to hold her from
A husband she has outwardly, at least,
Declared attachment to.
FIRST LADY
Especially,
With ever one at hand—his son and hers—
Reminding her of him.
JOSÉPHINE
Yes.... Glad am I
I saw that child of theirs, though only once.
But—there was not full truth—not quite, I fear—
In what I told the Emperor that day
He led him to me at Bagatelle,
That ’twas the happiest moment of my life.
I ought not to have said it. No! Forsooth
My feeling had too, too much gall in it
To let truth shape like that!—I also said
That when my arms were round him I forgot
That I was not his mother. So spoke I,
But oh me,—I remembered it too well!—
He was a lovely child; in his fond prate
His father’s voice was eloquent. One might say
I am well punished for my sins against him!
SECOND LADY
You have harmed no creature, madame; much less him!
JOSÉPHINE
O but you don’t quite know!... My coquetries
In our first married years nigh racked him through.
I cannot think how I could wax so wicked!...
He begged me come to him in Italy,
But I liked flirting in fair Paris best,
And would not go. The independent spouse
At that time was myself; but afterwards
I grew to be the captive, he the free.
Always ’tis so: the man wins finally!
My faults I’ve ransomed to the bottom sou
If ever a woman did!... I’ll write to him—
I must—again, so that he understands.
Yes, I’ll write now. Get me a pen and paper.
FIRST LADY [to Second Lady]
’Tis futile! She is too far gone to write;
But we must humour her.
[They fetch writing materials. On returning to the bed they find
her motionless. Enter EUGÈNE and QUEEN HORTENSE. Seeing the state
their mother is in, they fall down on their knees by her bed.
JOSÉPHINE recognizes them and smiles. Anon she is able to speak
again.]
JOSÉPHINE [faintly]
I am dying, dears;
And do not mind it—notwithstanding that
I feel I die regretted. You both love me!—
And as for France, I ever have desired
Her welfare, as you know—have wrought all things
A woman’s scope could reach to forward it....
And to you now who watch my ebbing here,
Declare I that Napoléon’s first-chose wife
Has never caused her land a needless tear.
Tell him—these things I have said—bear him my love—
Tell him—I could not write!
[An interval. She spasmodically flings her arms over her son and
daughter, lets them fall, and becomes unconscious. They fetch a
looking-glass, and find that her breathing has ceased. The clock
of the Chateau strikes noon. The scene is veiled.]