On this very day Josephine, who did not wish to be present at the banquet of gentlemen in Malmaison, had come to Paris to attend a party at the house of one of her friends. The conversation went on; they talked and jested, when a gentleman near Josephine told a friend that some striking event would probably take place that day in Paris, for he had just now met a friend who held an important office in the police. He had invited him to go to the theatre, but he declined, stating that he was to be on duty this evening, as some important affair was about being transacted—the arrest, as he thought, of some influential personage.

Josephine's heart trembled with horrible misgivings at these words. Love's instinct convinced her that her husband was the one to be arrested, and she thought within herself that it was Destiny itself which sent her this intelligence, that she might save her husband from the fearful blow which awaited him. Thus persuaded, she gathered all her strength and presence of mind, and determined to act with energy, and battle against the enemies of her husband. Without betraying the slightest emotion, or exciting any suspicion that she had heard or noticed what was said, Josephine rose from her seat with a cheerful and composed countenance, and pleasantly took leave of the lady of the house. But once past the threshold of the house, once in her carriage, her anxious nature woke up again, and she began to act with energy and resolution. She pulled the string, to give her directions to the driver. As fast as the horses could speed, he was to drive his mistress to Colonel Perrin, the commanding officer of the guards of the Directory. In ten minutes she was there, and knowing well how devoted a guard he and all his soldiers would be to Bonaparte, she communicated to him her fears, and requested from him immediate and speedy assistance to remove the danger.

Colonel Perrin was prepared to enter into her plans, and he promised to send to Malmaison a company of grenadiers, provided she would, as soon as possible, have General Murat send him an order to that effect. Josephine at once went to one of her true, reliable friends, who belonged to the Council of the Elders, and, making him acquainted with the danger which threatened her husband, requested him to gather a few devoted friends, and to attend to the orders which Murat would send them.

After having made all these preparations, Josephine drove in full gallop toward Malmaison.

The dinner, to which Bonaparte had invited gentlemen from all classes of society, was just over, and the guests were scattered, some in the drawing-rooms, and some in the garden, where Bonaparte was walking up and down in animated conversation with the secretary, Roger Ducos.

At this moment the carriage of Josephine drove into the yard; and Murat, who, with a few gentlemen, stood under the porch, hastened to offer his hand so as to help Josephine to alight. An eye-witness who was present at this scene relates as follows:

"'Where is the general?' asked Josephine, hastily, of General Murat.

" I do not know,' was the answer; 'he is gone with Roger, but Lucien is here.'

"'Look at once for the general!' exclaimed Josephine, breathless, 'I must speak to him immediately.'

"I approached her and said that he was in the garden. She ran—she flew! I placed myself at a window in the first story, from which I could easily see into the garden-walks. My expectations had not deceived me.

"No sooner did Bonaparte see Josephine approach, than he left Roger Ducos and hurried to meet her. Both then walked into a path near by. I could see them well. Josephine spoke with animation; the general walked on; now and then she held him back. At last they took the path leading to the castle. I went down to meet them on the steps near the door.

"Madame Bonaparte held her husband by the left hand. Her animated, expressive features had a bewitching pride and softness; it was a most delightful admixture of tenderness and heroism. Bonaparte looked around, pale and grave, but his eyes ever rested with pleasure on his wife. She refused to enter into the large hall, and retired to her room. Bonaparte called for Roger, and entered the saloon with him. His guests were awaiting his arrival, to take their leave. The carriages drove up, and the gentlemen left Malmaison to return to Paris. Only Lucien and Murat remained with Bonaparte; Madame Bonaparte joined them as they entered the vestibule. When she saw Murat, she exclaimed:

"'How, general, you still here!—Do you not consider,' continued she, turning to Bonaparte, 'that Murat ought to be already in Paris with Perrin?—Away! quick! to horse, to the Rue Varennes, or I drive thither myself.'

"Murat laughed; but four minutes after he was riding at a gallop on the road to the city. The three others returned to their rooms. I was curious to know what was the conversation; but as I had nothing more to do in the castle, I was about leaping on my horse to ride to Paris, when I saw a detachment of infantry marching toward the castle.

"I thought it my duty to announce them to the general; he sat between his wife and his brother. 'How!' cried he, as he rose up hastily. 'Troops?'

"'What of them?' answered Madame Bonaparte, smiling. 'Your company has left you, now comes mine. It is a rendezvous; but be comforted— they are not too many.'

"All three walked into the yard, where the troops were placing themselves in line without the sound of a drum.

"'You are an extraordinary man, sir,' said Madame Bonaparte to the captain. 'Nearly as soon as I?'

"'Madame,' replied the officer, 'we have been ready for the march these four hours.'

"The officers followed the general into the drawing-room, and refreshments were distributed to the soldiers; it was a company of grenadiers.

"At nine o'clock in the evening, a courier arrived, bearing dispatches to Bonaparte. At once he, his wife, and his brother, drove to Paris. The grenadiers were ordered to follow immediately and in silence." [Footnote: "Memoires secretes," vol. i., p. 26.]

These dispatches, which Bonaparte had received from Paris, brought him the news that this time the danger was over—that the directors had abandoned their plan. Some fortunate accident may have warned them, even as Josephine herself had been warned. The spies who everywhere tracked Josephine, as well as Bonaparte, had carried to Gohier intelligence of all the strange movements of the wife of Bonaparte, and the director at once perceived that she was informed of the danger which threatened her husband, and that she was bent upon preventing it.

But now that the plan of the directors had been unveiled, danger threatened them in their turn, and they immediately adopted measures to face this new peril. In place of Bonaparte, they must find some one whom they could arrest, without withdrawing their orders. They found a substitute in a wealthy merchant from Hamburg, who now resided in Paris. Gohier had him arrested, and accused him of having had relations with the enemies of France.

Bonaparte assumed the appearance of having no doubts as to the sincerity of Gohier, of suspecting nothing as to his own arrest, which had been prevented by the timely and energetic action of Josephine. He thanked her with increased tenderness for her love and faithfulness, and as he pressed her affectionately to his breast, he swore to her that he would never again doubt her; that he would, by the most unreserved confidence, share with her his schemes and designs, and that henceforth he would look upon her as the good angel who watched over the pathway of his life.

And Bonaparte kept his word. From this day his Josephine was not only his wife, but his confidante, his friend, who knew all his plans, and who could assist him with her advice and her exquisite practical tact. She it was who brought about a reconciliation with Moreau and Bernadotte; and by her amiable nature, attractive and dignified manner, and great social talents, she bound even his friends closer to Bonaparte; or with a smile, a kind word, some flattering observation, or some of those little attentions which often-times tell more effectually with those who receive them than great services, she would often win over to him his foes and opponents.

"It is known but to few persons," says the author of the "Memoires secretes," "that Bonaparte always consulted his wife in civil matters, even when they were of the highest importance. This fact is entirely true, but Bonaparte would have been extremely mortified had he known that those around him suspected it. Had it been possible for me to divide my being, with what delight I should have followed this noble woman! I would relate a few traits of hers if I did not know that M. D. B., who is much better acquainted with her than I, is to write a biography. [Footnote: The "Memoires secretes" appeared in 1815. The biography spoken of by the author is probably that of Madame Ducrest, and which appeared in 1818.] I know not what were the events of the first years of Madame de Beauharnais, but if they were like those of her last fifteen years, we should have the history of a perfect woman. She has known but little of me, and therefore no interested motive guides my pen, no other sentiment than that of truth." [Footnote: "Memoires secretes," vol. i., p. 36.]

The 2d Brumaire afforded sufficient reasons for Bonaparte to put into execution his resolutions. He now knew the enmity of the Directory; he knew he must cause their downfall if he himself did not wish to be destroyed by them. He knew that, during his last triumphal journey through France, he had heard sufficient to convince him that the voice of the people was for him, that every one longed for a change, that France was heartily wearied of revolutionary commotions, and above all things craved for rest and peace; that it wished to lay aside all political strife, and, like him, preferred to have nothing more to do with a republican majority.

"Every one desires a more central government," said Napoleon to his brother Joseph. "Our dreams of a republic are the illusions of youth. Since the 9th Thermidor the republican party has dwindled away more and more; the efforts of the Bourbons and the foreigners, coupled with the memories of '93, have called forth against the republican system an imposing majority. If it had not been for the 13th Vendemiaire and the 18th Fructidor, this majority would long ago have won the ascendency; the weaknesses, the imperiousness of the Directory, have done the rest. To-day the people are turning their hopes toward me, to-morrow it will be toward some one else."

Bonaparte did not wish to wait until to-morrow. He had made all his preparations; he had made sure of his generals and officers; he knew also that the soldiers were for him, and that it required but a signal from him to bring about the catastrophe.

He gave the signal by inviting on the 18th Brumaire, to a dejeuner in his house, all his confidants and friends, all the generals and superior officers, and also the commanding general of the National Guards. Nearly all of them came at this invitation; only General Bernadotte kept aloof, as he perceived that the breakfast had other objects than to converse and to eat. Sieyes and Ducos were the only directors who made their appearance; Gohier, that morning, had sent to Bonaparte an invitation to dinner, so as to deceive the more securely him whom he knew was his enemy; Barras and Moulins, suspecting Bonaparte's schemes, remained in the background, silently awaiting the result.

While the guests were assembling in Bonaparte's house, and filling all the space in it, a friend and confidant of Bonaparte, in the Council of the Elders, made the following motion: "In consideration of the intense political excitement which prevails in Paris, it is necessary to remove the sessions to St. Cloud, and to give to General Bonaparte the supreme command of the troops."

After a violent debate, the motion was suddenly adopted; and, when it was brought to Bonaparte, he saw that the moment for action had come.

He told all those about him that at last the time was at hand to restore to France rest and peace, that he was decided to do this, and he called upon them to follow him. Every one was ready, and, surrounded by a brilliant suite, Bonaparte went first to the Council of the Elders, to express his thanks for his nomination, and solemnly to swear that he would adopt every measure necessary to save the country.

Immediately after this he went to the Tuileries to hold a review of the troops stationed there. The soldiers and the people, who had streamed thither in masses to see him, received him with loud acclamations, assuring him of their loyalty and devotedness.

No one this day rose in favor of the deputies, no one seemed to desire that their sittings should as heretofore take place in Paris, nor to think that force would have to be used to remove them.

The palace of Luxemburg, in which their sittings had hitherto taken place, and St. Cloud, in which they were to meet in the future, were both, by orders of Bonaparte, surrounded with troops, and the deputies as well as the Council of the Elders adjourned that very day to St. Cloud.

Moulins and Gohier alone had the courage to offer opposition, and, in a letter to the Council of the Elders, to describe Bonaparte as a criminal, who threatened the republic, and to demand of them his arrest; and also that they should immediately decree that the republic was in danger, and that it must be defended with all energy. But this letter fell into Bonaparte's hands; and the directors, when they saw that their request was unheeded, resigned, as Barras had done.

The republic now had but two legitimate rulers, Sieyes and Ducos; and at their side stood Bonaparte, soon to exalt himself above them.

The following day, the 19th Brumaire, was actually the decisive day. The Five Hundred, who now, like the Council of the Elders, held their deliberations in St. Cloud, were discussing under great excitement the abdication of the Directory and the necessity of a new election. The debates were so vehement and so full of passion that the president, Lucien Bonaparte, could not command order. A wild uproar arose, and at this moment Napoleon entered the hall. Every one rushed at him with wild frenzy; and the most violent recriminations were launched at him. "He is a traitor!" they cried out. "He is a Cromwell, who wants to seize the sovereign power!" What Bonaparte had never experienced on the battle-field, in the thickest of the fight, he now felt. He became bewildered by this violent strife of words, by this hailstorm of accusations which whizzed around his ears. He tried to speak; he tried to address the audience, but he could not—he could merely give utterance to a few broken sentences; he made charges against the Directory, with assurances of his own loyalty and devotedness, which the audience received with loud murmurs, and then with wild shouts. Bonaparte became more embarrassed and bewildered. Suddenly turning toward the door of the hall, he exclaimed, "Who loves me, let him follow me!" and he walked out hastily.

The soldiers outside received him with great cheers, and this brought back Bonaparte's presence of mind. "General," whispered Augereau, as they mounted their horses, "you are in a critical position."

"Think of Arcola," replied Bonaparte, calmly. "There the position seemed still more critical. Have patience for half an hour, and you will see how things change."

Bonaparte made good use of this half hour. At its expiration he re- entered the hall of deliberation of the Five Hundred, surrounded by his officers, at the very moment when, on a motion of a member, they were renewing their oaths to the constitution. Again they received him with shouts: "Down with the tyrant!—down with the dictator! The sanctity of the law is violated! Death to the tyrant who brings soldiers here to do us violence!"

One of the deputies rushed upon Bonaparte and seized him, but at that instant the grenadiers also entered the room, delivered their general, and carried him in triumph out of the hall.

After his departure, the waves of wrath and political frenzy rose higher and higher. Shouts and imprecations filled the room with confusion; reproaches fell on all sides upon the president, Lucien Bonaparte, for not having immediately ordered the arrest of the traitor, who by his appearance, as well as by his armed escort, had insulted the assembly. When Lucien endeavored to defend Napoleon's conduct, he was interrupted by the cries: "He is a stain on the republic! He has tarnished his reputation!" Louder and wilder rose the cry to declare Napoleon an outlaw. [Footnote: "Memoires du Roi Joseph."]

Lucien refused, and, as they urged their demand with increasing violence, he left the presidential chair, and with deep emotion put off the insignia of his office—his mantle and his sash—and was at the point of making for himself an outlet through the wild crowd pressing in frenzy around him, when the doors opened, and a company of grenadiers rushed in, who by main force carried him away out of the hall.

Lucien, whom Napoleon awaited outside with his troops, immediately mounted his horse, and in this moment of deepest danger kept his presence of mind, being fully aware that he must now be decided to save himself and his brother or perish with him. He turned to the troops, and ordered them to protect the president of the Five Hundred, to defend the constitution attacked by a few fanatics, and to obey General Bonaparte, who was empowered by the Council of the Elders to arrest the seditious, and to protect the republic and its laws.

The soldiers answered him with the acclamation, "Long live Bonaparte!" But a certain shudder was visible. A few warning voices were lifted up; they thought it strange that weapons should be directed against the representatives of the country.

By a dramatic action Lucien brought the matter to a close, though it was at the time meant by him in all sincerity. He drew his sword, and, directing its point toward Napoleon's breast, he exclaimed: "I swear to pierce even my brother's heart if he ever dares touch the liberty of France!"

These words had an electric effect; every one felt inspired, lifted up, and swore to obey Bonaparte, and to remain loyal to him even unto death. At a sign from Napoleon, Murat, with his grenadiers, dashed into the hall and drove away the assembly of the Five Hundred. At ten o'clock that evening St. Cloud was vacant; only a few deputies, like homeless night-birds, wandered around the palace out of which they had been so violently ejected.

In the interior of St. Cloud, Bonaparte was busy preparing for the people of Paris a proclamation, in which he justified his deed, and repeated the sacred assurance "that he would protect liberty and the republic against all her enemies at home as well as abroad." When this was done, it was necessary to think of giving to the French people a new government, instead of the one which had been broken up. Napoleon had been in conference until the dawn of day with Talleyrand, Roderer, and Sieyes. Meanwhile Lucien had gathered around him in a room the members of the Five Hundred who were devoted to him, and had resumed the presidential chair; Napoleon's friends among the members of the Council of the Elders also gathered together, and both assemblies issued a decree, in which they declared there was no longer a Directory, and in which they excluded from the assembly as rebellious and factious a vast number of deputies. And more, they decreed the nomination of a provisional commission, and decided that it should consist of three members, who should bear the title of Consuls of the Republic, and they appointed as consuls Sieyes, Ducos, and Bonaparte.

At three o'clock in the morning every thing was ready, and Napoleon, accompanied by Bourrienne, went to Paris. He had reached his goal; he was at the head of the administration, but his countenance betrayed no joyous excitement; he was taciturn and pensive, and during the whole journey to Paris he spoke not a word, but quietly leaned in a corner of the carriage. Perhaps he dreamed of a great and brilliant future; perhaps he was busy with the thought how he could ascend higher on this ladder to a throne, whose first step he had now ascended, since he had exalted himself into a consul of the republic.

Not till he arrived at his residence in the Rue de la Victoire did Bonaparte's cheerfulness return, when, with countenance beaming with joy, and followed by Bourrienne, he hastened to Josephine, who, exhausted by anxiety and care during this day full of danger, had finally gone to rest. Near her bed Bonaparte sank into an arm-chair, and, gazing at her and seizing her hand, he turned smilingly to Bourrienne:

"Is it not true," said he—"I said many foolish things?"

"Well, yes, general, that cannot be denied," replied Bourrienne, shrugging his shoulders, while Josephine broke out into loud, joyous laughter.

"I would sooner speak to soldiers than to lawyers," said Bonaparte, cheerfully. "These honorable fools made me timid. I am not accustomed to speak to an audience—but that will come in time."

With affectionate sympathy Josephine requested him to relate in detail all the events of the day; and she listened with breathless attention to the descriptions which Bonaparte made in his own terse, brief, and lucid manner.

"And Gohier?" said she, at last—"you know I love his wife, and when you were in Egypt he was ever kind and attentive to me. You will not touch him, will you, mon ami?"

Bonaparte shrugged his shoulders. "What of it, my love?" said he; "it is not my fault if he is pushed aside. Why has he not wished it otherwise? He is a good-natured man, but a blockhead. He does not understand me.... I would do much better to have him transported. He wrote against me to the Council of the Elders, but his letter fell into my hands, and the council has heard nothing of it. The unfortunate man!....Yesterday he expected me to dinner....And that is called statesmanship.... Let us speak no more of this matter." [Footnote: Bonaparte's own words.—See Bourrienne, vol. iii., p. 106.]

Then he began to relate to his Josephine how Bernadotte had acted, refusing to take any part in the events of the day, and how, when Bonaparte had requested him at least to undertake nothing against him, he answered: "As a citizen, I will keep quiet; but if the Directory gives me the order to act, I will fight against every disturber of the peace and every conspirator, whoever he may be."

Bonaparte then suddenly turned to Bourrienne to dismiss him, that he might himself take some rest; and when he extended his hand to bid him farewell, he added, carelessly:

"Apropos, to-morrow we sleep in the Luxemburg." It was decided!—the long-premeditated deed was done! With the 18th Brumaire, Bonaparte had made an important step forward on the path of fame and power whose end was seen by him alone.

Bonaparte was no longer a general receiving orders from a superior authority; he was no longer the servant of the Directory; but he was now the one who would give orders—he was the master and ruler; he stood at the head of the French nation; he made the laws, and his deep, clear eye looked far beyond both consuls who stood at his side, into that future when he alone would be at the head of France; when, instead of the uprooted throne of the lilies, he would sit in the Tuileries, in the chair of the First Consul, this chair of a Caesar, which could so easily become an emperor's throne!

On the 20th Brumaire, Napoleon occupied the residence of the Directory in the palace of the Luxemburg, after he had, through his brother Louis, made Gohier prisoner, the only one of the directors who still lingered there, and whom he afterward released. Josephine's intercession procured the liberty of the husband of her friend, and this generous pardon of the furious letter which Gohier had written against him was the thank-offering which Bonaparte presented to the gods as he made his entrance into the Luxemburg.

The Luxemburg itself was, however, but a relay for a change of horses in the wondrous journey which Bonaparte had to travel from the lawyer's house on the island of Corsica to the throne-room of the Bourbons in the palace of the Tuileries.

In simple equipage, he with Josephine made his entrance into the Luxemburg, but after the rest of a few weeks he left this station, to make his entrance into the Tuileries in a magnificent carriage, drawn by the six splendid grays which the Emperor of Austria had presented to General Bonaparte in Campo Formio. For already another change had taken place in the government of France, and the trefoil- leaf of the consuls had assumed another form.

The two consuls, who had stood at the side of Bonaparte, invested with equal powers, had been set aside by the new constitution of the year VIII., which the people had adopted on the 17th of February, 1800 (18th Pluviose, year VIII.). This constitution named Bonaparte as consul for ten years, and with him two other consuls, who were more his secretaries than his colleagues. Next to him was Cambaceres, as second consul for ten years, and then Lebrun, as third consul for five years.

With these two consuls, Bonaparte, on the 19th of February, 1800, made his solemn entry into the Tuileries. The old century, with its Bourbon throne, its bloody revolution, its horrors, its party passions, had passed away, and the new century found in the Tuileries a hero who wanted to crush all parties with a hand of iron, and to place his foot on the head of the revolution, so as to close the abyss which it had opened, in order to build himself an emperor's throne over it.

He was for the present satisfied to hear himself called "First Consul;" he was willing for a short time to grant to the two men who sat at his side in the carriage drawn by the six imperial grays, that they should share the power with him, and should consider themselves vested with the same authority. But Cambaceres and Lebrun had a keen ear for the joyful shouts with which the people followed their triumphal march from the Luxemburg to the Tuileries. They knew very well that these shouts and acclamations were not addressed to them, but only to General Bonaparte, the conqueror of Lodi and Arcola, the hero of the pyramids, the "savior of society," who, on the 18th Brumaire, had rescued France from the terrorists. Both consuls were shrewd enough to draw a lesson from this enthusiasm of the people, and willingly to fall back into the shade rather than to be forced into it. The Tuileries had been appointed for the residence of the three consuls, but the next day after their triumphal entry Cambaceres left the royal palace to take up his abode in the Hotel Elboeuf, on the Place de Carrousel. Lebrun, who at first made the Flora Pavilion his headquarters, soon found it more advisable to take his lodgings elsewhere, and he left the Tuileries, to make his residence in the Faubourg St. Honore.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE TUILERIES.

The Tuileries had again found a master; the halls where Marie Antoinette received her joyous guests, her beautiful lady-friends, were now again alive with elegant female figures, and resounded with gay voices, cheerful laughter, and unaffected pleasantry. The apartments in which Louis XVI. had passed such sad and fearful days, where he had laid with his ministers such nefarious schemes, and where royalty had been trodden down under the feet of the infuriated populace—these rooms were now occupied by the hero who had subdued the people, slain the revolution and restored to France peace and glory.

The Tuileries had again found a master—the throne-room was still vacant and empty, for the first consul of the republic dared not yet lay claim to this throne which the revolution had destroyed, and which the republic had forever removed from France. But if there was no throne in the Tuileries, there was at least a court; and "Madame Etiquette," driven away from the royal palace since the days of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, had again, though with modest and timid step, slipped into the Tuileries. It is true, she now clandestinely occupied a servant's room; but the day was not far distant when, as Egeria, she would whisper advice and dictate laws to the ear of the new Numa Pompilius; when all doors would be open to her, and when she alone would, at all times, have access to the mighty lord of France.

In the Luxemburg, the fraternity and the equality of the revolution had been set aside, as, long before, on the 13th Vendemiaire, the liberty of the revolution had been cast away. In the Luxemburg the "citoyenne" Bonaparte had become "Madame" Bonaparte, and the young daughter of the citizeness Josephine heard herself called "Mademoiselle" Hortense!

After the entrance into the Tuileries, fraternity and equality disappeared rapidly, and the distinctions of gentlemen and servants, rulers and subjects, superiors and subordinates, were again introduced. The chief of the administration was surrounded with honors and distinctions; the court, with all its grades, degrees, and titles, was there; it had its courtiers, flatterers, and defamers; and also its brilliant festivities, splendors, and pomp!

It is true this was not the work of a moment, nor so rapid an achievement as the transition from the Luxemburg to the Tuileries, but the introduction of the words "madame" and "monsieur" removed the first obstacle which held the whole French nation bound to the same platform; and a second obstacle had fallen, when permission was granted to all the emigres, with the exception of the royal family, to return to their native country.

The aristocrats of old France returned in vast numbers; they, the bearers of old names of glory, the legitimists, who had fled before the guillotine, now hoped to win again the throne from the consulate.

They kept themselves, however, aloof from the consul, whose greatness and power were derived from the revolution, and who was to them a representative of the rebellious, criminal republic; but they presented themselves to his wife, they brought their homage to Josephine, the born aristocrat, the relative and friend of so many emigrant families, and they hoped, through her influence, to obtain what they dared not ask from the first consul—the re-establishment of the throne of the Bourbons.

These aristocrats knew very well that Josephine longed for the return of the royal family; that in her heart she cherished love and loyalty to the unfortunate royal couple; and that, without any personal ambition, without any desire for fame, but with the devotedness of a royalist, and the affection of a noble, sensitive woman, she sighed for the time when Bonaparte would again restore to the heir of Louis XVI. the throne of the lilies, and recall to France the Count de Lille, to replace him as king on his brother's throne.

In fact, Josephine had faith in this fairy-tale of her royal heart; she believed in those dreams with which her tender conscience lulled her to repose, whenever she reproached herself, that she, the subject, now walked and gave orders as mistress in this palace of royalty! "Why, indeed, could she not believe in the realization of those dreams, since Bonaparte himself seemed to cherish no further wishes than to rest on his laurels, and to enjoy, in delightful privacy, the peace he had given to France?

"I am looked upon as ambitious," said Bonaparte one day, in the confidential evening conversations with his friends in Josephine's drawing-rooms, "I am looked upon as ambitious, and why? Listen, my friends, to what I am going to tell you, and which you may repeat to all. In three years I shall retire from public life; I shall then have about fifty thousand livres income, and that is sufficient for my mode of living. I will get a country residence, since Josephine loves a country life. One thing only I need, and this I claim—I want to be the justice of the peace for my circuit. Now, say, am I ambitious?"

Every one laughed at the strange conceit of Bonaparte, who wished to exchange his present course for the position of a justice of the peace, and Bonaparte chimed in heartily with the laughter.

But Josephine believed those words of Bonaparte, and their echoes had perchance penetrated even to Russia, to the ears of the pretender to the French throne, the Count de Lille, and to the ears of the Count d'Artois, his brother, and they both therefore based their hopes on Josephine's winning her husband to the cause of the Bourbons.

Both sent their secret emissaries to Paris, to enter into some compact with Josephine, and to prepare their pathway to the throne, after having failed to negotiate directly with Bonaparte, who had repelled all their efforts, and with haughty pride had answered the autograph letter of the Count de Lille.

The Count d'Artois, enlightened by the fruitless efforts of his brother, resorted to another scheme. He sent a female emissary to Paris—not to Bonaparte, but to Josephine. Napoleon himself speaks of it, in his Memorial of St. Helena, as follows:

"The Count d'Artois made his advances in a more eloquent and refined manner. He sent to Paris the Duchess de Guiche, a charming woman, who by the elegance of her manners and by her personal attractions was well calculated to bring to a favorable result the object of her mission. She easily obtained an introduction to Madame Bonaparte, who was acquainted with all the persons of the old court. The beautiful duchess was therefore invited to a dejeuner at Malmaison; and during breakfast, when the conversation ran upon London, the emigrants, and the princes, Madame de Guiche stated that a few days before she had called upon the Count d'Artois. They had spoken of current events, of the future of France, of the royal family, and one of the confidants had asked the prince what would be the reward of the first consul if he re-established the Bourbons! The prince answered: 'First of all he would be created connetable, with all the privileges attached to that rank, if that were agreeable to him. But that would not be enough; we would erect to him on the Place de Carrousel a tall and costly column, and on it we would raise the statue of Bonaparte crowning the Bourbons.' A short time after the dejeuner the consul entered, and Josephine had nothing more pressing to do than to relate to him all these details. 'And have you inquired,' asked her husband, 'whether this column would have for a pedestal the corpse of the first consul?' The beautiful duchess was still present, and with her winning ways she was well calculated to carry her point. 'I shall ever be happy,' said she, 'and grateful for the kindness of Madame Bonaparte in having granted me the opportunity of gazing upon and listening to a great man—a hero.' But it was all in vain; the Duchess de Guiche the same night received orders to depart immediately; and the beauty of this emissary appeared to Josephine too dangerous for her urgently to intercede in her behalf. Early next morning Madame de Guiche was on her way to the frontier." [Footnote: "Memorial de Ste. Helene," vol. i., p. 34.]

The Count de Lille chose for his mediator a very devoted servant, the most skilful of all his agents, the Marquis de Clermont Gallerande. He also was kindly received by Josephine, and he found access to her ear. With intense sympathy, and tears in her eyes, she bade him tell her the sad wanderings of that unfortunate man, "his majesty the King of France," and who as a fugitive was barely tolerated, roaming from court to court, a protege of the good-will of foreign potentates. Drawn away by her generous heart, and by her unswerving loyalty to the faith of her childhood, she spoke enthusiastically of the young royal couple who once had ruled in the Tuileries; and she went so far as to express the hope that Bonaparte would again make good what the revolution had destroyed, and that he would restore to the King of France his lost throne.

The Marquis de Clermont, to prove to her what confidence he reposed in her, and what consideration the King of France entertained for the first consul and his adored wife, communicated to her a letter from the Count de Lille to him, which was in itself a masterpiece, well calculated to move the heart of Josephine.

The Count de Lille portrayed in this letter first the dangers which would threaten Bonaparte if he should allow himself to be drawn into the inconsiderate and criminal step of placing the crown of France on his own head, and then continued:

"Sitting upon a volcano, Bonaparte would sooner or later be destroyed by it if he hastens not in due time to close the crater. Sitting upon the first step of the throne restored by his own hand, he would be the object of a monarch's gratitude; he would receive from France the highest regards, the more pure since they would be the result of his administration and of public esteem. No one can convince him of these truths better than she whose fortune is bound up with his, who can be happy only in his happiness and honored only in his reputation. I consider it a great point gained if you can come into some relation with her. I know her sentiments from days of old. The Count de Vermeuil, ex-governor of the Antilles, whose judgment as you know is most excellent, has told me more than once that in Martinique he had often noticed how her fealty to the crown deepened nearly to distraction; and the protection which she grants to my faithful subjects who appeal to her, entitles her justly to the name you give her, 'an angel of goodness.' Let my sentiments be known to Madame Bonaparte. You will not surprise her, but I flatter myself that her soul will rejoice to know them." [Footnote: Thibaudeau, "Histoire de la France, et de Napoleon Bonaparte," vol. ii., p. 202.]

The Count de Lille was not deceived. Josephine's heart was filled with joy at this confidence of the "King of France;" she was pleased that the Marquis de Clermont had fulfilled his wishes, and that he should with this letter have sent her a present. She read it with a countenance full of enthusiasm, and with a tremulous voice, to her daughter Hortense, whom she had educated to be as good a royalist as herself; and both mother and daughter besieged, with earnest petitions, with tears and prayers, and every expression of love, the first consul to realize the hopes of the Count de Lille, and to recall the exiled prince to his kingdom.

Bonaparte usually replied to all these requests with a silent smile; sometimes also, when they were too violent and pressing, he repelled them with unwilling vehemence.

"These women belong entirely to the devil!" said he, in his anger to Bourrienne, "they are mad for royalty. The Faubourg St. Germain has turned their heads, they are made the protecting genii of the royalists; but they do not trouble me, and I am not displeased with them."

Bourrienne ventured to warn Josephine, and to call her attention to this, that she might not so strongly plead before Bonaparte for the Count de Lille, but Josephine answered him with a sad smile: "I wish I could persuade him to call back the king, lest he himself may have the idea of becoming such; for the fear that he may do this always awakens in me a foreboding of evil, which I cannot banish from my mind." [Footnote: Bourrienne, vol. iv., p. 108.]

But until the king was really recalled by the first consul, Josephine had to be pleased to assume the place of queen in the Tuileries, and to accept the homage which France and soon all Europe brought to her. For now that the republic was firmly established, and had made peace with the foreign powers, they sent their ambassadors to the republic, and were received in the name of France by the first consul and his wife.

It was indeed an important and significant moment when Josephine for the first time in her apartments received the ambassadors of the foreign powers. It is true no one called this "to give audience;" no one spoke yet in genuine courtier's style of "great levee" or "little levee;" the appellation of "madame" was yet in use, and there was no court-marshal, no maids of honor, no chamberlains of the palace. But the substance was the same, and, instead of the high court-marshal, it was Talleyrand, the secretary for foreign affairs, who introduced to Josephine the ambassadors, and who called their names.

This introduction of the ambassadors was the first grand ceremony which, since the revolution, had taken place in the Tuileries. With exquisite tact, Josephine had carefully avoided at this festivity any pomp, any luxury of toilet. In a plain white muslin dress, her beautiful brown hair bound up in a string of white pearls, and holding Talleyrand's hand, she entered the great reception hall, in which the foreign ambassadors, the generals, and the high dignitaries of the republic were gathered. She came without pretension or ostentation, but at her appearance a murmur of admiration ran through the company, and brought on her cheeks the timid blush of a young maiden. With the assurance of an accomplished lady of the world she received the salutations of the ambassadors, knew how to speak to each a gracious word, how to entertain them, not with those worn-out, stereotyped phrases customary at royal presentations, but in an interesting, intellectual manner, which at once opened the way to an exciting, witty, and unaffected conversation.

Every one was enchanted with her, and from this day not only the French aristocracy, but all distinguished foreigners who came to Paris, were anxious to obtain the honor of a reception in the drawing-room of the wife of the first consul; from this day Josephine was the admiration of Europe, as she had already been that of France and Italy. As the wife of the first consul of France she could be observed and noticed by all Europe, and it is certainly a most remarkable and unheard-of circumstance that of all these thousands of eyes directed at her, none could find in her a stain or blemish; that, though neither beautiful nor young, her sweet disposition and grace so enchanted every one as to be accepted as substitutes for them, while on account of her goodness and generosity her very failings and weaknesses were overlooked, being interwoven with so many virtues.

Constant, the first chamberlain of Bonaparte, who, at the time Bonaparte was elected first consul, entered his service, describes Josephine's appearance and character in the following manner:

"Napoleon's wife was of medium size; her figure was moulded with rare perfection; her movements had a softness and an elasticity which gave to her walk something ethereal, without diminishing the majesty of a sovereign. Her very expressive physiognomy mirrored all the emotions of her soul without losing aught of the enchanting gentleness which was the very substance of her character. At the moment of joy or merriment she was beautiful to behold. Never did a woman more than she justify the expression that the eyes were the mirror of the soul. Hers were of a deep-blue color, shadowed by long, slightly-curved lids, and overarched by the most beautiful eyebrows in the world, and her simple look attracted you toward her as if by an irresistible power. It was difficult for Josephine to give to this bewitching look an appearance of severity, yet she knew how to make it imposing when she chose. Her hair was beautiful, long, and soft; its light-brown color agreed marvellously well with her complexion, which was a mixture of delicacy and freshness. At the dawn of her lofty power the empress was fond of putting on for a head-dress a red Madras, which gave her the piquant appearance of a creole. But what more than any thing else contributed to the charm which invested her whole person was the sweet tone of her voice. How often it has happened to me and to many others amid our occupations, as soon as this voice was heard, to remain still for the sake of enjoying the pleasure of hearing it! It might be said, perhaps, that the empress was not a beautiful woman; but her countenance, so full of expression and goodness, the angelic grace which was shed over her whole person, placed her among the most charming women of the world."

Further on, speaking of her character, he continues:

"Goodness was as inseparable from her character as grace from her person. Good even to weakness, sensitive beyond all expression, generous to extravagance, she was the delight of all those who were round about her; certain it is that there never was a woman more loved and more deservedly loved by those who approached her than Josephine. As she had known what adversity was, she was full of compassion for the sorrows of others; with a pleasant, equable temperament, full of condescension alike to foe and friend, she carried peace wherever discord or disunion existed; if the emperor was displeased with his brothers, or with any other person, she uttered words of affection, and soon restored harmony. She possessed a wondrous tact, a rare sentiment of what was becoming, and the soundest and most unerring judgment one can possibly imagine. Besides all this, Josephine had a remarkable memory, to which the emperor would often appeal. She was a good reader, and had a peculiar charm of her own which accorded with all her movements. Napoleon preferred her to all his other readers." [Footnote: Constant, "Memoires," vol. i., pp. 21, 39; vol. ii., p. 70.]

The Duke de Rovigo, the Duchess d'Abrantes, Mdlle. Ducrest, the niece of the Countess de Genlis, Mdlle. d'Avrillon, General Lafayette, in a word, all who have written about that period who knew Josephine, bear similar testimony to her amiable disposition and her superior virtues.

In the same manner the man for whom, as Mdlle. Ducrest says, "she would gladly have given her life," Napoleon, in his conversations with his confidential friends at St. Helena, ever spoke of her. "In all positions of life, Josephine's demeanor and actions were always pleasant or bewitching," said he. "It would have been impossible ever to surprise her, however intrusive you might be, so as to produce a disagreeable impression. I always found her in the same humor; she had the same amiable complacency; she was good, gentle, and ever devoted to her husband in true affection. He never saw her in bad humor; she was always constantly busy in endeavoring to please him." [Footnote: "Memorial de Ste. Helene," vol. i. pp. 38, 79.]

And she pleased him more than any other woman; he loved her in these happy days of the consulate with all the affection of the first days of his marriage; his heart might now and then be drawn aside from her to other women, but it always returned true and loving to her.

And this woman, whom the future King of France called an "angel of goodness," and the future Emperor of France, "grace in person," is the one who entered the Tuileries at Bonaparte's side to bring again into France the tone of good society, refinement of manners, intellectual conversation, and a love for the arts and sciences.

She was fully conscious of this mission, and devoted herself with all the strength, energy, and perseverance of her character. Her drawing-room soon became the central rendezvous of men of science, art, learning, politics, and diplomacy, and to each Josephine knew how to address friendly and captivating words; she knew how to encourage every one by her noble affability, by her respectful interest in their works and plans—so much so that all strove to do as well as possible, and in her presence appeared more amiable than they otherwise would perhaps have been. Alongside of the distinguished men of every rank were seen the choicest company of ladies, young, beautiful, and captivating; the most intelligent women of the Faubourg St. Germain were not ashamed to appear in the drawing-room of the wife of the first consul, and thought that the glory of their old aristocratic names would not be tarnished by association with Madame Bonaparte, who by birth belonged to them, and formed a sort of connecting link between the departed royalty of the last century and the republicans of the present.

This republicanism was soon to hide itself behind the columns and mirrors of the large hall of reception in the Tuileries. Bonaparte— the first consul, and shortly to be consul for life—would have nothing to do with this republicanism, which reminded him of the days of terrorism, anarchy, and the guillotine; and the words "Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity," which the revolution had written over the portals of the Tuileries, were obliterated by the consul of the republic. France had been sufficiently bled, and had suffered enough for these three words; it was now to rest under the shadow of legal order and of severe discipline, after its golden morning-dream of youth's enchanting hopes.

Bonaparte was to re-establish order and law; Josephine was to remodel society and the saloon; her mission was to unite the aristocracy of ancient France with the parvenues of the new; she was to be to the latter a teacher of refinement, and of the genuine manners and habits of so-called good society.

To accomplish this, the wife of the first consul needed the assistance of some ladies of those circles who had remained in lofty, haughty isolation; she needed the co-operation of the ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain. It is true they made their morning calls, and invited the former Viscountess de Beauharnais, with her daughter, to their evening receptions; but they carefully avoided being present at the evening circles of Madame Bonaparte, where their exclusiveness was beset with the danger of coming in contact with some "parvenu," or with some sprig of the army, or of the financial bureaus. Josephine therefore had to recruit her troops herself in the Faubourg St. Germain, so as to bring into her saloon the necessary contingent of the old legitimist aristocracy, and she found what she desired in a lady with whom she had been acquainted as Viscountess de Beauharnais, and who then had ever shown herself kind and friendly. This lady was the Countess de Montesson, the morganatic wife of the Duke d'Orleans, the father of the Duke Philippe Egalite, who, after betraying the monarchy to the revolution, was betrayed by the revolution, and, like his royal relatives, Louis and Marie Antoinette, had perished on the scaffold!

Soon after his entrance into the Tuileries, the first consul invited, through his wife, the Countess de Montesson to visit him, and when she was announced he advanced to meet her with an unusual expression of friendship, and endeavored with great condescension to make her say in what manner he could please her or be of service to her.

"General," said Madame de Montesson, much surprised, "I have no right whatever to claim any thing from you."

Bonaparte smiled. "You are mistaken," said he; "I have been under many obligations to you for a long time past. Do you not know that to you I am indebted for my first laurels? You came with the Duke d'Orleans to Brienne for the purpose of distributing the prizes at the great examination, and when you placed on my head the laurel- crown, which has since been followed by others, you said, 'May it bring you happiness!' It is commonly believed that I am a fatalist; it is therefore very natural that I should not have forgotten my first coronation, and that it is still fresh in my memory. It would afford me much pleasure to be of service to you; besides, you can be useful to me. The tone of good society has nearly perished in France; we would like to renew it again with your assistance. I need some of the traditions of days gone by—you can assist my wife with them; and when a distinguished foreigner comes to Paris you can give him a reception which will convince him that nowhere else can so much gentleness and amiableness be found." [Footnote: "Memoires de Mdlle. Ducrest," vol. i., p. 9.]

That Madame de Montesson might have a striking proof of Bonaparte's good-will, he renewed her yearly pension of one hundred and eighty thousand francs, which the duke had donated to her in his will, and which Bonaparte restored to her as the property which the revolution had confiscated for the nation's welfare. She manifested her gratitude to the first consul for this liberal pension by opening the saloons to the "parvenues of the Tuileries;" and leading the aristocrats of the Faubourg St. Germain into the drawing-rooms of Josephine, and then assisting her to form out of these elements a court whose lofty and brilliant centre was to be Josephine herself. The ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain were no longer ashamed to appear at the new court of the Tuileries, but excused themselves by saying: "We flatter Josephine, so as to keep her on our side, and to strengthen her loyalty to the king. She will, by her entrancing eloquence, persuade the consul to recall our King Louis XVIII., and give him his crown."

But too soon, alas! were they made aware of their error. It was not long before they became convinced that, if Bonaparte's hands were busy in raising a throne, in lifting up from the earth the fallen crown of royalty, he was not doing this to place it on the brow of the Count de Lille; he had a nearer object in view—he considered his own head better suited to wear it.

The conqueror of terrorism and of the revolution was not inclined to be defeated by the enemies of the republic, who were approaching the frontiers of France, to restore the Bourbons. He took up the glove which Austria had thrown down—for she had made alliance with England.

On the 6th of May, 1800, Bonaparte left Paris, marched with his army over Mount St. Bernard, and assumed the chief command of the army in Italy, which recently had suffered so many disastrous defeats from Suwarrow and the Archduke Charles.

At Marengo, on the 14th of June, Bonaparte obtained a brilliant triumph. Soon after, at Hohenlinden, Moreau also defeated the Austrians. These two decisive victories forced Austria to make peace with France, to abandon her alliance with England—that is to say, with the monarchical principles; and, at the peace ratified in the beginning of the year 1801 at Limeville, to concede to France the grand-duchy of Tuscany.

In July, Bonaparte returned in triumph to France, and was received by the people with enthusiastic acclamations. Paris was brilliantly illuminated on the day of his return, and round about the Tuileries arose the shouts of the people, who with applauding voices demanded to see the conqueror of Marengo, and would not remain quiet until he appeared on the balcony. Even Bonaparte was touched by this enthusiasm of the French people; as he retreated from the balcony and retired into his cabinet, he said to Bourrienne. "Listen! The people shout again and again; they still send their acclamations toward me. I love those sounds; they are nearly as sweet as Josephine's voice. How proud and happy I am to be loved by such a people!" [Footnote: Bourrienne, vol. v., p. 35.]



CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE INFERNAL MACHINE.

The victory of Marengo, which had pleased the people, had filled the royalists with terror and fear, and destroyed their hopes of a speedy restoration of the monarchy, making them conscious of its fruitless pretensions. With the frenzy of hatred and the bitterness of revenge they turned against the first consul, who was not now their expected savior of the monarchy, but a usurper who wanted to gain France for himself.

The royalists and the republicans united for the same object. Both parties longed to destroy Bonaparte: the one to re-establish the republic of the year 1793, and the other the throne of the Bourbons. Everywhere conspiracies and secret associations were organized, and the watchful and active police discovered in a few months more than ten plots, the aim of which was to murder Bonaparte.

Josephine heard this with sorrow and fear, with tears of anxiety and love. She had now given her whole heart and soul to Bonaparte, and it was the torment of martyrdom to see him every day threatened by assassins and by invisible foes, who from dark and hidden places drew their daggers at him. Her love surrounded him with vigilant friends and servants, who sought to discover every danger and to remove it from his path.

When he was coming to Malmaison, Josephine before his arrival would send her servants to search every hiding-place in the park, to see if in some shady grove a murderer might not be secreted; she entreated Junot or Murat to send scouts from Paris on the road to Malmaison to remove all suspicious persons from it. Yet her heart trembled with anxiety when she knew him to be on the way, and, when he had safely arrived, she would receive him with rapture, as if he had just escaped an imminent danger, and would make him laugh by the exclamations of joy with which she greeted him as one saved from danger.

In the anxiety of her watchful love she made herself acquainted with all the details of the discovered conspiracies of both the Jacobins and royalists. She knew there were two permanent conspiracies at work, though their leaders had been discovered and led into prison.

One of these conspiracies had been organized by the old Jacobins, the republicans of the Convention; and these bands of the "enraged," as they called themselves, numbered in their ranks all the enemies of constitutional order, all the men of the revolution of 1789; and all these men had sworn with solemn oaths to kill Bonaparte, and to deliver the republic from her greatest and most dangerous enemy.

The other conspiracy, which had its ramifications throughout France, was formed by the royalists. "The Society of the White Mantle" was mostly composed of Chouans, daring men of Vendee, who were ever ready to sacrifice their lives to the mere notion of royalty, and who like the Jacobins had sworn to murder Bonaparte.

Chevalier, who, with his ingenious infernal machine, sought to kill Bonaparte on his way to Malmaison, belonged to the Society of the White Mantle. But he was betrayed by his confidant and associate Becyer, who assisted the police to arrest him. To the conspiracy of the "enraged" belonged the Italians Ceracchi, Arena, and Diana, who at the opera, when the consul appeared in his loge, and was greeted by the acclamations of the people, were ready to fire their pistols at him. But at the moment they were about to commit the deed from behind the side-scenes, where they had hidden themselves, they were seized, arrested, and led to prison by the police. Josephine, as already said, knew all these conspiracies; she trembled for Bonaparte's life, and yet she could not prevent him from appearing in public, and she herself, smiling and apparently unsuspecting, had to appear at Bonaparte's side at the grand parades, in the national festivities, and at the theatrical performances; no feature on her face was to betray the anxiety she was enduring.

One day, however, not only Bonaparte's life but also that of Josephine, was imperilled by the conspirators; the famous infernal machine which had been placed on their way to the opera, would have killed the first consul and his wife, if a red Persian shawl had not saved them both.

At the grand opera, that evening, was to be performed Joseph Haydn's masterpiece, "The Creation." The Parisians awaited this performance with great expectation; they rushed to the opera, not only to hear the oratorio, the fame of which had spread from Vienna to Paris, but also to see Bonaparte and his wife, who it was known would attend the performance.

Josephine had requested Bonaparte to be present at this great musical event, for she knew that the public would be delighted at his presence. He at first manifested no desire to do so, for he was not sufficiently versed in musical matters for it to afford him much enjoyment; and besides, there was but one kind of music he liked, and that was the Italian, the richness of whose melody pleased him, while the German and French left him dissatisfied and weary. However, Bonaparte gave way to the entreaties of Josephine, and resolved to drive to the opera. The dinner that day had been somewhat later than usual, for besides Josephine, her children, and Bonaparte's sister Caroline, Murat, the Generals Bessieres and Lannes, as well as Bonaparte's two adjutants, Lebrun and Rapp, had been present. Immediately after dinner they wanted to drive to the opera; but as Josephine lingered behind, busy with the arrangement of her shawl, Bonaparte declared he would drive in advance with the two Generals Bessieres and Lebrun, while Rapp was to accompany the ladies in the second carriage. With his usual rapidity of action he seized his hat and sword, and, followed by his companions, left the room to go to the carriage, which was waiting.

Josephine, who imagined that Bonaparte was waiting for her at the carriage, hurriedly put on, without troubling herself any longer about the becoming arrangement of the folds, a red Persian shawl, which Bonaparte had sent her as a present from Egypt. She was going to leave, when Rapp, with the openness of a soldier, made the remark that she had not put on her shawl to-day with her accustomed elegance. She smiled, and begged him to arrange it after the fashion of Egyptian ladies. Rapp laughingly hastened to comply with her wishes; and while Josephine, Madame Murat, and Hortense, watched attentively the arrangement of the shawl in the hands of Rapp, Bonaparte's carriage was heard moving away.

This noise put a speedy end to all further movements, and Josephine, with the ladies and Rapp, hastened to follow Bonaparte. Their carriage had no sooner reached the Place de Carrousel, than an appalling explosion was heard, and a bright flame like a lightning- flash filled the whole place with its glare; at the same moment the windows of the carriage were broken into fragments, which flew in every direction into the carriage, and one of which penetrated so deep into the arm of Hortense, that the blood gushed out. Josephine uttered a cry of horror—"Bonaparte is murdered!" At the same moment were heard loud shrieks and groans.

Rapp, seized with fear, and only thinking that Bonaparte was in danger, sprang out of the carriage, and, careless of the wounded and bleeding, who lay near, ran onward to the opera to find out if Bonaparte had safely reached there. While the ladies, in mortal agony, remained on the Place de Carrousel, not knowing whether to return to the Tuileries or to drive forward, a messenger arrived at full speed to announce that the first consul had not been hurt, and that he was waiting for his wife in his loge, and begged her to come without delay. Meanwhile Rapp had reached the opera, and had penetrated into the box of the first consul. Bonaparte was seated calmly and unmoved in his accustomed place, examining the audience through his glass, and now and then addressing a few words to the secretary of police, Fouche, who stood near him. No sooner did Bonaparte see Rapp, than he said hastily, and in a low voice— "Josephine?"

At that moment she entered, followed by Madame Murat and Hortense. Bonaparte saluted them with a smile, and with a look of unfathomable love he extended his hand to Josephine. She was still pale and trembling, although she had no conception of the greatness of the danger which had menaced her.

Bonaparte endeavored to quiet her by stating that the explosion was probably the result of some accident or imprudence; but at this moment the prefect of the police entered who had been on the spot, and had come to give a report of the dreadful effects of the explosion. Fifteen persons had been killed, more than thirty had been severely wounded, and about forty houses seriously damaged. This was all the work of a so-called infernal machine—a small barrel filled with powder and quicksilver—which had been placed in a little carriage at the entrance of the Hue St. Nicaise.

Until now Josephine did not realize the extent of the danger which had threatened her and her husband. Had the explosion taken place a few moments before, it would have killed the consul; if it had been one minute later, Josephine and her companions would have been involved in the catastrophe. It was the shawl which Rapp was arranging on her shoulders according to the rules of art, which caused them to retard their departure, and thus saved her life.

An inexpressible horror now seized her and made her tremble; her looks, full of love and deep anguish, were fixed on Bonaparte, who, in a low voice, entreated her to compose herself, and not to make her distress public. Near Josephine sat Hortense, pale and agitated, like her mother; around her wounded arm was wrapped a handkerchief, stained here and there with blood. Madame Murat was quiet and composed, like Bonaparte, who was then giving instructions to the prefect of police to provide immediate assistance for the unfortunate persons who had been wounded.

No one yet in the audience knew the appalling event. The thundering noise had been heard, but it was presumed to have been an artillery salute, and no evil was suspected, for Bonaparte, with his usual guards, had entered his box, and, advancing to its very edge, had saluted the public in a friendly way. This act of the first consul had its ordinary effect: the audience, indifferent to the music, rose and saluted their hero with loud acclamation and applause. Not till Josephine entered the loge had the acclamations subsided, and the music begun again. A few minutes after, the news of the fearful event spread all over the house: a murmur arose, and the music was interrupted anew.

The Duchess d'Abrantes, who was present at this scene, gives a faithful, eloquent, and graphic picture of it:

"A vague noise," says she, "began to spread from the parterre to the orchestra, and from the amphitheatre to the boxes. Soon the news of the occurrence was known all over the house, when, like a sudden clap of thunder, an acclamation burst forth, and the whole audience, with a single undivided look of love, seemed to desire to embrace Bonaparte. What I am narrating I have seen, and I am not the only one who saw it. ... What excitement followed this first explosion of national anger, which at this moment was represented by the audience, whose horror at the dark plot cannot be described with words! Women were seen weeping and sobbing; men, pale as death, trembled with vengeance and anger, whatever might have been the political standard which they followed; all hearts and hands were united to prove that difference of opinion creates no difference in the interpretation of the code of honor. During the whole scene my eyes were fixed on the loge of the consul. He was quiet, and only seemed moved when public sentiment gave utterance to strong expressive words about the conspiracy, and these reached him. Madame Bonaparte was not fully composed. Her countenance was disturbed; even her attitude, generally so very graceful, was no longer under her control. She seemed to tremble under her shawl as under a protecting canopy, and in fact it was this shawl which had saved her from destruction. She was weeping; however much she endeavored to compose herself, she could not repress her tears; they would flow, against her will, down her pale cheeks, and, whenever Josephine fixed her eyes upon her husband, she trembled again. Even her daughter seemed extremely agitated, and Madame Murat alone preserved the family character, and seemed entirely herself." [Footnote: Duchess d'Abrantes, "Memoires," vol. ii., p. 66.]

At last, when the public excitement was somewhat abated, and the music was again resumed, the audience turned its attention to Hadyn's masterpiece. But Josephine had not the strength to bear this effort, and to submit to it quietly. She entreated her husband to retire with her and the ladies; and when at last he acceded to her request, and had quietly left the loge with her, Josephine sat by him in the carriage, opposite Caroline and Hortense, and, sobbing, threw herself on Bonaparte's breast, and cried out in her anguish:

"What a life, where I must ever be trembling for you!"

The infernal machine did not kill the first consul, but it gave to liberty and to the republic a fatal blow; it scattered into fragments what remained of the revolutionary institutions from the days of blood and terror. France rose up in disgust and horror against the party which made of assassins its companions, and consequently this conspiracy failed to accomplish what its originators had expected. They wanted to destroy Bonaparte and ruin his power, but this abortive attempt only increased his popularity, enlarged his power, and deepened the people's love for him who now appeared to them as a protecting rampart, and a barrier to the flood of anarchy.

France gave herself up trembling, and without a will of her own, into the hands of the hero to whom she was indebted for fame and recognition by foreign powers, and through whom she hoped to secure domestic peace. France longed for a strong arm to support her; Bonaparte gave her this arm, but it not only supported France, it bowed her down; and from this day he placed the reins on the wild republican steed, and let it feel that it had found a master who had the power and the will to direct it entirely in accordance with his wishes.

Bonaparte was determined to put an end to the seditions and conspiracies of the republicans, whom he hated because they had for their aim the downfall of all legitimate authority; and in turn was hated by them because he had abandoned their standard and turned against the republic with the faithlessness of a son who attacks the mother that gave him birth. Bonaparte maintained that it was the republicans who had set the infernal machine on his path, and paid no attention to the opinion of Fouche, who ascribed to the royalists the origin of the plot. Bonaparte wished first to do away with his most violent and bitter enemies, the republicans of the year 1789; he desired to possess the power of punishing such, and to render them harmless, and now the horror produced by this criminal act came to his assistance in carrying out this plan.

The council of the state adopted the legislative enactment that the consuls should have "the power to remove from Paris those persons whose presence they considered dangerous to the public security, and that all such persons who should leave their place of banishment should be transported from the country!"

Under this law, George Cadoudal, Chevalier, Arena, Ceracchi, and many others were executed; and one hundred and thirty persons, whose only crime was that of being suspected of dissatisfaction toward the administration of the consuls, and considered as Bonaparte's enemies, were transported to Cayenne.

Such were for France the results of this infernal machine, the object of which was to assassinate the Consul Bonaparte, instead of which it had only the effect of destroying his enemies and strengthening his power.



CHAPTER XXXV.

THE CASHMERES AND THE LETTER.

As mighty events always exercise an influence on minor ones, so this fearful attempt at murder became the occasion for the introduction into France of a new branch of industry, which had hitherto drawn millions from Europe to the East.

Josephine, gratefully remembering her truly wonderful deliverance through the means of her Persian shawl, wore it afterward in preference to any other. Until then she had never fancied it, for when Bonaparte sent it to her from Egypt, she wrote to him: "I have received the shawl. It may be very beautiful and very costly, but I find it unsightly. Its great advantage consists in its lightness. I doubt, however, if this new fashion will meet with approbation. Notwithstanding, I am pleased with it, for it is rare and warm." [Footnote: "Memoires sur l'Imperatrice," par Mademoiselle Ducrest, vol. iii., p. 227.]

But after it had saved her life, she no longer thought it unsightly, she was fond of wrapping herself up in it, and the natural consequence was, that these Persian shawls soon formed the most fashionable and costly article of apparel.

Every lady of the higher classes considered it a necessity to cover her tender shoulders with this valuable foreign material, and it soon became "comme il faut" a duty of position, to possess a collection of such Persian shawls, and to wear them at the balls and receptions in the Tuileries.

The desire to possess such a precious article of fashion led these ladies oftentimes to "corriger la fortune" and to obtain, by some bold but not very creditable act, possession of such a shawl, which had now become in a certain measure the escutcheon of the new French aristocracy.

The Duchess d'Abrantes, in reference to this matter, relates two thefts which at that time troubled the aristocratic society of the Tuileries, which prove that the ladies had taken instructions from the gentlemen, and that dishonest persons of both sexes were admitted into the society of heroes and their beautiful wives!

At a morning reception in the Tuileries, the shawl of the Countess de St. Martin had been stolen; and this lady was very much distressed at the loss, for this cashmere was not only a present from Madame Murat, but was one of uncommon beauty, on account of the rarity of the design, consisting of paroquets in artistic groups, instead of the ordinary palm. The countess was therefore untiring in recounting to every one her irreparable loss, and uttered bitter curses against the bold female who had stolen her treasure.

"A few weeks later," relates the duchess, "at a ball given by the minister Talleyrand, the countess came toward me with a bright countenance and told me that she had just now found her shawl, and, strange to say, upon the shoulders of a young lady at the ball!

"'But,' said I to her, 'you will not accuse this lady before the whole company!'

"'And why not?'

"'Because that would be wrong. Leave this matter to me.'

"She would not at first, but I pressed the subject on her consideration, and she agreed at length to remain somewhat behind, while I approached the young lady, who stood near the door, and was just going to leave the ballroom. I told her in a low voice that in all probability she had made a mistake; that she had perhaps mislaid her own cashmere, and had through carelessness taken the shawl of the Countess de St. Martin.

"I was as polite as I could possibly be in such a communication; but the young lady looked at me unpleasantly for such an impertinent intrusion, and replied that 'since the time the Countess de St. Martin had deafened the ears of every one with the story of her stolen shawl, she had had ample leisure to recognize as her property the cashmere she wore.' Her mother, who stood a few steps from her, and was conversing with another lady, turned toward her when she heard her daughter speak in so loud a voice. But the Countess de St. Martin, who had overheard that she 'had deafened the ears of every one with the story of her stolen shawl,' rushed in to the rescue of her case.

"'This cashmere belongs to me,' said she, haughtily—seizing, at the same time, the shawl with one hand, while the young lady with her fist thrust her back violently. I saw that in a moment they would come to blows.

"'It will be easy to end this difficulty,' said I to the Countess de St. Martin. 'Madame will be kind enough to tell us where she has purchased this shawl which is so much like yours, and then you will see your mistake, and be satisfied.'

"'It does not suit me to tell where I got this shawl,' replied the lady, looking at me contemptuously; 'there is no necessity for my telling you where I purchased it.'

"'Well, then,' exclaimed eagerly the Countess de St. Martin, 'you confess, madame, that the shawl really belongs to you?'

"The other answered with a sarcastic smile, and drew the shawl closer to her shoulders. A few persons, attracted by the strangeness of such a scene, had gathered around us, and seemed to wait for the end of so extraordinary an event.

"The countess continued with a loud voice:

"'Well, then, madame, since the shawl belongs to you, you can explain to me why the name of Christine, which is my first name, is embroidered in red silk on the small edging. Madame Junot will be kind enough to look for this name.'

"The young woman became pale as death. I shall never during my life forget the despairing look which she gave me, as with trembling hand she passed me the shawl, just as her father appeared from a room near the place of the scene. I took the cashmere with an unsteady hand, and sought reluctantly for the name of Christine, for I trusted she would at least have taken it out; but the deathly paleness of the guilty one told the contrary, and in fact I had no sooner unfolded the shawl, than the name appeared, embroidered at the narrow edging.

"'Ah!' at last exclaimed the countess, in a triumphant tone, 'I have—' but as she raised her eyes to the young woman, she was touched by her despairing look. 'Well, then,' cried she, 'this is one of those mistakes which so often happen. To-morrow I will return your cashmere.—We have exchanged cashmeres,' said she, turning to the young lady's father, who, surprised at seeing her naked shoulders, gazed at his daughter, not understanding the matter. 'You will have the goodness to send me my shawl to-morrow,' added she, noticing how the young woman trembled.

"We returned into the ballroom, and the next day the young lady sent to the Countess de St. Martin her precious shawl.

"Something similar to this happened at the same time to Madame Hamelin. She was at a ball; when rising from her seat to join in a contra-dance, she left there a very beautiful black shawl; when she returned, her shawl was no longer there, but she saw it on the shoulders of a well-known and distinguished lady. Approaching her, she said:

"'Madame, you have my shawl!'

"'Not at all, madame!'

"'But, madame, this is my shawl, and, as an evidence, I can state the number of its palms—it has exactly thirteen, a very unusual number!'

"'My shawl has also, by chance, precisely thirteen palms.'

"'But,' said Madame Hamelin, 'I have torn it since I came here. You can see where it is torn, and by that means I recognize my shawl.'

"'Ah, my goodness! my shawl has also been torn; that is precisely why I bought it, for I obtained it on that account somewhat cheaper.'

"It is useless to dispute with a person who is determined to follow Basil's receipt, that 'what is worth taking is worth keeping.' Madame Hamelin lost her shawl, and had, as a sole consolation, the petty vengeance of relating to everybody how it was taken, and of pointing out the thief, who was in the meanwhile perfectly shameless." [Footnote: Abrantes, "Memoires," vol. ix., pp. 70-76.]

No one, however, had a larger and more choice selection of these cashmere shawls than Josephine. Mdlle. Ducrest relates that the deceased empress had more than one hundred and fifty of the most magnificent and costly cashmere shawls. She had sent to Constantinople patterns from which she had them made there, as pleasing to the eye as they were costly and precious. Every week M. Lenormant, the first man-milliner in Paris, came to Navarra, the country residence of the empress, and brought his most beautiful shawls for her selection. The empress possessed several (having a white ground covered with roses, violets, paroquets, peacocks, and other objects of beauty hitherto unknown in France) each of which cost from fifteen to twenty thousand francs.

The empress went so far in her passion for cashmeres as to have dresses made of the same material. One day she had put on one of these dresses, which was so beautiful, that some gentlemen invited to dinner could not withhold their admiration. One of them, Count Pourtales, thought that this splendid material would be well adapted for a gentleman's vest. Josephine, in her large-heartedness, had a pair of scissors brought; she then cut her dress into several pieces sufficiently large for a vest, and divided them among the gentlemen present, so that only the bodice of the dress remained, with a small piece around the waist But this improvised spencer over the white richly-embroidered under-dress, was so exceedingly becoming to the empress, and brought out so exquisitely her beautiful bust, and slender graceful waist, that it would have been easy to consider as a piece of coquetry what was simply Josephine's spontaneous generosity. [Footnote: Mademoiselle Ducrest.]

Josephine, however, did not so assiduously attend to her cashmere shawls as to forget the unfortunate victims of the infernal machine. On the contrary, she saw with deep pain how every one was busy in inculpating others, and in casting suspicions on royalists and Jacobins, so as to give a pretext to punish them. She noticed that all those who wished to gain the consul's favor were zealous in spying out fresh culprits, for it was well known that Bonaparte was inclined to make of all hostile parties a terrible example, so that, through the severity of the punishment and the number of the punished, he might deter the dissatisfied from any further plots.

Josephine's compassionate heart was distressed, through sympathy for so many unfortunate persons, whom wicked men maliciously were endeavoring to drag into guilt, so as to have them punished; and the injustice which the judges manifested at every hearing filled her with anger and horror. Ever ready to help the needy, and to protect the persecuted, she addressed herself to Fouche, the minister of police, and requested him to use mildness and compassion. She wrote to him:

"Citizen minister, while trembling at the frightful calamity which has taken place, I feel uneasy and pained at the fear of the punishments which hang over the poor creatures who, I am told, belong to families with which I have been connected in days past. I shall therefore be appealed to by mothers, sisters, and despairing wives; my heart will be lacerated by the sad consciousness that I cannot obtain pardon for all those who implore it.

"The generosity of the consul is great, his affection for me is boundless, I know it well; but the crime is of so awful a nature that he will deem it necessary to make an example of extreme severity. The supreme magistrate was not alone exposed to danger— many others were killed and wounded by this sad event, and it is this which will make the consul severe and implacable.

"I conjure you, then, citizen minister, to avoid extending your researches too far, and not always to spy out new persons who might be compromised by this horrible machine. Must France, which has been held in terror by so many executions, have to sigh over new victims? Is it not much more important to appease the minds of the people than to excite them by new terrors? Finally, would it not be advisable, so soon as the originators of this awful crime are captured, to have compassion and mercy upon subordinate persons who may have been entangled in it through dangerous sophisms and fanatical sentiments?

"Barely vested with the supreme authority, ought not the first consul study to win the hearts rather than to make slaves of his people? Moderate, therefore, by your advice, where in his first excitement he may be too severe. To punish is, alas, too often necessary! To pardon is, I trust, still more. In a word, be a protector to the unfortunate who, through their confession or repentance, have already made in part penance for their guilt.

"As I myself, without any fault on my part, nearly lost my life in the revolution, you can easily understand that I take an interest in those who can perhaps be saved without thereby endangering my husband's life, which is so precious to me and to France. I therefore earnestly desire that you will make a distinction between the leaders of this conspiracy and those who, from fear or weakness, have been seduced into bringing upon themselves a portion of the guilt. As a woman, a wife, a mother, I can readily feel for all the heart-rending agonies of those families which appeal to me.

"Do what you possibly can, citizen minister, to diminish their numbers; you will thereby spare me much anxiety. I can never be deaf to the cries of distress from the needy; but in this matter you can do a great deal more than I can, and therefore pardon what may seem strange in my pleadings with you.

"Believe in my gratitude and loyalty of sentiment.

"JOSEPHINE." [Footnote: Ducrest, "Memoires," vol. iii., p. 231.]



CHAPTER XXXVI.

MALMAISON.

In the Tuileries the first consul, with his wife, resided in all the pomp and dignity of his new office. There he was the sovereign, the commander; there he ruled, and, like a king, all bowed to him; the people humbled themselves and recognized him as their master.

In the Tuileries etiquette and the stiff pomp of a princely court prevailed more and more. Bonaparte required of his wife that she should there represent the dignity and the grandeur of her new position; that she should appear as the first, the most exalted, and the most unapproachable of women. In the Tuileries there were no more evenings of pleasant social gatherings, of joyous conversation with friends whom affection made equals, and who, in love and admiration, recognizing Bonaparte's ascendency, brought him of their own free choice their esteem and high consideration. Now, it was all honor and duty; now, the friends of the past wore servants who, for duty's sake, had to be subservient to their master, and abide by the rules of etiquette, otherwise the frown on their lofty ruler's brow would bring them back within their bounds.

Josephine was pained at these limits set to her personal freedom—at these claims of etiquette, which did not permit her friends to remain at her side, but strove to exalt above them the wife of the first consul. Her sense of modesty ever accepted the pleasant, genial household affections as more agreeable and more precious than the burdensome representations, levees, and the tediousness of ceremonial receptions; her sense of modesty longed for the quiet and repose of retirement, and she was happy when, at the close of the court festivities, she could return to Malmaison, there to enjoy the coming of spring, the blossoming of summer, and the glorious beauty of autumn with its manifold colors.

In Malmaison were centered all her joys and pleasures. There she could satisfy all the inclinations of her heart, all the fancies of her imagination, all the wants of her mind; there she could be the tender wife and mother, and the faithful friend; there she could receive, without the annoyance of etiquette, men of learning and art; there she could cultivate the soil and devote herself to botany, her favorite study, and to her flowers, the dearest and most faithful friends of her whole life.

Josephine sought for and found in Malmaison her earthly paradise; there she was happy, and the care and the secret anguish which in Paris wove around her heart its network, and every now and then whispered the nefarious words of divorce and separation, followed her not in the beautiful and friendly Malmaison; she left all this in Paris with the stiff Madame Etiquette, who once in the Tuileries had poisoned the existence of the Queen Marie Antoinette, and now sought to intrude herself upon the consulate as an ill-tempered sovereign.