M. Tascher, a native of France, having resigned his commission in the cavalry, retired to an estate in the Island of St. Domingo. In the year 1763, he, together with his wife, made a visit to a sister in Martinico, and there, on the 23d of June, a daughter, Josephine, was born. On the return of her parents to St. Domingo, she was left with her aunt, and there are no traces of future intercourse with them. Often, in after years, did Josephine revert to the unmingled happiness and peaceful enjoyments of her childhood. The advantages for education enjoyed by Mademoiselle Tascher were superior to what would be supposed by those who have only known the French colonies at a subsequent period. The proprietors were many of them highly accomplished gentlemen, born and educated in France, who had retired to their estates in the New World, as a retreat from which to watch the progress of those events which were beginning to disturb the quiet of the Old.

Josephine, naturally amiable and gentle in disposition, with manners which combined ease and elegance with dignity, possessed a natural aptitude for acquiring feminine accomplishments. She played, especially on the harp, and sung with exquisite feeling. Her dancing is said to have been perfect. An eye-witness describes her light form, rising scarcely above the middle size, as seeming in its faultless symmetry to float rather than to move the very personation of Grace. She was mistress of the pencil and of the needle. Flowers were her passion; she early cultivated a knowledge of botany. To the empress Josephine Europe is indebted for a knowledge of the Camelia. She read delightfully; the tones of her voice fascinated. “The first applause of the French people,” said Napoleon, “sounded to my ear sweet as the voice of Josephine.”

The companion of her infancy was a mulatto girl, some years older than herself, her foster-sister, Euphemia, who never afterwards quitted her patroness, shared in her amusements, and was the companion of her rambles. In one of these an incident occurred, which exercised a lasting influence over her imagination. The particulars were, long afterwards, thus related by herself:

“One day, some time before my first marriage, while taking my usual walk, I observed a number of negro girls assembled round an old woman, who was telling their fortune. I stopped to listen to her. The sorceress, on seeing me, uttered a loud shriek, and grasped my hand. I laughed at her grimaces, and allowed her to proceed, saying, ’So you discover something extraordinary in my destiny?’ ‘I do.’ ’Do you discover traces of happiness, or misfortune?’ ’Of misfortune, certainly; but of happiness also.’ ’You take care not to commit yourself, my worthy sibyl; your oracles are not the most clear.’ ’I am not permitted to make them more so,’ said the woman, raising her eyes in a mysterious manner towards heaven. My curiosity was now awakened, and I said to her, ’But tell me, what read you in futurity concerning me?’ ’What do I read? You will not believe me if I tell you.’ ’Yes, indeed, I assure you. Come, good woman, what am I to hope or fear?’ ’You insist; listen then. You will soon be married; the union will not be happy; you will become a widow, and then you will become queen of France! You will enjoy many years of happiness, but you will be killed in a popular commotion.’ The old woman then burst from the crowd, and hurried away as fast as her limbs, enfeebled by age, would permit. I forbade the bystanders to laugh at the prophetess for her ridiculous prediction, and took the occasion to caution the young negro women against giving credit to such pretenders. Henceforth, I thought of the affair only to laugh at it. But afterwards, when my husband had perished on the scaffold, in spite of my better judgment, this prediction forcibly recurred to my mind; and, though I was myself then in prison, the transaction daily assumed a less improbable character, and I ended by regarding the fulfilment as almost a matter of course.”

Nothing at the time seemed less likely than the fulfilment of the prediction. Miss Tascher seemed destined to become the wife of some créole youth, and to pass a tranquil and indolent life on some neighboring plantation. It so chanced, however, that the young Vicompte Alexander de Beauharnais, “who,” in Josephine’s words, “had embraced the new ideas with all the ardor of a very lively imagination,” after serving with distinction in the war of the American revolution, came to Martinico to prove his title to some estates which had fallen by inheritance to himself and his brother. These estates were held on lease by Josephine’s uncle, and an acquaintance between the young people naturally followed. They became mutually attached; but his relatives, who were opposed to the match, interposed obstacles which Josephine surmounted with a gentleness and address hardly to be expected in a girl of sixteen. In 1794, writing to her children, Josephine says, “If to my union with your father I have been indebted for all my happiness, I dare to think and say, that to my own character I owe our union, so many were the obstacles which opposed us. Yet, without any effort of talents, I effected their removal. I found in my own heart the means of gaining the affection of my husband’s relations; patience and goodness will ever in the end conciliate the good-will of others.”

On their arrival in France, in 1779, the youthful pair are said to have created a sensation in society. The manners and accomplishments of Josephine excited admiration in the most polished court in Europe; and the attentions of Marie Antoinette made an impression on her grateful heart which endured through a life, the incidents of which were in such seeming opposition to the interests of the Bourbons. Much of their time, however, was spent on the vicompte’s estates in Brittany; and here were born Eugene, afterwards viceroy of Italy, and Hortense, afterwards queen of Holland.

Every thing gave promise of enduring happiness. But the misconduct of the vicompte destroyed it. Josephine at first complained with gentleness, and sought by increased fondness to win back the waning affections of her husband. Finding this unavailing, she infused into her reproaches a degree of bitterness which alienated completely the affections she was so anxious to gain. A separation was the consequence, and Josephine returned with her children to Martinico.

After an absence of several years, she once again sailed for France, and in circumstances far from affluent. An incident which occurred on the voyage was thus related to the ladies of her court. She had indulged a wish they had expressed to see her jewels. They were spread upon a spacious table, which was covered with them. The brilliancy, the size, and the quantity, of the jewels composing the different sets, were dazzling to the eye. Here were collected the choicest gems of Europe, for all its nations had been eager to heap presents upon the wife of Napoleon. After she had permitted the ladies to examine at leisure these treasures, which almost realized the tales of the “Arabian Nights,” Josephine said to them, “During the first dawn of my elevation, I delighted in these trifles. I grew by degrees so tired of them, that I no longer wear any, except when I am compelled to do so by my station in the world. Trust to me, ladies, and do not envy a splendor which does not constitute happiness. You will be surprised when I tell you that I felt more pleasure at receiving a pair of old shoes, than at being presented with all the diamonds now spread before you.” The ladies smiled at what they considered a mere pleasantry; but Josephine repeated the remark with such earnestness as to induce them to ask for the story. “Accompanied by Hortense, I embarked at Martinico for France. Being separated from my husband, my pecuniary resources were not very flourishing; the expense of my return to France, which the state of my affairs rendered necessary, had nearly drained my purse, and I found great difficulty in providing the indispensable requisites for the voyage. Hortense, who was a smart, lively girl, became a great favorite with the sailors; she entertained them by imitating the songs and dances of the negroes. No sooner did she observe me engaged, than she slipped upon deck, and repeated her little exercises to the renewed delight of all. An old quarter-master was particularly attentive to her, and, whenever he found a moment’s leisure, he devoted it to his little friend, who became much attached to him. This constant dancing and skipping soon destroyed my daughter’s slight shoes. Knowing that she had no other pair, and fearing that I should forbid her going upon deck, if I should discover this defect in her attire, she concealed it. Her bleeding feet one day attracted my notice. I asked, in alarm, if she had hurt herself. ’No, mamma.’ ‘But your feet are bleeding.’ ‘It really is nothing.’ I insisted upon seeing what was the matter, and found that the shoes were in tatters, and her foot dreadfully torn by a nail. The voyage was not half performed, and there seemed no possibility of procuring a new pair before reaching France. I was quite overcome at the idea of Hortense’s sorrow at being compelled to remain shut up in my little cabin, and to the injury to her health. My tears found a free vent. At this moment our friend the quarter-master appeared. With honest bluntness he asked the cause of our grief. Hortense, sobbing all the while, told him that she could no longer go on deck, because she had no shoes. ‘Is that all?’ said he; ’I have an old pair somewhere in my chest; I will bring them; you, madam, can cut them to shape, and I will sew them as well as I can. On board ship, you must put up with many things. It is not the place to be too nice and particular.’ He did not wait for my reply, but went in quest of his shoes, which he brought to us with an air of exultation, and offered them to Hortense, who received them with eager delight. We set to work with zeal, and Hortense enjoyed the delight of furnishing the evening’s diversion to the crew. I repeat that no present was ever received by me with more pleasure than this pair of old, coarse, leather shoes.”

The motive of Josephine in returning to France was to be near her husband, who was a prominent actor in the scenes of the French revolution. Knowing the warmth of his political feelings, she trembled for his safety; her past resentment vanished. She sought a reconciliation, which he most cordially desired.

Passing onward in our story, we find Madame de Beauharnais a widow and a prisoner. Her husband, after filling the offices of president of the Convention, and general-in-chief of the army of the Rhine, had, during the reign of terror, perished on the scaffold. On the same day on which this event was communicated to her, she received an intimation to prepare herself for death. But she had found a new source of strength. Her mind, in reverting to past scenes dwelt upon the almost forgotten prophecy of the negress. Her imagination was excited; it began to appear less and less absurd to her, and finally terminated in her almost certain belief. The following relation was made by herself at Navarre:

“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 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, 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 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 emigre 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 regime, and scenes would occur not a little amusing to the philosophic observer, who, had he possessed the gift of second sight, would 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 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. 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 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 none to her intimacy, except a few of her ancient female friends.

Leading a life above reproach, there were about her concealed enemies, who watched in order to misrepresent every action; of these the most active were her own brothers and sisters-in-law, who, needy and rapacious, and totally dependent on their brother, viewed with jealous alarm any influence which threatened the exclusive dominion they wished to maintain over his mind. In the Syrian camp there were found creatures base enough to be the instruments of conveying their slanders to their destination. A repetition of these produced at length some effect on the jealous temper of the husband, as was obvious from the altered tone of his letters, which had hitherto been full of the most tender and confiding affection. On his return, however, an explanation took place, which left not a shade of suspicion on his mind; nor was the union ever afterwards disturbed from the same cause.

The crisis which Bonaparte had foreseen at length arrived; the people demanded the overthrow of the weak and tyrannical government. During the 19th of Brumaire, Josephine remained at home, in the most anxious inquietude, relieved, indeed, from time to time, by her husband’s attention in despatching notes of what was passing at St. Cloud. When night, however, and at last morning, came, without sight, or even tidings, of him, she was in a condition bordering on distraction. In this state, she had retired to bed, when, at length, about four in the morning, the Consul entered the apartment. A lively conversation ensued, and Bonaparte gayly announced that the fate of thirty millions of people bad passed into his hands, by the remark, “Good night to-morrow we sleep in the Luxemburg.”

The palace of the Luxemburg was soon found “trop etroit,” too confined, and the consuls removed their residence to the Tuileries, the ancient palace of the kings, now disguised by the title of the “governmental palace.” To the wife of the “first consul” a portion of the former royal apartments was assigned, and here, soon after the installation, she made her first essay in the grand observances of empire. On the evening of her first levee, the drawing-rooms were crowded, at an early hour, by a most brilliant assembly, and so numerous, that the doors of her private apartments were thrown open. Madame Bonaparte was announced, and entered, conducted by M. de Talleyrand, then minister for foreign affairs. A momentary feeling of disappointment may have crossed the minds of those who had looked for magnificence and state. Josephine was attired with the utmost simplicity, in a robe of white muslin: her hair, without decoration of any kind, and merely retained by a plain comb, fell in tresses upon her neck, in the most becoming negligence; a collar of pearls harmonized with and completed this unpretending costume. A spontaneous murmur of admiration followed her entrance: such were the grace and dignity of her deportment, that, in the absence of all the external attributes of rank, a stranger would have fixed upon the principal personage in the circle, as readily as if radiant with diamonds and stars of every order. Making the tour of the apartments, the ambassadors from foreign powers were first introduced to her. When these were nearly completed, the first consul entered, but without being announced, dressed in a plain uniform, with a sash of tri-colored silk. In this simplicity there were both good taste and sound policy. The occasion was not a royal levee; it was merely the first magistrate and his wife receiving the congratulations of their fellow-citizens.

Josephine was at this time thirty-six years old; but she yet retained those personal advantages which usually belong only to more youthful years. The surpassing elegance and taste displayed in the mysteries of the toilet were doubtless not without their influence in prolonging the empire of beauty; but nature had been originally bountiful. Her stature was exactly that perfection which is neither too tall for female delicacy, nor so diminutive as to detract from dignity. Her person was faultlessly symmetrical, and the lightness and elasticity of its action gave an aerial character to her graceful carriage. Her features were small and finely modelled, of a Grecian cast. The habitual character of her countenance was a placid sweetness. “Never,” says a very honest admirer, “did any woman better justify the saying, ‘The eyes are the mirror of the soul.’” Josephine’s were of a deep blue, clear and brilliant, usually lying half concealed under their long and silky eyelashes. The winning tenderness of her mild, subdued glance had a power which could tranquillize Napoleon in his darkest moods. Her hair was “glossy chestnut brown,” harmonizing delightfully with a clear and transparent complexion, and neck of almost dazzling whiteness. Her voice has already been mentioned; it constituted one of her most pleasing attractions, and rendered her conversation the most captivating that can easily be conceived.

On the 7th of May, 1800, the first consul took leave of his wife, on his departure for Italy. “Courage,” said he, “my good Josephine! I shall not forget thee, nor will my absence be long.” To both promises he was faithful. On the 2d of July, less than two months after he left Paris, he again slept at the Tuileries, having, in that brief space, broken the strength of the mighty armies which opposed him, wrested Italy, which the Austrians had reconquered during his absence in the East, again from their power, and thus laid deep the foundations of his future empire. During this brilliant campaign, Josephine’s absorbing enjoyment was to read the letters from Italy. These, in the handwriting of the consul, or dictated to his secretary, arrived almost daily at Malmaison, where she had resided, superintending the improvements. At this period, too, she began a collection of rare animals; to which the power or conquests of her husband, or a grateful remembrance of her own kindness, brought her accessions from all quarters of the globe.

The first consul now had leisure to enjoy the tranquillity which he had restored. The jours de congé, or holydays, on which, retiring to Malmaison, he threw off the cares of state, now came round more frequently. His visitors, on these occasions, were, besides the chief officers of state and of the army, the persons most distinguished for talent and for birth, the historic names of the olden time mingling with the new men of the revolution. Josephine received her visitors with elegance and grace, and with a simplicity which placed every one perfectly at his ease. The amusements were of the simplest kind. The favorite was the familiar, schoolboy game of “prison-bars.” Bonaparte, in the selection of partisans, always chose Josephine, never suffering her to be in any camp but his own. When by chance she was taken prisoner, he seemed uneasy till she was released, making all exertions for that purpose, though a bad runner himself, often coming down, in mid career, plump upon the grass. Up again, however, he started, but usually so convulsed with laughter that he could not move, and the affair generally ended in his own captivity.

But Josephine did not neglect the higher duties of her station. From the moment she had the power, her endeavors were used to alleviate the misfortunes of those whom the revolution had driven into exile, and a considerable portion of her income was devoted to their support. To the general act of amnesty, which the consul had issued on his access to power, there were many exceptions. To smooth the difficulties which lay in the way of the return of such, Josephine’s influence and exertions were seldom denied, and rarely unsuccessful. “Josephine,” as her husband remarked, “will not take a refusal; but, it must be confessed, she rarely undertakes a cause that has not propriety, at least, on its side.”

In May, 1804, destiny was fulfilled in the prediction of which Josephine had professed so long to believe. On the 18th of that month, the Senate, headed by the ex-second consul, proceeded in state to her apartments, and saluted her as Empress of the French. She received their congratulations with emotion, but with her accustomed benignity and grace. The succeeding night was passed by her in tears. “To be the wife of the first consul, fulfilled her utmost ambition.” Presentiments of evil now filled her bosom. The ambition of founding a new dynasty had found a place in the breast of the consul: would not this increase in strength in that of the emperor? The hopes of establishing it in his own line were now little likely to be realized, and the enemies of Josephine had already hinted at a divorce. What impression these might have made had been effaced for the time by the grant of power to Bonaparte to name his successor in the consulship, and by the birth of a son to Louis, who had married Hortense, but especially by his undiminished affection for his wife. He now had the inducement of seeking, by new family ties, to secure the stability of his throne. But such thoughts did not permanently disturb the repose of Josephine. Impressions were readily made, and as quickly effaced; and she possessed the true secret of happiness the art of postponing imaginary evil, and of enjoying the real good of the moment.

In her new situation Josephine found another source of sorrow. The state and ceremony of the consulship had sadly marred the pleasures of domestic intercourse. But now she found herself alone, above the kindly glow of equal affections a wretched condition for one “whose first desire was to be loved.” She sought, however, by increased kindness, to lessen the distance between herself and her old friends and companions. Nothing could be more amiable than the reception which she gave to those who came to take the oaths of fidelity on receiving appointments in her household. She took care to remove all ostentatious ceremony, talked to them on familiar topics, and sought to make the whole pass as an agreement between two friends to love each other. This condescension extended even to her humble domestics, yet never degenerated into undignified familiarity or absence of self-possession, as the following little incident will show. On the first occasion of her leaving St. Cloud for a distant excursion as empress, she traversed a whole suit of apartments to give directions to a very subaltern person of the household. The grand steward ventured to remonstrate on her thus compromising her dignity. The empress gayly replied, “You are quite right, my good sir; such neglect of etiquette would be altogether inexcusable in a princess trained from birth to the restraints of a throne; but have the goodness to recollect that I have enjoyed the felicity of living so many years as a private individual, and do not take it amiss if I sometimes venture to speak kindly to my servants without an interpreter.”

The frequent excursions made by the court formed a principal class of events in Josephine’s life as empress; they constituted those alternations which gave her most pleasure. When such journeys were in contemplation, none knew the hour of departure, or even the route a secrecy adopted to guard against conspiracies. “We set out at such an hour,” generally an early one, Napoleon would carelessly say, as he retired for the night. By the appointed hour every preparation was made, and the imperial travellers departed.

Sometimes Josephine travelled alone; and, on such occasions, every thing was arranged beforehand, including the replies she was to make to the addresses made to her, and the presents she was to bestow. Even the most minute thing was set down in a huge manuscript volume, which Josephine diligently conned previous to every ceremony. But if any thing chanced to escape her memory in this multiplicity of details, her unpremeditated answers or arrangements were always delivered with so much eloquence and propriety, or marked with such perfect kindness, that all parties were satisfied. Sometimes, however, a little mistake occurred, as, for example, on departing from Rheims, Josephine presented the mayoress with a medalion of malakite, set with diamonds, using the expression, “It is the emblem of hope.” Some days after, on seeing this absurdity in one of the journals, she could not believe that she had used it, and despatched a courier instantly to Napoleon, fearing his displeasure above all things. This occasioned the famous order that no journalist should report any speech of the emperor or empress, unless the same had previously appeared in the “Moniteur.” But Josephine usually adhered with scrupulous exactness to her written instructions. “He has said it, and it must be right,” was the constant remark with which she silenced all suggestions of change. On these excursions, every thing like vain etiquette was laid aside: every thing passed as if among a party of equals, on an excursion of pleasure, each being bound to supply a modicum to the common fund of enjoyment; the empress studying opportunities of showing those attentions which cost so little, and yet go so far in winning a way to the heart.

Charlemagne had received the holy unction from the hands of the head of the Catholic church. Napoleon aspired to the same distinction, but with this difference, instead of going to Rome to receive it, the pope was brought to Paris to administer it. He suffered much from the climate of France, which was too severe for his delicate health. The solicitude of the empress to provide for his comfort was extreme. The orders of the emperor had provided every thing that could be deemed necessary; but the observant delicacy of the empress supplied many wants which might else have been overlooked. Every day she sent to inquire after his welfare, frequently visited, and sometimes corresponded with him. The following letter, addressed to him, does equal credit to her head and to her heart:

“THE EMPRESS TO HIS HOLINESS PIUS VII.

“Whatever experience of human change the knowledge of our religion may have taught, your holiness will view, doubtless, not without astonishment, an obscure woman ready to receive from your hands the first among the crowns of Europe. In an event so far beyond the ordinary course, she recognizes and blesses the work of the Almighty, without daring to inquire into his purposes. But, holy father, I should be ungrateful, even while I magnified the power of God, if I poured not out my soul into the paternal bosom of him who has been chosen to represent his providence if I confided not to you my secret thoughts. The first and chief of these is the conviction of my own weakness and incapacity. Of myself I can do nothing, or, to speak more correctly, the little I can do is derived from that extraordinary man with whom my lot is cast. How many are the difficulties which surround the station to which he has raised me! I do not speak of the corruption, which, in the midst of greatness, has tainted the purest minds; I can rely upon my own, so far as, in this respect, not to fear elevation. But from a height whence all other dignities appear mean, how shall I distinguish real poverty? Ah, truly do I feel that, in becoming empress of the French, I ought also to become to them as a mother. But of what avail are intentions? Deeds are what the people have a right to demand of me, and your holiness, who so well replies to the respectful love of your subjects by continual acts of justice and benevolence, more than any other sovereign, is qualified to instruct me. O, then, holy father, may you, with the sacred unctions poured upon my head, not only awaken me to the truth of these precepts which my heart acknowledges, but also confirm the resolution of applying them to practice!”

On the 2d of December, 1804, Napoleon placed the imperial crown upon the head of Josephine, as she knelt before him on the platform of the throne in the cathedral of Notre Dame. Her appearance at this moment was most touching; tears of deep emotion fell from her eyes; she remained for a space kneeling, with hands crossed upon her bosom, then, slowly and gracefully rising, fixed upon her husband a look of gratitude and tenderness. Napoleon returned the glance. It was a silent but conscious interchange of the hopes, the promises, and the memories, of years.

In the spring of the following year, at Milan, Josephine received from her husband the crown of the ancient Lombard sovereigns. The festivities which followed were interrupted by a summons to put down a new combination against France. She resolved to accompany the emperor on his return to Paris, though suffering most severely from the rapidity of the journey. At each change of horses, it was necessary to throw water on the smoking wheels; yet Napoleon kept calling from the carriage, “On, on! We do not move!”

On his departure for the splendid campaign of Austerlitz, Josephine was appointed regent of the empire. The victory, decisive of the fate of Austria, was productive of renewed pleasure to the empress, by the marriage of her Eugene with the princess royal of Bavaria. Joyfully obeying the mandate which was to restore her for a time to the society of those she loved, the empress left Paris for Munich, where the marriage was celebrated. This union proved a most happy one; and the domestic felicity of her son now made viceroy of Italy constituted, both in her prosperous and adverse fortunes, a cause of rejoicing to Josephine. Her daughter, Hortense, soon after became queen of Holland. Could grandeur command or insure happiness, Josephine had subsequently never known misfortune. Every wish, save one, was gratified. She found herself on the most splendid of European thrones, beloved by the wonderful man who had placed her there, adored by the French nation, and respected even by enemies. Her children occupied stations second only to herself, with the prospect, either directly or in their issue, of succeeding to empire when death should relax the giant grasp which now swayed the sceptre.

All these brilliant prospects were closed to her by the death, in 1807, of her grandson, the prince royal of Holland. This boy had gained, in an astonishing manner, upon the affections and hopes of his uncle, and there seems to be no reason for discrediting the belief of the emperor’s intention to adopt him as his successor. Napoleon was strongly affected by the loss of his little favorite, and was often heard to exclaim, amidst the labors of his cabinet, “To whom shall I leave all this?”

To Josephine this loss was irremediable: hers was a grief not less acute, yet greater, than a mother’s sorrow; for, while she grieved for a beloved child, she trembled to think of the consequences to herself.

But for two years longer she enjoyed such happiness as Damocles may be supposed to have felt with the sword suspended over his head. The final blow was not struck till 1809. On the 26th of October of that year, Napoleon, having once more reduced Austria to sue for peace, arrived most unexpectedly at Fontainbleau. The court was at St. Cloud, and there were none to receive him. A courier was despatched to inform Josephine, who instantly obeyed the summons. During the succeeding night, it is supposed that Napoleon first opened to her the subject of a separation; for from the morning of the 27th, it was evident that they lived in a state of constant restraint and mutual observation; Napoleon scarcely venturing to look upon Josephine, save when he was not observed; while she hung upon every glance, and trembled at every word, at the same time that both endeavored to be composed and natural in their demeanor before the courtiers. But these are quicksighted to detect any change of condition in their superiors; nor was it one of the least of Josephine’s troubles to be exposed to their ingratitude. “In what self-restraint,” said she, “did I pass the period during which, though no longer his wife, I was obliged to appear so to all eyes! Ah, what looks are those which courtiers suffer to fall upon a repudiated wife!” The circumstance which, more than others, excited suspicion, was the shutting up, by the emperor’s commands, of the private access between their apartments. Formerly, their intercourse had thus been free, even amid the restraints of a court. Napoleon would surprise Josephine in her boudoir, and she would steal upon his moments of relaxation in his cabinet. But now all was reversed; the former never entered, but knocked when he would speak to the latter, who hardly dared to obey the signal, the sound of which caused such violent palpitations of the heart, that she had to support herself against the wall as she tottered towards the little door, on the other side of which Napoleon waited her approach. At these conferences he sought to persuade her of the political necessity and advantages of a separation a measure which he at first rather hinted at than disclosed as a matter determined upon.

But it was not the less fixed, and on the 30th of November, after dinner, the emperor ordered his attendants to withdraw. Of what passed at this interview Josephine has been the chronicler. “I watched,” says she, “in the changing expression of his countenance that struggle which was in his soul. At length his features settled into stern resolve. I saw that my hour was come. His whole frame trembled; he approached, and I felt a shuddering horror come over me. He took my hand, placed it upon his heart, gazed upon me for a moment, then pronounced these fearful words: ’Josephine! my excellent Josephine! thou knowest if I have loved thee! To thee, to thee alone, do I owe the only moments of happiness which I have enjoyed in this world. Josephine! my destiny overmasters my will. My dearest affections must be silent before the interests of France. Say no more.’ I had still strength sufficient to reply, ’I was prepared for this, but the blow is not the less mortal.’ More I could not utter. I became unconscious of every thing, and, on returning to my senses, found I had been carried to my chamber.”

During the interval between the private announcement of the divorce and the 16th of December, the most splendid public rejoicings took place on the anniversary of the coronation, and in commemoration of the victories of the German campaign. At all these, Josephine appeared in the pomp and circumstance of station, and even with a smiling countenance, while her heart was breaking.

On the 15th of December, the council of state were first officially informed of the intended separation. On the 16th, the whole imperial family assembled in the grand saloon at the Tuileries. Napoleon’s was the only countenance which betrayed emotion. He stood motionless as a statue, his arms crossed upon his breast, without uttering a single word. The members of his family were seated around, showing in their expression a satisfaction that one was to be removed who had so long held influence, gently exerted as it had been, over their brother. In the centre of the apartment was an arm-chair, and before it a little table, with a writing apparatus of gold. A door opened, and Josephine, pale, but calm, appeared, leaning on the arm of her daughter. Both were dressed in the simplest manner. All rose on her entrance. She moved slowly, and with wonted grace, to the seat prepared for her, and, her head supported on her hand, listened to the reading of the act of separation. Behind her chair stood Hortense, whose sobs were audible; and a little farther on, towards Napoleon, Eugene, trembling, as if incapable of supporting himself. It had required all a mother’s influence to prevent him, on the first announcement of that mother’s wrongs, from abandoning the service of the wrong-doer; that influence had done more; it had persuaded him not only to witness her own renouncement of the crown, but to be present at the coronation of her successor.

Josephine heard with composure the tears coursing each other down her cheeks the words which placed an eternal barrier between affection and its object. This painful duty over, pressing for an instant the handkerchief to her eyes, she rose, and, in a voice but slightly tremulous, pronounced the oath of acceptance; then, sitting down, she took the pen and signed. The mother and daughter now retired, followed by Eugene, who appears to have suffered the most severely of the three; for he had no sooner reached the ante-chamber, than he fell lifeless on the floor.

The emperor returned to his cabinet, silent and sad. He threw himself on a sofa in a state of complete prostration. Thus he remained for some minutes, his head resting on his hand; and, when he rose, his features were distorted. Orders had previously been given to proceed to Trianon. When the carriages were announced, he took his hat, and proceeded by the private staircase to the apartment of Josephine. She was alone. At the noise caused by the entrance of the emperor, she rose quickly, and threw herself, sobbing, on his neck: he held her to his breast, and embraced her several times; but, overcome by her emotions, she fainted. As soon as she exhibited signs of returning sensation, the emperor, wishing to avoid the renewal of a scene of grief which he could not calm, placing her in the arms of an officer who had attended him, and who relates the occurrence, he withdrew rapidly to his carriage. Josephine immediately perceived his absence, and her sobs and moans increased. Her female attendants, who had come in, placed her on a couch. In her agony, she seized the hands of the officer, and besought him to tell the emperor not to forget her, and to assure him that her attachment would survive all contingencies. It was with difficulty that she suffered him to leave her, as if his absence severed the last link by which she still held to the emperor.

Henceforward, the life of Josephine, passed either at Malmaison or Navarre, offers but few incidents. The emperor would not suffer any change to be made in the regal state to which she had been accustomed at the Tuileries. Her household was on a scale of imperial magnificence. She continued to receive the visits, almost the homage, of the members of the court of Napoleon and Maria Louisa; for it was quickly discovered, that, however unpleasant to her new rival, such visits were recommendations to the emperor’s favor. The apartments in which the empress received her guests were elegant, the furniture being covered with needle-work, wrought by the empress and her ladies; but the residence altogether was small an inconvenience increased through Josephine’s veneration of every thing that had been Napoleon’s. The apartment he had occupied remained exactly as he had left it; she would not suffer a chair to be moved, and, indeed, very rarely permitted any person to enter, keeping the key herself, and dusting the articles with her own hands. On the table was a volume of history, with the page doubled down where he had finished reading; beside it lay a pen, with the ink dried upon the point, and a map of the world, on which he was accustomed to point out his plans to those in his confidence, and which still showed on its surface many marks of his impatience. These Josephine would allow to be touched on no account. By the wall stood his camp-bed, without curtains; above hung his arms; on different pieces of furniture lay different articles of apparel, just as Napoleon had flung them from him.

It was long before the harassed feelings of Josephine were sufficiently calmed to take any interest in common affairs. So severe had been her sufferings, that it was six months before her sight recovered from the effects of inflammation and swelling of the eyes. The first circumstance which produced something like a change for the better, was her removal to Navarre, the repairing of which became at once a source of amusement and a means of benevolence. This once royal residence had suffered from the revolution, and was nearly in a state of dilapidation. The restoration of the buildings and grounds furnished employment to great numbers of people; and Josephine, in addition to the pleasures of planting and agriculture, enjoyed the delight to her more dear of spreading comfort and fertility over a region where before reigned extreme misery.

Her life at Navarre was now more agreeable to her, because free from the restraints of etiquette. Though constantly surrounded by the pomp of a court, her courtiers were for the most part old and valued friends, with whom she lived rather in society, than as mistress and dependants. She exhausted every means to render their retreat agreeable to them a retreat, however, recompensed by salaries equal to those of the imperial court, and which conciliated Napoleon’s approval. Benevolence and kindliness of feeling were the leading traits of Josephine’s character; besides distributing, by the hands of competent and pious persons, a large portion of her limited revenues in relieving distress wherever it occurred, she kept constantly about her a number of young ladies, orphans of ancient houses, now fallen into decay, to whom she not only gave an accomplished education, but watched over their establishment in life with parental solicitude.

The first event of importance which broke in upon the tranquillity of Josephine’s life, was the birth of the king of Rome. It happened that the whole household were at Évreux, at a grand entertainment, when the news reached that place. The party returned immediately to the palace, where Josephine had remained. “I confess,” says a youthful member of the party, “that my boundless affection for Josephine caused me violent sorrow, when I thought that she who occupied her place was now completely happy. Knowing but imperfectly the grandeur of soul which characterized the empress, her absolute devotion to the happiness of the emperor, I imagined there must still remain in her so much of the woman as would excite bitter regret at not having been the mother of a son so ardently desired. I judged like a frivolous person, who had never known cares beyond those of a ball. On arriving at the palace, I learned how to appreciate one who had been so long the cherished companion, and always the true friend, of Napoleon. I beheld every face beaming with joy, and Josephine’s more radiant than any. No sooner had the party entered than she eagerly asked for details. ’How happy,’ said she, ’the emperor must be! I rejoice that my painful sacrifice has proved so useful for France. One thing only makes me sad; not having been informed of his happiness by the emperor himself; but then he had so many orders to give, so many congratulations to receive. Yes, ladies, there must be a fête to celebrate this event; the whole city of Évreux must come to rejoice with us; I can never have too many people on this occasion.’”

The emperor’s omission seems to have greatly pained Josephine; for the same night she wrote him a delicate and touching letter, from which these are extracts:

“Sire, Amid the numerous félicitations which you receive from every corner of Europe, can the feeble voice of a woman reach your ear, and will you deign to listen to her who has so often consoled your sorrows, and sweetened your pains, now that she speaks to you only of that happiness in which all your wishes are fulfilled? Having ceased to be your wife, dare I felicitate you on becoming a father? Yes, sire, without hesitation; for my soul renders justice to yours, as you know mine. Though separated, we are united by a sympathy which survives all events. I should have desired to learn the birth of the king of Rome from yourself, and not from the cannons of Évreux; but I know that your first attentions are due to the public authorities, to your own family, and especially to the fortunate princess who has realized your dearest hopes. She cannot be more devoted to you than I; but she has been enabled to contribute more towards your happiness, by securing that of France. Not till you have ceased to watch by her bed, not till you are weary of embracing your son, will you take the pen to converse with your best friend. I wait.”

The next day, Eugene arrived, charged with a message from the emperor: “Tell your mother,” said he, “that I am certain she will rejoice more than any one at my good fortune. I would have written to her already, had I not been completely absorbed in looking at my son. I tear myself from him only to attend to the most indispensable duties. This evening I will discharge the sweetest of all I will write to Josephine.” Accordingly, about eleven o’clock the same evening, the folding-doors were opened in great form, and the announcement, “From the emperor,” ushered in one of his own pages, bearer of a letter from Napoleon. The empress retired to read this ardently-desired epistle; and on her return it was easy to see that she had been weeping. The curiosity of her court was gratified by hearing various portions of the letter, which concluded in these words: “This infant, in concert with our Eugene, will constitute my happiness, and that of France.” “Is it possible,” said Josephine, “to be more amiable? or could any thing be better calculated to soothe whatever might be painful in my thoughts at this moment, did I not so ardently love the emperor? This uniting of my son with his own is worthy of him, who, when he wills, is the most delightful man in the world.”

From their separation, the correspondence between Napoleon and Josephine continued undiminished in respect and affection. Notes from the emperor arrived weekly, and he never returned from any journey or long absence without seeing the “illustrious solitary.” No sooner had he alighted, than a messenger, usually his own confidential attendant, was despatched to Malmaison: “Tell the empress I am well, and desire to hear that she is happy.” In every thing Napoleon continued to evince for her the most confiding tenderness. All the private griefs in which Josephine had shared, and the sorrows to which she had ministered, were still disclosed to her. He gave a further proof of it by allowing her frequently to see his son a communication which the jealous temper of Maria Louisa would have sought to prevent, had it not been secretly managed. Josephine had so far complied with the wishes of the emperor as to attempt an intercourse with her successor. “But the latter,” to use Josephine’s own words, “rejected the proposal in a manner which prevented me from renewing it. I am sorry for it; her presence would have given me no uneasiness, and I might have bestowed good counsel as to the best means of pleasing the emperor.”

The personal intercourse between Napoleon and Josephine was conducted with the most decorous attention to appearances. It ended in one hurried and distressful interview after the return of Napoleon from his disastrous Russian campaign. But in the midst of the tremendous struggle that followed, Napoleon found leisure to think of her. His letters to her were more frequent and more affectionate than ever, while hers, written by every opportunity, were perused, under all circumstances, with a promptitude which showed clearly the pleasure or the consolation that was expected: in fact, it was observed that letters from Malmaison or Navarre were always torn rather than broken open, and read, whatever else might be retarded.

On the approach of the allies to Paris, Josephine retired from Malmaison to Navarre. Her only pleasure, during the period of painful uncertainty which followed, was to shut herself up alone, and read the letters she had last received from the emperor. A letter from him at last put an end to all uncertainty; it announced his fall and his retirement to Elba. The perusal of it overwhelmed her with grief and consternation; but, recovering herself, she exclaimed, with impassioned energy, “I must not remain here: my presence is necessary to the emperor. The duty is, indeed, more Maria Louisa’s than mine; but the emperor is alone, forsaken. I, at least, will not abandon him.” Tears came to her relief. She became more composed, and added, “I may, however, interfere with his arrangements. I will remain here till I hear from the allied sovereigns. They will respect her who was the wife of Napoleon.” Nor was she deceived. The Emperor Alexander sent assurances of his friendship, and the other allies united in a request that she would return to Malmaison. Here every thing was maintained on its former footing. Her court, elegant as ever, was frequented by the most distinguished personages of Europe. Among the earliest visitors was Alexander. Josephine received him with her wonted grace, and expressed how much she felt on the occasion. “Madam,” replied Alexander, “I burned with the desire of beholding you. Since I entered France, I have never heard your name pronounced but with benedictions. In the cottage and in the palace I have collected accounts of your goodness; and I do myself a pleasure in thus presenting to your majesty the universal homage of which I am the bearer.” The king of Prussia also visited her, and she received attentions even from the Bourbons. Her children were protected, and Eugene was offered his rank as marshal of France; but he declined it.

The health of Josephine, which had been undermined by previous sufferings, sunk entirely under these new and agitating emotions. On the 4th of May, 1814, she became, for the first time, decidedly ill. The Emperor Alexander was unremitting in his attentions to her, and to him her last words were addressed. “I shall die regretted. I have always desired the happiness of France; I did all in my power to contribute to it; I can say with truth, that the first wife of Napoleon never caused a single tear to flow.” She then sunk into a gentle slumber, from which she never awoke.

The funeral procession, which was headed by representatives of the sovereigns of Russia and Prussia, and was composed of princes, marshals, and generals, the most celebrated in Europe, was closed by two thousand poor, who had voluntarily come to pay their last tribute to the memory of their benefactor and friend. The spot where her remains are buried is marked by a monument of white marble, bearing this simple, yet touching inscription:

“EUGENE AND HORTENSE TO JOSEPHINE.”