The Court of the Empress Josephine Part 10

At this reception she was the object of almost as much flattery as was the Emperor. We quote a few of the phrases:--

_M. Monge, President of the Senate_: "Madame, the Senate lays at the feet of Your Imperial and Royal Majesty the tribute of its profound respect and the homage of the administration with which it is animated for all your virtues.... It congratulates itself on seeing again, in the capital, the august spouse to whom our adored ruler has given all his confidence and who deserves it in so many ways."

_M. de Fontanes, President of the Legislative Body_: "Half of our wishes are granted. The presence of Your Majesty will make us attend less impatiently another return that the French desire with you. ... Paris consoles itself for not seeing him who gives such glory to the throne, by finding in you her who has always lent to Sovereignty so much charm, so much gentleness and kindness."

_M. Fabre, President of the Tribunal_: "Madame, your return has aroused the keenest joy. The memory of that delicate kindness which knew how to temper so many woes; of that active beneficence which repaired so many misfortunes, is imprinted on every heart. Every one says: 'Providence in giving to us the hero, whose vast designs are crowned with the most constant and prompt success, desired to complete his kindness, by placing near him her to whom every stricken heart turns, who is the most agreeable object of grat.i.tude, and who, moreover, throughout France is called the friend of misfortune.'"

_M. Lejean, First Vicar-General of the Chapter of Notre Dame_ (speaking in the place of the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris, who was ill): "Madame, His Eminence the Archbishop, our worthy prelate, has commanded me to convey to Your Imperial and Royal Majesty his regrets at not being able himself to present to you the chapter and clergy of Paris. 'Go,' that venerable old man said to me, 'and a.s.sure the benevolent Empress from me that I thoroughly share the joy which every one feels at her return. Tell her that never a moment pa.s.ses that I do not address to Heaven the most fervent prayers for the happiness of France and of our invincible Emperor, and for the success of his arms. The Lord has deigned to grant my prayers; in a very short time astounding prodigies have been wrought by Napoleon, and I offer my thanks.' The chapter and the clergy of Paris pray for Your Majesty to be sure that their feelings for your sacred person and for that of your august husband are like those of His Eminence."

_The Prefect of the Seine_: "You are far from the Emperor, Madame, but Paris, too, is far from him. Well, to mitigate this separation, equally painful for Paris and for Your Majesty, Paris and Your Majesty will talk to one another much about the Emperor. You will take pleasure in hearing that his subjects of the good city of Paris are ever faithful to him; that they are prepared for every act of devotion which may be demanded by his glory, the honor of the Empire, and the resolution he has formed of not laying down his arms until he has a.s.sured the peace of nations. You will take pleasure in seeing us follow in thought, even to the most distant climes, his ever victorious eagles. In short, Madame, at every exploit of the Grand Army, you will be glad to hear the loud applause which we have often wished could reach you, even in the camps of the founder of the Empire, and then touched by the sincerity of our prayers, you will deign to listen to them, and sometimes even to be their interpreter."

In spite of these official flatteries, and more or less interested compliments, the Empress was far from happy. Possibly she imagined that soon, even in her lifetime, the same homage would be addressed by the same persons, in the same palace, to another woman. Besides this, however, she had many causes for distress. She suffered from the absence of her children, from her daughter's domestic unhappiness, from the Emperor's remoteness, his infidelities in Poland, from the dangers threatening him in this relentless and distant war. She wrote to her daughter February 3: "I got here, dear Hortense, the evening of the 31st, as I expected. My journey was pleasant, if I can call it so when it separated me further from the Emperor. I have received five letters from him since my departure. I need to hear from you now that you are no longer with me to console me. Tell me how you are; write to me about your husband and children. Although I see more people here than at Mayence, I am quite as lonely, and you will seem to be with me if you write. Good by, my dear, I love you tenderly." Josephine yearned all the more eagerly for happiness as a mother, because as wife she suffered cruelly, and the torments of jealousy were added to her grief at the Emperor's absence.

To one of the last letters his wife had written from Mayence Napoleon answered in an undated letter which she received in Paris: "My dear, your letter of January 20, has pained me much; it is too sad. That is the result of excessive piety! You tell me that your happiness makes your glory. That is ungenerous; you ought to say, the happiness of others makes my glory. It is not like a mother; you ought to say, the happiness of my children is my glory. It is not like a wife; you ought to say, my husband's happiness makes my glory. Now, since the nation, your husband, your children cannot be happy without a little glory, you should not despise it. Josephine, you have a good heart, but a weak head; your feelings are most admirable; you reason less well. But that is enough squabbling; I want you to be merry, content with your lot, and to obey, not grumbling and crying, but cheerfully and happily. Good by, my dear.

I'm off to-night, to inspect my outposts." It must be confessed that to be as merry as the Emperor demanded, Josephine would have needed a very exceptional character. Her husband was at the other end of Europe, never interrupting the intense emotions and great risks of a colossal struggle except for brief distractions, which, however, could not be agreeable, so suspicious and jealous as she was.

Constant, the Emperor's valet de chambre, has recounted in his Memoirs, the pa.s.sion with which a beautiful Polish lady inspired his master, early in 1807. Napoleon spent the whole month of January at Warsaw in a great palace. The Polish n.o.bility gave him magnificent b.a.l.l.s, and at one of them he noticed a young woman of twenty-two, Madame V., who had recently married an old n.o.bleman, a most worthy man of stern principles and severe nature. By the side of her aged husband, this young woman, whose sadness and melancholy only added to her beauty, was like a victim in waiting for a consoler. She was a charming person, with light hair, blue eyes, a brilliant complexion, a graceful figure, and dignified carriage. The Emperor went up to her, addressed her, and was soon delighted by her conversation. He imagined that she was unhappily married and he at once conceived a warm love for her, intenser and far more serious than any he had ever felt for one of his favorites. The next day he was noticeably restless. He would get up and walk about, then sit down only to get on his feet again. "I thought," Constant goes on, "that I should never get him dressed that day. Immediately after breakfast he despatched a great personage, whose name I shall not give, to pay a visit to Madame V., and carry his regards and entreaties. She proudly refused to listen to his propositions, possibly on account of their suddenness, or, it may be, by natural coquetry. The hero had pleased her; the thought of having a lover resplendent with power and glory fascinated her, but she had no idea of yielding without a struggle. The grand personage returned in great surprise and compa.s.sion at the failure of his negotiation."

Constant says that he found his master the next morning very busy. The Emperor had written many letters the previous evening to the Polish lady, who had made no reply. His pride was wounded by a resistance to which he had not been accustomed since he had become great. At last, however, he had written so many, and such ardent and touching letters, that she consented to visit him one evening between ten and eleven. The grand personage who had tried to make the negotiations, was ordered to go to a remote spot and receive the lady in a carriage. Napoleon paced the room while awaiting her, betraying emotion and impatience. "At last Madame V.

arrived," says Constant, whose master kept asking him what time it was.

"She was in a most pitiable condition, pale, silent, her eyes full of tears. As soon as she appeared, I led her to the Emperor's room. She could scarcely stand and she was trembling as she leaned on my arm. Then I withdrew with the great personage who had brought her. During her interview with the Emperor, Madame V. wept and sobbed so that I could overhear her even at a great distance. At about two in the morning, the Emperor called me. I went to him and saw Madame V. going away, with her handkerchief at her eyes, weeping freely. The same personage carried her away. I thought she would never come back." But, contrary to his expectations, Madame V. came back two or three days later at about the same hour; she seemed calmer, her eyes were less red, her face not so pale, and she continued her visits during the Emperor's stay. Evidently Josephine had good grounds for jealousy.

Napoleon interrupted these distractions by going forth to fight the battle of Eylau, one of the bloodiest and most obstinate combats known to history. He described it in two letters to the Empress, written in the same day. This is the first:--

"Eylau, February 9, 1803, 3 A.M. MY DEAR: We had a great battle yesterday.

I was victorious, but our loss was heavy; that of the enemy, which was even greater, is no consolation for me. I write you these few lines myself, though I am very tired, to tell you that I am well and love you.

Ever yours."

This is the second:--

"Eylau, February 9, 6 P.M. I write a word lest you should be anxious. The evening lost the battle; forty cannon, ten flags, twelve thousand prisoners, suffering horribly. I lost sixteen hundred killed and three to four thousand wounded. Your cousin, Tascher, is unhurt. I have placed him on my staff as artillery officer. Corbineau was killed by a sh.e.l.l. I was exceedingly attached to him; he was an excellent officer, and I am deeply distressed. My Horse Guard covered itself with glory. D'Allemagne is dangerously wounded. Good by, my dear."

The Emperor did not tell everything to Josephine; he said nothing about the terrible vicissitudes of the battle, a victory scarcely to be distinguished from a defeat; he kept silence about the cruel sufferings of his army which, without having eaten, had fought amid blinding snow beneath a leaden sky; he said no word about the regiments destroyed, one in particular, from colonel to drummers, all killed or wounded; he did not mention his own danger in the cemetery on the hill, where he had stood surrounded by his Guard, his last resource, anxiously watching the fight from its beginning, slashing the snow with his whip, and exclaiming at the approach of the Russian Grenadiers as they advanced towards him, "What audacity!" He did not say that after the terrible and fruitless bloodshed, which both armies claimed as a victory, he had been obliged to withdraw, and that Bennigsen had taken possession of the hotly disputed battle- field. He did not say what he was about to say in his bulletins: "Imagine, on a s.p.a.ce a league square, nine or ten thousand corpses; four or five thousand dead horses; lines of Russian knapsacks; fragments of guns and sabres: the earth covered with bullets, sh.e.l.ls, supplies; twenty-four cannon, surrounded by their artillery-men, slain just as they were trying to take their guns away; and all that in plainest relief on the stretch of snow." He did not quote the words he uttered in the biting frost, in face of thousands of dead and dying, when the gloomy day was sinking into a night of anguish: "This sight is one to fill rulers with a love of peace and a horror of war." No; the Emperor did not tell her everything.

In another letter, dated Eylau, February 11, 8 A.M., the Emperor tried to rea.s.sure the Empress: "I send you a line: you must have been very anxious, I fought the enemy on a memorable day which cost me many brave men. The bad weather drove me into winter quarters. Do not distress yourself, I beg of you; it will all be over soon, and my delight at seeing you once more will soon make me forget my fatigue. Besides, I have never been better.

Little Tascher, of the fourth of the line, did well; and he had a hard experience. I have given him a place near me, in the artillery; so his troubles are over. The young man interests me. Good by, my dear; a thousand kisses."

From this moment the Emperor's letters to his wife became cold, short, dull, and utterly insignificant; speaking of nothing but the rain, or the good weather, and perpetually bidding her to be cheerful. A clear-witted person ought to see readily that Napoleon, who was otherwise occupied, wrote to the Empress only from a sense of duty. Here are four letters; the first from Landsberg, the other three from Liebstadt. February 18: "I write a line. I am well. I am busy putting the army into winter quarters.

It is raining and thawing like April. We have not yet had a cold day. Good by, my dear. Yours ever." February 20: "I write a line that you may not be anxious. My health is good, and everything is in good condition. I have put the army into winter quarters. It is a curious season, freezing and thawing, damp and changeable. Good by, my dear." February 21: "I have yours of February 4, and am glad to hear that you are well. Paris will give you cheerfulness and rest; the return to your usual habits will restore your health. I am wonderfully well. The weather and the country are wretched. Everything is in good condition; it freezes and thaws every day; it is a most singular winter. Good by, my dear. I think of you, and am anxious to hear that you are contented, cheerful, and happy. Ever yours." February 22: "I have your letter of the 8th. I am glad to hear that you have been to the Opera, and that you mean to receive every week.

Go to the theatre occasionally, and always sit in the grand box. I am pleased with the festivities given to you. I am very well. The weather continues unsettled, freezing and thawing. I have put the army into winter quarters to rest it. Don't be sad, and believe that I love you."

Towards the end of February Napoleon had established his headquarters at Osterode, where he lived in a sort of barn, from which he governed his Empire and controlled Europe. He wrote to his brother Joseph, March 1, about the sufferings of this severe campaign in Poland. "The staff- officers have not taken off their clothes for two months, and some not for four, I have myself been a fortnight without taking off my boots.... We are deep in the snow and mud, without wine, brandy, or bread, living on meat and potatoes, making long marches and counter-marches, without any comforts, and generally fighting with the bayonets under grape-shot; the wounded have to be carried in open sleighs for fifty leagues.... We are making war in all its excitement and horror." It is easy to see that Josephine, who knew all this, had good grounds for anxiety. Paris was empty and gloomy; every face was sad. France is easily tired of everything, even of glory. The auditors of the Council of State, who were sent to Osterode to carry to the Emperor the reports of the different ministers, returned to Paris in deep distress at the sights they had seen, and spread alarm in official circles. Napoleon consequently decided that those reports should be brought to him by staff-officers, who were more inured to scenes of distress.

From headquarters at Osterode the Emperor sent eleven letters to the Empress between February 23 and April 1, 1807, but he said nothing of importance in them. Thus: "Try to pa.s.s your time agreeably; don't be anxious. I am in a wretched village where I shall be some time; it's not so pleasant as a large city. I tell you again, I have never been so well; you will find me much stouter.... I have ordered what you want for Malmaison; be happy and cheerful; that's what I desire. I am waiting for good weather, which must come soon. I love you, and want to hear that you are contented and cheerful. You will hear a good deal of nonsense about the battle of Eylau; the bulletin tells everything; its report of the losses is rather exaggerated than cut down." At the same time he somewhat reproved his wife: "I am sorry to hear that there is a renewal of the mischievous talk such as there was in your drawing-room at Mayence; put a stop to it. I shall be much annoyed if you don't find some clue. You let yourself be distressed by the talk of people who ought to cheer you up. I recommend to you a little firmness, and to learn how to put everybody in his place. My dear, you must not go to the small theatres in private boxes; it does not suit your rank; you ought to go only to the four large theatres and always sit in the Imperial box. If you want to please me, you must live as you did when I was in Paris. Then you did not go to the small theatres or such places. You ought always to go to the Imperial box. For your life at home, you must have regular receptions; that is the only way of winning my approval. Greatness has its inconveniences. An Empress can't go about everywhere like a commoner."

The greatness which the Emperor spoke about was no consolation to Josephine. She was unhappier beneath the gilded ceilings of the Tuileries than a peasant woman in a hovel. She besought her husband to let her join him in Poland, and wrote to him despairing letters.

Napoleon answered from Osterode, March 27: "My dear, I am much pained by your letters. You must not die: you are well and have no real cause of grief. I think you ought to go to Saint Cloud in May. but you ought to spend April in Paris.... You must not think of travelling this summer; all that is impossible. You couldn't be racing through inns and camps. I am as anxious as you can be to see you and be quiet. I understand other things than war; but duty is before everything. All my life I have sacrificed everything--peace, interest, happiness--to my destiny." These phrases in no way consoled Josephine who knew very well that her husband, in spite of his a.s.sumption of Spartan austerity; occasionally indulged in distractions.

In the month of March something occurred which somewhat moderated the Empress's sufferings. Her daughter-in-law, the Vice-Queen of Italy, gave birth at Milan, on the 17th, to a daughter who was named Josephine Maximilienne Augusta. She it was who was to marry, in 1827, Oscar, Crown Prince and later King of Sweden. "You will hear with pleasure," the Empress wrote Queen Hortense, "of the Princess Augusta's happy delivery.

Eugene is delighted with his daughter; his only complaint is that she sleeps too much, so that he can't see her as much as he would like."

Josephine would gladly have gone to Milan to congratulate her son and to kiss her granddaughter, but her grandeur kept her in Paris, where the prolongation of her husband's absence and the torments of too well justified jealousy plunged her into the deepest gloom.

Napoleon became tired of the monotonous and excessively disagreeable stay at Osterode, where he could not receive the Polish lady to whom he became continually more and more attached. Early in April he installed himself at Finkenstein, in a pretty castle belonging to a Prussian crown official, and there he was very comfortably quartered with his staff and military household. It was from thence that he wrote, April 2, the following short letter to Josephine: "My dear, I send you a line. I have just moved my headquarters to a very pretty castle, like that of Bessieres, where I have a number of open fireplaces, which is very pleasant for me, as I get up often in the night; I like to see the fire. My health is perfect, the weather is fine, but still cold. The thermometer is but a few degrees from freezing. Good by, my dear. Ever yours." As soon as Napoleon was settled in this castle his first thought was to send for the Polish lady, for whom he had fitted up an apartment near his own. She left at Warsaw her old husband, who never consented to see her again, and spent three weeks with the Emperor. "They took all their meals together," says Constant. "I was the only one in attendance, so I was able to overhear their talk which was always amiable, lively, and eager on the part of the Emperor, always tender, affectionate and melancholy on the part of Madame V. When His Majesty was away Madame V. spent all her time in reading or looking through the blinds of the Emperor's room at the parades and drills going on in the courtyard of the castle, which he often directed in person."

Constant, who felt bound to admire his master's choice, adds with some feeling: "The Emperor appeared, to appreciate perfectly the interesting qualities of this angelic woman, whose gentle, unselfish character left on me an impression that can never fade... Her life, like her nature, was calm and uniform. Her character fascinated the Emperor and bound him down to her." This loving idyl, a sort of interlude in the tragedy of war, may have suited Constant's taste, but it was hardly of a nature to please Josephine, who, like most jealous people, knew almost always what she wanted to know, and from the Tuileries found means to watch what was going on in this distant castle.

Napoleon's letters to Josephine during the reign of Madame V. were shorter and more stupid than usual. They were merely a few lines on the weather, the Emperor's health, or his desire to hear that his wife was "cheerful and happy." But, alas! cheerfulness and happiness were not for her! Too astute to be hoodwinked, she understood that her husband still had a friendly feeling for her but that his love was dead. In the eyes of a jealous woman, friendship is a slight thing. What does she care for the esteem and attentions of a friend who was once her lover? To all the good services of friendship she would a thousand times prefer the anger, fury, violence, of love.

XXII.

THE DEATH OF THE YOUNG NAPOLEON.

Queen Hortense was no happier in her Holland palaces than was the Empress in the Tuileries. She had to endure all the grief, deception, and misery of an ill-a.s.sorted marriage. The incompatibility of disposition which existed between her husband and herself from the first days of their married life, made itself continually more felt. King Louis blamed his wife not merely for her faults, but also for her good qualities. He was sometimes annoyed because she was gracious, amiable, charming; and the general sympathy she aroused in Holland, as in France, excited the fears of this irritable and sullen husband. Hortense looked upon herself as a victim. She had a lively imagination, and exaggerated her grief to herself, suffering more keenly on account of her excitement, which was often very great. One day she said to Madame de Remusat, her intimate and admiring friend, that her life was so painful and apparently so hopeless that when she was at one of her villas near the sea, and looked out on the ocean where were the English fleets blockading her ports, she wished that chance might bring a ship to where she was, and she might be carried off a prisoner.

The conjugal infelicities of Louis and his wife attracted the attention of the Emperor, who kept as strict a guard over his family as over his Empire, and was as prompt to exercise control in private, as in political matters. He wanted his brother to obey him, both as King and husband, and in his discontent at seeing his orders disobeyed, he wrote to him, from the depths of Poland, April 4, 1807, this reproachful letter, which is a real reprimand: "Your quarrels with the Queen have become public. Show, then, in private life some of that paternal and effeminate character which you display in matters of government, and in business the same rigor you exercise in your household. You treat a young woman as we treat a regiment.... You have an excellent and most virtuous wife and you make her unhappy. Let her dance as much as she pleases; she is young. My wife is forty; I wrote to her from the battle-field to go to a ball. And you want a young woman of twenty, who sees her life flitting, and has every illusion, to live in a cloister, or to be always washing her baby like a nurse. You are too much _you_ in your household, and not enough in your administration. I should not say all this to you except for the interest I have for you. Make the mother of your children happy; you have one way to do this: that is, by showing her esteem and confidence. Unfortunately your wife is too virtuous; if you had married a coquette she would lead you by the end of your nose. But you have a proud wife who is afflicted and distressed by the mere thought that you may have a bad opinion of her. You ought to have married any one of a number of women whom I know in Paris; she would have had no difficulty in getting ahead of you and would have kept you at her feet. It is not my fault, I have often told your wife so."

Thus the Emperor, by taking part in behalf of his daughter-in-law and against his brother, took a position as arbiter in their domestic quarrels. This interference was all the more galling to Louis,--who would have liked to be master in both his own kingdom and in his own house,-- that calumny, as he well knew, persisted in representing the Emperor as his rival in Hortense's love, and as the father of the Crown Prince.

This child was named Napoleon Charles. He was born in Paris, October 10, 1802. His grandmother, Josephine, nourished the hope that some day he might be heir to the Empire, and she regarded his birth as a pledge of final reconciliation between the Bonapartes and the Beauharnaises. She believed that his cradle saved her from divorce. The Emperor, who always liked children, was especially fond of his nephew. He watched his growth with the keenest interest, admiring his amiability, his precocity, his excellent disposition, The boy was really remarkable for intelligence and beauty. His large blue eyes reflected every mood of his mind. Good, loving, frank, and merry, he needed only to appear and all sadness was banished. His mother had brought him up to revere the Emperor. His father, the King, gave him new toys every day, choosing those he thought most attractive. The boy preferred those he received from his uncle, and when his father said, "But just see, Napoleon, those are ugly; mine are prettier." "No," said the young Prince, "those are very pretty, my uncle gave them to me." One morning on his way to see the Emperor, he pa.s.sed through a drawing-room where happened to be among others, Murat, then Grand Duke of Berg. The young Napoleon walked straight ahead without paying attention to any one, and when Murat stopped him and said, "Don't you mean to say good-morning to me?" the child replied, "No; not before my uncle the Emperor." Who knows? if this little Prince had lived the Emperor might have desired no other heir, and perhaps the divorce would never have taken place.

This boy was his mother's hope and pride, her joy and consolation. His father, too, loved him much. He was a light in the darkness, a rainbow after the storm. Sometimes when his parents were quarrelling he succeeded in reconciling them. He used to take his father by the hand, who gladly let himself be led by this little angel, and then he would say in a caressing tone: "Kiss her, papa, I beg of you"; then he was perfectly happy when his father and mother exchanged a kiss of peace.

The little Prince had a sudden attack of croup in the night of May 4, 1807. He was thought to be lost, but in the evening he was a little better, and the physicians had some hope of saving him. The improvement lasted but a few minutes. In the course of the day he was given some English powders, which lent him a feverish strength, so that at six in the evening he asked for some cards and pictures to play with, but the fever only gave way to his death agony. Towards ten in the evening the child drew his last breath.

No words can describe the unhappy Queen's despair; she became stony with grief, and fears were felt for her reason. Josephine's grief was boundless. She did not dare to leave the Empire without the Emperor's authorization, and so did not go to The Hague, but went in all haste to the Castle of Laeken, near Brussels, whence she wrote to Hortense in the evening of May 14: "I have just readied the Castle of Laeken, my dear daughter, and await you here. Come and give me life; your presence is necessary for me, and you must have need of seeing me and of weeping with your mother. I should have liked to go further, but I was too weak, and besides I had not time to send word to the Emperor. I have summoned courage to come thus far; I hope that you will have enough to come to your mother. Good by, my dear daughter, I am worn out with fatigue and especially with grief." In the evening of May 15, Hortense arrived at the Castle of Laeken, accompanied by her husband and her sole surviving son.

She was motionless, apathetic, the figure of despair. M. de Remusat, who was with the Empress, wrote the next day to his wife: "The Queen has but one thought, the loss she has suffered; she speaks of only one thing, of _him_. Not a tear, but a cold calm, an almost absolute silence about everything, and when she speaks she wrings every one's heart. If she sees any one whom she has ever seen with her son, she looks at him with kindliness and interest, and says, 'You know he is dead.' When she first saw her mother, she said to her: 'It's not long since he was here with me.

I held him on my knees thus.' Seeing me a few minutes later, she made a sign for me to come forward. 'Do you remember Mayence? He acted with us.'

She heard ten o'clock strike; she turned to one of the ladies and said, 'You know it was at ten that he died.' That is the only way she breaks her almost continual silence. With all that, she is kind, sensible, perfectly reasonable; she thoroughly understands her condition, and even speaks of it. She says she is glad that she has fallen into this numb state, otherwise her sufferings would have been too intense. Some one asked her if she was much moved when she saw her mother: 'No,' she answered; 'but I am very glad to have seen her.' Mention was made of Josephine's surprise at her lack of emotion on seeing her; 'Oh, Heavens!' she said, 'she must not mind it; that's the way I am.' To anything that is asked her on any other subject, she says, 'It's all the same to me; do as you please.'"

A messenger had been sent to carry the news to the Emperor, who was much affected by hearing it. He wrote to Josephine, May 14: "I can well imagine the grief which Napoleon's death, must cause. You can understand what I suffer. I should like to be with you, that you might be moderate and discreet in your grief. You were happy enough never to lose a child, but that is one of the conditions and penalties attached to our human misery.

Let me hear that you are calm and well! Do you want to add to my regret?

Good by, my dear."

May 17 an imposing ceremony took place in Paris--the carrying of the sword of Frederick the Great to the Tuileries. A triumphal chariot, richly decorated, carried the one hundred and eighty flags captured in the last campaign. Marshal Moncey, on horseback, held the hero's sword. The chariot proceeded to the iron gate of the Invalides, which it was too lofty to pa.s.s under. Then the veterans came to take the flags and to carry them into the church. The ceremony began with a song of triumph. Marshal Serurier, Governor of the Invalides, spoke: "We are here," he said, "to the number of more than nine hundred of those who fought against the great king whose warlike spoils our children have just won. At that time fortune did not always smile upon our valor. The fathers were no less brave than their sons, but they had not the same leader. Yet we can only recall with pride the words of that great man: 'If I were at the head of the French people, not a cannon would be fired in Europe without my permission'-- honorable proof of his esteem for the soldiers who were fighting him. But it was in the reign of a sovereign even greater by his genius, his feats, his moderation, that the French people was to rise to such a height of power and glory. We swear faithfully to guard the treasure which his Imperial and Royal Majesty has entrusted to us." Then the old church echoed with cries of "We swear it!"

At this ceremony, the eloquent President of the Legislative Body, M. de Fontanes, made a fine speech full of enthusiasm for Napoleon, but respectful to the memory of the great Frederick and to the misfortunes of his successor. He closed with a few words on the grief that the death of the Crown Prince must have caused the Emperor: "Perhaps, at this moment,"

he said, "the hero who has saved us is weeping in his tent at the head of three hundred thousand victorious French, and of all the confederate kings and princes who march under his banner. He weeps, and neither the trophies heaped about him, nor the glory of the twenty sceptres he holds so firmly, which even Charlemagne failed to grasp, can distract his thoughts from the coffin of that boy, whose first steps he aided with his triumphant hands, whose promising intelligence he hoped one day to guide. Let him not forget that his domestic woes have been felt like a public calamity, and may a tender expression of the national interest bring him some slight consolation. All our alarm for the future is a more ardent expression of our homage. May fortune be satisfied with this one victim, and while she always favors the plans of the greatest of monarchs, may she not make him pay for his glory by similar misfortunes!"

Doubtless the death of this young child altered the face of things. If he had lived, it would have been for him, and not his brother, to bear the name of Napoleon III., or possibly even of Napoleon II., and apparently the destiny of the world would have been very different. Kingdoms and empires, on what does their fate depend! May 5 was to be a fatal date; the young Prince died May 5, 1807, and fourteen years later to a day his uncle was to die on the rock of Saint Helena.

XXIII.

THE END OF THE WAR.