Josephine on the throne did not lose sight of her mother. She invited her most affectionately to reside with her, with Napoleon's approbation; but the old lady invariably declined. She said she was happy in her humble dwelling, and might not be so in a palace-she preferred the peaceful residence of Martinique to the dangerous honours which attended the court of her son-in-law. Napoleon, without her knowledge, however, gave orders that she should always be received in the island with distinguished honours. Soon after these orders had been received, the old lady left her farm at Trois-Islets, according to custom, to visit the town. She was, as usual, accompanied by several female mulatto slaves, carrying her baggage. Her amazement may well be imagined to find herself, on landing at the wharf, saluted by the firing of cannon, and the cries of an immense multitude, repeating incessantly, vive l'Empereur!—vive la mere de l'Imperatrice Josephine! Immediately the governor, followed by all the authorities, advanced to compliment her on coming ashore, and to her vexation and surprise, she was placed under a canopy richly embroidered. Madame de Tascher scarcely knew where she was, and her distress and embarrassment was exceedingly increased by her having brought, as was customary with her, some poultry, two Guinea pigs, and a small kid. It was with great difficulty she consented to accept his excellency's invitation to a public feast prepared for the occasion, or to suffer herself to be escorted in pomp to the principal church, and thence to the hotel. Every instant she was turning round, and making signs to her mulatto girls to hide the live stock! Her trouble was as great as it was ridiculous. Every one smiled, but from respect to the good old lady, they were silent. The title which Napoleon conferred on her she peremptorily refused to receive, and after undergoing all the horrors of these unexpected and embarrassing honours, she joyfully left the city as soon as she could, and took care to return to it again as seldom as possible. This excellent old woman was very much beloved at Martinique. The people gave her the title of the mother and protectress of unhappy slaves-a title more truly glorious than any her son-in-law could bestow. She would never accept any thing from Bonaparte or her daughter, always replying that she had more than was necessary. She even returned the diamonds that adorned the miniature of her daughter, which had been sent to her. Napoleon did not like her. "She is," said he, "a bourgeoise in the full force of the term: she has only little ideas. Speak to her of the labours of agriculture; the way to manure lands; add to that an account of fowls and rabbits, and you'll then see her countenance expand: she will tell you, '1

prefer this tranquil life to the first throne in the universe."" She died in 1807.

When the old Spanish King, with his Queen, the Prince of the Peace, and the King and Queen of Etruria, were confined at Compeigne, Josephine obtained from Napoleon his consent to their being treated with royal magnificence. He also assured them their captivity should be short, and they should be restored when Spain had undergone a regeneration. When the war was unsuccessful in Spain, he began to see that his schemes of conquest would fail. His agitation became apparent to the whole court. Josephine felt the outpourings of the storm. He would walk half the night with hurried steps, and often strike his forehead like a man in despair. She tried to soothe him, but in vain.

When Napoleon learned by his secret correspondence, that Austria was dissatisfied, and intended to declare war against him, he would not suffer the French to know it. Apparently he made no preparations; on the contrary, to deceive both freinds and enemies, he caused splendid balls and parties to be given at the Tuilleries. Josephine says it became an enchanted palace. But one night he received certain despatches: awakening his wife, he said, "you have played the part of Empress long enough, you must now resume the character of a general's wife. I set out this instant, and you must accompany me as far as Strasbourg." She immediately arose; put a Madrass handkerchief on her head, dressed herself, and threw over all a warm night cloak: the toilet of her ladies who were to attend her, was as quickly made as her own; and, without a murmur, she departed with the Emperor in the night. At daylight, he was at the head of his army.

At this period she certainly appears by her judicious and affectionate behaviour, to have made an impression upon him. He is said one day to have remarked confidentially, to Cambaceres, that he was convinced he would enjoy security as long as he preserved Josephine. As a proof, that she prevented him from yielding to the perfidious counsels of his flatterers, repeating to him incessantly, "my friend, you are drinking poison from a golden cup. Believe me, only the bad are an example to the court, the good are ridiculed." He added-"This excellent woman never shrinks from a journey, however painful it may be neither fatigue, nor privation can discourage her. She employs importunity, and even tricks, to follow me. If I get into a carriage in the middle of the night, to my great surprise, there I find Josephine, all ready, although she ought not to be of the party. But it is impossible for you to go-I am going

too far you have suffered too much already-and you'll want a great deal of baggage!' 'None,' she would say, and all was foreseen; and thus almost always I'm obliged to yield." When they arrived at Strasbourg, Napoleon felt a presentiment that he should be victorious. "Josephine," said he in parting from her, "watches over all she loves, and my tutelary angel will never cease to offer up her vows for the happiness of her lord." She adds "He knew me well. I never nourished a thought, I never formed a desire, which were not directed towards his glory." We really think, with her biographer, that Napoleon was never so happy and so well served, as during the years he passed with that woman who was always his best and most constant friend. Of him Josephine said, "He has a noble soul, a sensible and grateful heart. His tastes are simple, his sentiments honest, and the qualities of the man are pleasing."

After the battle of Wagram, and when his eagles were planted on the ramparts of Vienna, he fixed his head quarters at the palace of Schoenbrunn; where he saw, for the first time, Maria Louisa, who being ill, had been left behind when her family fled. She treated Napoleon with distinguished hospitality, and it delighted him extremely. It was here, it is said, that he addressed his secret vows to the descendant of so many kings, and whilst his wife was celebrating his victories with enthusiasm, he was forming the design of making them subservient to the destruction of her happiness. Contrary to his hitherto invariable custom, he neglected to write to her. Had it been any other than this man of calculation, we should have said his conscience prevented him. When the treaty of Vienna was signed, he left Schoenbrunn, and went to Munich, where Josephine rejoined him, and they travelled back together to Fontainbleau. It was here that she again began to doubt her husband's regard for his sacred promises. Fouché hinted to her the probability of a divorce. Napoleon himself, she says, wounded, nay outraged, her feelings, and he remained, to all appearances, unmoved by her distress. One single look of tenderness would have calmed her whilst in the convulsions of despair. Far from being softened, he even affected to smile on her with pity. He took occasion one day after a dinner, tête a tête, to announce to her his intention to divorce her. She fainted, and was irrecoverable for three hours. He consigned her to her women and his physician Corvisart, and left her. In the evening he again saw her, when she poured forth the most touching complaints. "Stop, Josephine," cried he, "and pity your hushand! I regret imitating, on this occasion, the conqueror of the Hague, but I owe it to my people. I belong wholly to glory!

I own it, it afflicts me extremely to separate myself from you, but my power has become so colossal that I must place it on a basis whose solidity shall be in harmony with the weight it will have to sustain. The Emperor Napoleon must have an heir; and the blood of Kings must henceforth become proud of an alliance with mine!" She replied, "You wish to render yourself still more illustrious by an alliance with some great prince! Then shall we see jealousy, envy and hatred arm themselves against you. You will raise yourself more every day, in the hope of being at last sheltered from danger; and suddenly, a new destiny, still concealed by clouds, will break forth, and overturn you in the dust!" She then revealed to him what had been disclosed to her in relation to his fate, namely, that if separated from her he would be overthrown and banished, and his very name be proscribed-"It was that-it was that," she said, "that pained her heart!" He paid great attention, she observes, to what she told him, and when she had finished, he walked about in silence. At length, with the most lively agitation exhibited in his face, he stopped, and asked who had discovered to her his secret? She made him an evasive answer, to which he rejoined. At length he had to dissemble, and tell her he had only wished to prove her! She knew better-he only wished to get out of her way; for he acknowledged to his friend that before her heroic attachment he became the feeblest of men. His culpable indifference to her, who really loved, and would have sacrificed herself for him, deeply afflicted her affectionate heart. From this time he seldom saw her, and always with coolness; and at length he seemed entirely to abandon her. On this she retired to Malmaison, and gave herself up to the painful workings of her imagination. After a while he recalled her to the palace. She returned, and performed the customary duties of her station: in spite of her emotions she conversed successively with the marshals and first dignitaries of the empire, in her usual strain of feeling and eloquence. She was really admired by the most eminent, and her conversation eagerly sought by the foreign ambassadors. There was so much grace in her manner of doing the honours, that no one departed from her presence without being enchanted.

At length, the painful intelligence that a definitive separation was decreed by the Council of State, was communicated to her by Fouché. Bonaparte, on that very day, dared, she says, to tell her that he was governed by Fortune, who had divided two hearts which a mutual sympathy attracted towards each other; that his love had inspired him with the resolution to exile her to Italy, for he would be incessantly tormented by his reflec

tions, if she remained in France; that he should regret her sincerely, but that he had sworn to sacrifice what was most dear to him. Poor Josephine could only gently complain-he was moved, and bursting into tears, he tore himself from her arms, and uttered in a feeble voice, "I have made useless efforts to forget what I owe you-my heart suffers yet more than yours. I know what I ought to do in return for your cares, your tenderness, and your regard." But it would be tiresome to notice all the conversation of these two persons, so singularly situated. They parted, she says, in mutual grief! Shortly after, the Arch Chancellor, Cambaceres, was charged by Napoleon, to announce to Josephine, that the divorce was complete. The afflicted wife answered in these words-" If I have no power to contribute to the happiness of France, I hope that another woman, more happy than I, may accomplish it!" She shortly after saw her son, and he told her that Napoleon had exacted it of him, to carry to the Senate the act which announced the dissolution of his mother's marriage! He was disposed to disobey this wanton tyranny, but she urged his compliance with such warmth and reason, that he yielded. On that evening, Napoleon invited a party, but poor Josephine was now so entirely overcome, that she with difficulty restrained herself, and her emotion seemed to paralyze the assembly. No one could speak, except the cruel author of the scene, who seemed to be indifferent to what passed. When the company took their leave, Regnaud de St. Jean d'Angely and Napoleon advanced towards her, and the former presented the act of divorce for her signaShe remonstrated tenderly with Napoleon, and though she moved him, it was but for a moment. She signed the paper. He then took her by the arm, and walked her backwards and forwards with hasty steps. At length he said, "this is an action which will, one day or other, serve as a fine subject for a tragedy!" "Ah!" said she, "and who will be the tyrant in it?" Disconcerted by this question, he dropped her arm, and putting his hand behind his back, "the tyrant, Madame? Well! it shall be Fouché or Cambaceres !" "Wit and imagination," adds Josephine archly, "are not at the command of all the world." Thus did he shake off the woman who had first procured his advancement, and who had, with incredible pains, and no contemptible skill, laboured to preserve his glory untarnished. Her dismissal was hailed with triumph by his enemies, and the world was astonished that so illustrious a conqueror should solicit with such ostentation, the daughter of a sovereign whom he had just before subdued by force of arms. The Emperor ordered her to Malmaison, and he himself re

ture.