On their last night together she went to his room and they sat on his bed, both of them weeping. He held her close and told her to be brave, that he would always be her friend, then for what seemed an eternity they shared a terrible silence.
Divorce. Though the ink is dry and all France is weary of talking about it, the pain is no less sharp. She had feared since the coronation that this was inevitable, yet in the end she hadn’t seen it coming. His letters, even while he was casting about for a fertile royal bride to replace her, seemed so normal – the same touching concern for her health and comfort; the same touch of paranoia; the same old Napoleon.
While she was taking the waters at Plombières, he wrote to her from Vienna, ‘I note with pleasure that the waters are doing you good. I have no objection to you going back to Malmaison after you have finished your treatment.’1
He later wrote, ‘I see from your letter that you are at Plombières and intend to stay there. You do well. The waters and fine climate can only do you good. I see that by the 18th you will be either at Paris or Malmaison. The heat, which is very great here, will have upset you. Malmaison must be very dry and parched at this time of the year.’2
Later: ‘I have your letter from Malmaison. They bring me word that you are plump, florid and in the best of health.’3
But then: ‘I have had no letter from you for several days. The pleasures of Malmaison, the beautiful greenhouses, the beautiful gardens, cause the absent to be forgotten. It is, they say, the rule of your sex.
‘Everyone speaks only of your good health. All this is very suspicious.’4
And typically: ‘Be careful, and I advise you to be vigilant, for one of these nights you will hear a loud knocking.’5
Meanwhile, Napoleon, intent on marrying into a noble European family to provide him with an heir and legitimise a dynasty, had decided to cast Josephine aside for a woman he had never met. At just 18, the archduchess Marie Louise, the eldest daughter of Emperor Francis II of Austria, was more than 20 years his junior and, being from a country recently humiliated in war by Napoleon’s armies, was known to despise the French. Yet Marie Louise consented to the match. She was a somewhat timid, compliant young woman, and when her father the emperor, under pressure from the French, told her of the invitation to wed Napoleon, she considered it her duty.
Josephine, on receiving the news, didn’t hold back. ‘My forebodings are realised!’ she wrote to Napoleon. ‘You have just pronounced the word which separates us forever. The rest is nothing more than mere formality. Such, then, is the result, I shall not say of so many sacrifices – they were light to me, since they had you for their object – but of an unbounded friendship on my part and of the most solemn oaths on yours.
‘It would be a consolation for me if the state which you allege as your motive were to repay my sacrifice for justifying your conduct. But the public consideration which you urge as the grounds for deserting me is a mere pretence on your part. Your mistaken ambition has ever been, and will continue to be, the guide of all your actions; a guide which has led you to conquests and to the assumption of a crown, and is now driving you on to disasters and to the brink of a precipice.
‘You speak of the necessity of contracting an alliance, of giving an heir to your empire, of founding a dynasty, but with whom are you about to form an alliance? With the natural enemy of France – that artful house of Austria, whose detestation of our country has its rise in its own innate feelings, in its system, in the laws of necessity. Do you believe that this hatred, of which she has given us such abundant proof, more particularly for the past 50 years, has not been transferred by her from the kingdom of France to the French empire? That the children of Maria Theresa, that skilled sovereign who purchased from Madame de Pompadour the fatal treaty of 1756, which you never mentioned without shuddering [The Marquise de Pompadour, Louis XV’s mistress, negotiated an alliance between France and Austria that proved disastrous for France], do you imagine, I repeat, that her posterity, when inheriting her power, has not also inherited her spirit?
‘I am merely repeating what you have so often said to me, but at that time your ambition was satisfied with humbling a power which you now find it convenient to restore to its former rank. Believe me, as long as you shall exercise a sway over Europe that power will be submissive to you, but beware of reverses of fortune.
‘As to the necessity of an heir, I must speak out at the risk of appearing in the character of a mother prejudiced in favour of her own son. Ought I, in fact, to be silent when I consider the interests of one who is my only delight, and upon whom alone you had built all your hopes? That adoption of 12 January 1806 was then another political falsehood. Nevertheless, the talents, the virtues of my Eugène are no illusion. How often have you not spoken in his praise?
‘I may say more – you thought it right to reward him with the gift of a throne, and have repeatedly said that he was deserving of greater favours. Well then, France has frequently echoed such praise, but you are now indifferent to the wishes of France.
‘I say nothing to you at present of the person who is destined to succeed me, and you do not expect that I should make any allusion to this subject. You might suspect the feelings which dictated my language. Nevertheless, you can never doubt the sincerity of my wishes for your happiness. May it at least afford me some consolation for my sufferings. Great indeed will be that happiness it should bear any proportion to them.’6
Paris is abuzz with a story that the Pope granted Napoleon a dispensation to remarry on the grounds that his first marriage was invalid. In fact, the Pope was not consulted. Napoleon forced the clergy of Paris to declare his marriage to Josephine null and void, and to give their blessing to a second wedding. The Church had not, and would never, validate Bonaparte’s marriage to Marie Louise.
Following the annulment, Napoleon writes to Josephine at Malmaison: ‘My dear, d’Audenarde [Charles d’Audenarde, Napoleon’s equerry], who I sent to you this morning, tells me that since you have been at Malmaison you have no longer any courage. Yet that place is full of our happy memories, which can and ought never to change, at least on my side.
‘I badly want to see you, but I must have some assurance that you are strong and not weak. I too am rather like you, and it makes me frightfully wretched.’7
Josephine writes back: ‘A thousand, thousand loving thanks for not having forgotten me. My son has just brought me your letter. With what impetuosity I read it, and yet I took a long time over it, for there was not a word which did not make me weep. But these tears were very pleasant ones. I have found my whole heart again such as it will always be. There are affections which are life itself, and which can only end with it.
‘I was in despair to find my letter of the 18th had displeased you. I do not remember the exact expressions but I know what torture I felt in writing it – the grief of having no news from you.
‘I wrote to you on my departure from Malmaison, and since then how often have I wished to write to you! But I appreciated the causes of your silence and feared to be importunate with a letter. Yours has been the true balm for me. Be happy, be as much so as you deserve. It is my whole heart which speaks to you. You have also just given me my share of happiness, and a share which I value the most, for nothing can equal in my estimation a proof that you still remember me.
‘Adieu, dear. I again thank you affectionately as I shall always love you.’8
It’s all there in black and white, so cold, so matter-of-fact: ‘The Senate decrees that the marriage contract between the Emperor Napoleon and the Empress Josephine is dissolved; that the Empress Josephine will retain the titles and rank of a crowned Empress-Queen; that her jointure is fixed at an annual revenue of 80,000 from the public treasury; that every provision which may be made by the Emperor in favour of the Empress Josephine, out of the funds of the Civil List, shall be obligatory of his successors.’9
Napoleon adds a further 40,000 a year from his own purse, but holds back half the amount to pay her many creditors.
To the decree, the Senate adds words of consolation for the redundant consort, laying it on with a trowel.
‘Your Imperial and Royal Majesty is about to make for France the greatest of sacrifices. History will preserve the memory of it forever. The august spouse of the greatest of monarchs cannot be united to his immortal glory by more heroic devotion.
‘For long, Madame, the French people have revered your virtues. They hold dear that loving kindness which inspires your every word, as it directs your every action. They will admire your sublime devotion. They will award forever to Your Majesty, Empress and Queen, the homage of gratitude, respect and love.’10
It remains unclear which of the two empresses would take precedence, should they ever meet.
In December 1809, after the French Senate proclaims the civil divorce, Napoleon writes to Josephine at Malmaison: ‘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.’11
In time, Josephine, too, accepts the situation as being in the best interests of France, and when she hears that Napoleon has married Marie Louise by proxy in Vienna, she consoles herself in knowing that while the new empress will enjoy the trappings of court and the consort’s throne, she, Josephine, still has the affection of the people of France, and Napoleon’s parting gift to her – Malmaison.
Josephine writes to Napoleon: ‘Sire, I have received, by my son [Eugène], the assurance that Your Majesty consents to my return to Malmaison, and grants to me the advances asked for in order to make the chateau of Navarre habitable. This double favour, Sire, dispels to a great extent the uneasiness, nay, even the fears which Your Majesty’s long silence had inspired. I was afraid that I might be entirely banished from your memory. I see that I am not. I am therefore less wretched today, and even as happy as henceforth it will be possible for me to be.
‘I have made a great sacrifice, sire, and every day I realise more its full extent. Yet that sacrifice will be, as it ought to be, a complete one on my part. Your Highness, amid your happiness, shall be troubles by no expression of my regret. I shall pray unceasingly for Your Majesty’s happiness, perhaps even I shall pray that I may see you again. But Your Majesty may be assured that I shall always respect it in silence, relying on the attachment that you had for me formerly. I shall call for no new proof. I shall trust to everything from your justice and your heart.
‘I limit myself to asking from you one favour. It is that you will deign to find a way of sometimes convincing myself and my entourage that I have still a small place in your memory and a great place in your esteem and friendship. By this means, whatever happens, my sorrows will be mitigated without, as it seems to me, compromising that which is of permanent importance to me – the happiness of Your Majesty.’12
Napoleon replies: ‘My dear, I have yours of April 18th. It is written in a bad style. I am always the same – people like me do not change. I know not what Eugène has told you. I have not written to you because you have not written to me, and my sole desire is to fulfil your slightest inclination.
‘I see with pleasure that you are going to Malmaison and that you are contented. As for me, I shall be so likewise on hearing news from you and in giving you mine. I say no more about it until you have compared this letter with yours, and after that I will leave you to judge which of us two is the better friend.
‘Adieu, dear. Keep well and be just for your sake and mine.’13
Josephine has hopes of establishing cordial relations with Napoleon’s new wife, but Marie Louise will have none of it. She is jealous of Josephine, and of her husband’s evident strong feelings for his ex-wife. He seems unable to stay away from Malmaison, and Marie Louise, in her own way, makes her feelings known. Napoleon, who shares Josephine’s hope that his two wives might become acquainted, will later confess, ‘I wished one day to take [Marie Louise] to Malmaison, but she burst into tears when I made the proposal. She said she did not object to my visiting Josephine, only she did not wish to know it. But whenever she suspected my intention of going to Malmaison, there was no stratagem which she did not employ for the sake of annoying me.
‘She never left me, and as these visits seemed to vex her exceedingly, I did violence to my own feelings and scarcely ever went to Malmaison.
‘Still, however, when I did happen to go, I was sure to encounter a flood of tears and a multitude of contrivances of every kind.’14
And when he cannot get away to see Josephine, he writes to her.
‘I wished to come and see you today but I cannot. It will be, I hope, in the morning. It is a long time since I heard from you. I learnt with pleasure that you take walks in your garden these cold days.15
He also writes to her after he has managed to visit, sometimes on the same day.
‘My dear, I found you today weaker than you ought to be. You have shown courage. It is necessary that you should maintain it and not give way to a doleful melancholy. You must be contented to take special care of your health, which is precious to me.
‘If you are attached to me and if you love me, you should show strength of mind and force yourself to be happy. You cannot question my constant and tender friendship, and you would know very imperfectly all the affection I have for you if you imagined that I can be happy if you are unhappy, and contented if you are ill at ease.’16
And he often writes on the day after.
‘I was very glad to see you yesterday. I feel what charms your society has for me.’17
In this letter, it seems the penny-pinching husband of old has morphed into an ex-husband who is the soul of generosity. He adds, ‘I have allowed 4000 francs for 1810 for the extraordinary expenses at Malmaison. You can therefore do as much planting as you like.
‘I have ordered them to hold the million which the Civil List owes you for 1810 at the disposal of your man of business, in order to pay your debts.’
Then: ‘I long to come to Malmaison, but you must really show fortitude and self-restraint. The page on duty this morning told me that he saw you weeping.’18
Josephine’s tears will dry in time. Napoleon’s gift of Malmaison is one she will treasure the rest of her days. In her retreat, surrounded by faithful friends, her gardens and her animals, she will regain her passion for life and its mysteries, and it will come as no surprise to her that her ex-husband has resumed his wandering ways.
Louis ‘Constant’ Wairy is not only Napoleon’s valet but his procurer of pretty women. In his memoir on the private lives of the Bonapartes, Constant writes, ‘A short time after his marriage with the archduchess Marie Louise, although she was a young and beautiful woman, and although he really loved her devotedly, the Emperor was no more careful than in the time of the Empress Josephine to scrupulously observe conjugal fidelity.
‘During one of our stays at Saint-Cloud he took a fancy to Mademoiselle L. [To protect her reputation, Constant omits the woman’s name], whose mother’s second husband was a chief of squadron. These ladies then stayed at Bourg-la-Reine, where they were discovered by Monsieur de [name omitted], one of the most zealous protectors of the pretty women who were presented to His Majesty, and who spoke to him of this young person, then 17 years old. She was a brunette of ordinary height, but with a beautiful figure and pretty hands and feet, her whole person full of grace, and was indeed perfectly charming in all respects and, besides, united with the most enticing coquetry every accomplishment, danced with much grace, played on several instruments, and was full of intelligence. In fact, she had received that kind of showy education which forms the most charming mistresses and the worse wives.
‘The Emperor told me one day, at eight o’clock in the evening, to seek her at her mother’s; to bring her and return at 11 o’clock at the latest. My visit caused no surprise, and I saw that these ladies had been forewarned, no doubt by their obliging patron, for they awaited me with an impatience they did not seek to conceal. The young person was dazzling with ornaments and beauty, and the mother radiant with joy at the idea of the honour destined for her daughter. I saw well that she imagined the Emperor would not fail to be captivated by so many charms, and that he would be seized with a great passion.
‘But all this was only a dream, for the Emperor was amorous only when all things suited. However, we arrived at Saint-Cloud at 11 o’clock and entered the chateau by the orangery for fear of indiscreet eyes. As I had a pass key to all the gates of the chateau, I conducted her to the Emperor’s apartments without being seen by anyone, where she remained about three hours. At the end of this time I escorted her to her home, taking the same precautions on leaving the chateau.’19