Notorious Royal Marriages: A Juicy Journey through Nine Centuries of Dynasty, Destiny, and Desire

by Leslie Carroll

  He drew up a hefty list of protocol that invoked, or at least mirrored, that of any European court, gradually becoming the very thing—and to the nth power—that had been torn apart and toppled just a decade earlier. At Saint-Cloud not much was different from the Bourbon court except the names and faces, and even some of those, who by some miracle had escaped the guillotine, were comfortably welcome there.

  But Napoleon’s ascent was far from over. On May 28, 1804, the Senate bestowed upon him the oxymoronic title of “Emperor of the French Republic.” Napoleon then granted titles to his brothers and sisters, who were dispatched to reign over some of his conquered territories. Coronation Day, December 2, 1804, was months in the planning. Pope Pius VII was tapped to officiate, but when he learned that Napoleon and Josephine’s wedding had only been a civil ceremony and therefore they were not married in the eyes of the Church, he explained that he could not anoint them with holy oil at the coronation. After a private conversation with the pontiff, Josephine was able to convince Napoleon to undergo a religious wedding ceremony if he wanted the Pope’s participation at the coronation. So they were hastily married by one of Napoleon’s relatives, Cardinal Joseph Fesch. The sacrament cemented Josephine’s position as Napoleon’s wife; it would now be much harder to divorce her.

  Royalists scorned the outsized spectacle of Napoleon’s coronation, which was reputed to have cost eight million francs. The emperor was so bedecked with jewels that someone said he resembled “a walking looking-glass.” The comtesse de Boigne thought his ceremonial robes—a purple velvet mantle lined in ermine and embroidered with bees, his adopted symbol—looked “terrible on the short, fat Napoleon,” who “resembled the King of Diamonds.” His pale skin looked even sallower under his coronet of gilded laurel leaves. Josephine’s coronation dress and train were of white satin lavishly embroidered with gold and silver. Atop her fashionable updo of curls was a pearl and diamond tiara.

  Claire de Rémusat wrote that “the manner of his crowning Josephine was most remarkable. After picking up his smaller crown, he first put it on his own head and then transferred it to hers. . . . His manner was almost playful. He took great pains to arrange this little crown, which was set over Josephine’s diadem. He put it on, then took it off, and finally put it on again.

  “Tears, which she could not repress, fell upon her clasped hands. Both appeared to enjoy one of those fleeting moments of shared felicity which are unique in a lifetime.”

  That night the new emperor and empress enjoyed a romantic dinner à deux. Napoleon insisted that his wife wear her crown. “You look so pretty with it,” he assured her, adding that “no one could wear a crown with more grace.”

  By 1805, Napoleon had decided to make himself King of Italy and needed Josephine beside him because “I win battles. Josephine wins hearts.” His infidelities continued apace, but there were “no more jealous scenes now,” according to Josephine’s son, Eugène de Beauharnais. Yet privately, she candidly admitted to Claire de Rémusat that her husband “has no moral principle, he hides his lascivious leanings . . . but if one left him alone to pursue them . . . bit by bit he would give himself up to the most shameful passions. Has he not seduced his own sisters?” Josephine genuinely gave credence to the rumors that Napoleon had slept with his equally nymphomanical sister Pauline, because, as emperor, he considered himself licensed to satisfy “every fantasy.”But to preserve domestic tranquility, she refused to let her husband see her bitterness. And now that Josephine was empress, Napoleon had no quarrel with her extravagant expenses. It was imperative that she always look the part. Proud of her forty-something face and figure, he encouraged her to revisit the scanty styles of the Directoire with their plunging décolletée. She was still beautiful, but also still barren. And when Josephine defensively reminded her husband that she’d already brought two children into the world, Napoleon countered that she’d given birth many years earlier and that her doctor had informed him that her “menses had stopped.”

  Nonetheless eager as ever to remain by her husband’s side, in September 1806 Josephine accompanied him partway on his journey to the Rhineland, where he planned to attack the Prussians. He penned loving letters, expressing his distress at hearing she was so often in tears, and assuring her that she had “spoiled me for the others” by being so “gentle, sweet-natured, and captivating.”

  On January 7, 1807, Napoleon wrote to discourage Josephine from joining him in Poland, disingenuously, and rather cruelly, insisting, “I don’t know what you mean by ladies I am supposed to be involved with. I love only my dear little Josephine who is so good, though sulky and capricious and loveable except when she is jealous and becomes a little devil. . . . As for these ladies, if I needed to occupy my time with one of them I assure you I would want her to have pretty rosebud nipples. Is this so with the ladies you write to me about?”

  Josephine’s worst fears, rosebud nipples or not, were perfectly well founded. On New Year’s Eve, Napoleon had become instantly smitten by a lovely blond twenty-year-old named Marie Walewska. He demanded that in the interests of diplomacy, her husband, the seventy-year-old Count Anaste de Walewice Walewski, release her to him. Marie was naturally reluctant to participate in this proposed exchange; but her acquiescence was the beginning of a lasting affair, and Marie Walewska bears the rare distinction of being the only one of Napoleon’s mistresses with whom he was genuinely in love.

  Marie’s existence in the emperor’s life—and bed—also brought Josephine’s status to the forefront. In the fall of 1807, Napoleon concluded that his spouse was bringing him down, that he’d married beneath him. Not only couldn’t she conceive, but she had not come from grand enough stock and his imperial status demanded that he acquire a wife from one of the noblest houses in Europe. High on his list of replacements was Anna Pavlovna, the sister of the Russian tsar.

  Aware that he was seriously contemplating divorce, Josephine continued to behave like a model wife. Nothing she would do or say would invite comment or censure. “I have no pleasures,” she lamented. “People are amazed that I can endure such an existence . . . I can’t go out anymore.”And yet Napoleon remained ambivalent about divorcing his wife, aware of Josephine’s contribution to his success. “If I had been thrown into prison instead of ascending a throne, she would have shared my misfortune. It is right that she should share my grandeur,” he told his secretary, Monsieur Roederer. The emperor was also aware that public opinion was against a divorce. “She is a link between me and the people. And she reconciles a part of Parisian society to me which would abandon me if I abandoned her,” he explained to Joseph Fouché, his sinister Minister of Police.

  When Marie Walewska became pregnant, divorce from Josephine became an even stronger probability; it was proof that the potency problem lay not with the emperor, but with his wife. Napoleon was doubly convinced of his prowess when another mistress, Eléanore Denuelle, also conceived—although Eléanore was concurrently sleeping with one of Napoleon’s brothers-in-law, Joachim Murat.

  Josephine was well aware that divorce hung over her head like the sword of Damocles, although her husband had yet to specifically demand it. The fact that Napoleon could not bear to discuss the subject frankly with her became her only hope that he would never go through with it. Each of them became physically ill whenever the topic was discussed. She had taken to anxiously inquiring of everyone who saw Napoleon regularly whether he had said anything about it to them. The uncertainty was killing her. Napoleon had asked her children to break the news to her but they pointedly refused. Hortense wrote, “Witness to my mother’s constant tears and to the indignities that provoked them, both my heart and my pride rebelled. I found myself wishing that the divorce had been pronounced.”

  Finally, Fouché informed Josephine that for the sake of “the cohesion of the dynasty,” Napoleon required legitimate heirs. By the summer of 1808, Napoleon’s empire stretched from the Tagus River on the Iberian Peninsula to the Russian steppes, and from Hamburg and the North Sea
to the boot of Italy.

  On November 30, 1809, the emperor summoned Josephine to Fontainebleau for a discussion. She found his demeanor chilly. The door that connected their rooms had been permanently locked. Her in-laws pointedly snubbed her. Sensing what was about to happen, Josephine quietly told Napoleon, “You are the master and you shall decide my fate.” If he asked her to leave, she hoped he would make the request with dignity. “I am your wife; I have been crowned by you in the presence of the Pope. Such honors demand that they should not be voluntarily renounced. If you divorce me, all France will know that it is you who are driving me out.”

  That evening, when Josephine tried to pour his coffee, Napoleon turned away and accepted it from a page instead. She swallowed her pride and asked her husband, “Why do you want to leave me? Are we not happy?”

  “Happy? Happy? Why the lowest clerk of one of my ministers is happier than I,” Napoleon exclaimed. “Are you mocking me?” Pacing and fuming he told Josephine that he might have been happy had not her suspicious jealousy and anger over the years destroyed his peace of mind. And in any event, the interests of France demanded that he choose a fertile womb over marital contentment. He even had the temerity to add that he was more in pain than she because it was his hand that was hurting her.

  “No, I can never survive it!” Josephine cried. She shoved her fist in front of her mouth to stifle her tears and followed her husband out of the room. When the servants heard anguished shouts from the adjoining chamber, they burst into the room and found the empress lying on the rug. Above her stood Napoleon, his eyes brimming with tears. “The interest of France has done violence to my heart!” he exclaimed. “I pity her with all my soul,” he later added. “I thought she had more character, and I was not prepared for the outburst of her grief.”

  What had he expected instead?

  Hours later, in response to Josephine’s devastation, Napoleon told Hortense—his sister-in-law (by virtue of her arranged marriage to Napoleon’s brother Louis, King of Holland) as well as Josephine’s daughter—“Nothing will make me go back on the divorce. Neither tears nor entreaties.”

  Although Hortense recognized his right as “the master” to require an heir, she defended her mother’s tears. “It would be remarkable if, after a marriage that has lasted for thirteen years, she did not shed them.” But Hortense diplomatically added, “She will submit to your will, and we will all go away, taking the memory of your kindness with us.” The notion of Josephine’s children leaving his court as well nearly cost Napoleon his resolve. But despite all the emperor had done for them, Hortense and Eugène would never consider remaining at Saint-Cloud after he had cast out their mother.

  Napoleon was at least magnanimous to Josephine in the divorce settlement. She was able to keep Malmaison, and would have the Elysée Palace as her Parisian residence. He would settle all her debts, plus she would receive an annual allowance of three million francs. Josephine would also get to keep all of her jewels—and most important, she would retain the title of Empress—and would be known as “Empress Dowager” after he remarried. In addition, she would assume an additional title, Duchess of Navarre. In return, the emperor expected her to retreat into the shadows.

  On January 10, 1810, Napoleon and Josephine were divorced in a ceremony held in the candlelit throne room presided over by the Arch-Chancellor and the Secretary of State to the Imperial Household. Nearly the entire court was assembled, attired in formal court dress. The spouses’ text was scripted, although Napoleon, speaking first, reiterated that he had only come to this pass because he required an heir and that it had caused him great anguish to sacrifice the woman he loved for the sake of an imperial successor. “Far from ever finding cause for complaint, I can to the contrary only congratulate myself on the tenderness and devotion of my beloved wife.” Tears rolled down his cheeks as he added, “the memory of the thirteen years in which she has adorned my life will be treasured by me forever. . . . God alone knows what this resolve has cost my heart. I have found the courage to go through with it only in the conviction that it will serve the best interests of France.”

  Under the hostile glare of la famille Bonaparte, with as much equanimity as she could manage, Josephine read from her script, her fingers trembling so much she could hardly hold the paper. “With the permission of our august and dear husband, I must declare that, having no hope of bearing his children who would fulfill the needs of his policies and the interests of France, I proudly offer him the greatest proof of attachment and devotion ever offered on this earth.” She grew so overcome with emotion that she had to hand her speech to an attendant, who read the rest of it.

  When the ceremony was over and all the documents had been duly executed, Napoleon kissed Josephine and accompanied her to her apartments. Later that day, she visited his rooms, her hair “disordered and her face contorted,” according to Napoleon’s valet Louis Constant. The imperial couple began to weep. “Be brave,” the emperor counseled his now ex-wife, “I will always be your friend.”

  The following day Josephine and her household moved into Malmaison. Napoleon visited her there that afternoon, and they were spotted walking hand in hand. It was clearly painful for each of them to let go of what they had shared for so many years. Josephine had been the emperor’s rock, confidante, companion, and grand passion. She had grown in the relationship from tepid indifference to utter devotion.

  Constant was surprised at Josephine’s “care for the man who abandoned her,” as she always expressed the greatest concern for the emperor’s welfare and safety, particularly before he embarked on his (disastrous) Russian campaign in 1812. “It was as though she was still his most beloved wife,” the valet remarked.

  Napoleon had wasted no time in remarrying, espousing the nubile Marie Louise of Austria on April 1, 1810, barely two months after he divorced Josephine. And he no doubt felt vindicated in his decision to ditch his first wife after Marie Louise bore him a son, Napoleon François Joseph Charles, almost a year to the day from their wedding.

  Josephine had always suffered agonizing migraines. In 1813, after she read about Napoleon’s defeat at Leipzig, the pain was compounded by premonitions of foreboding. Endeavoring to console her former husband, she wrote, “Sire, although I can no longer share in your joys, your grief will always be mine, too. I cannot resist the need to tell you that I love you with all my heart.”

  In 1814 Josephine left Paris for the Château de Navarre just before the allies occupied the city and Joseph Bonaparte surrendered it. Napoleon agreed to abdicate in favor of his young son, but that would have entailed a regency and the proposal was rejected. So on April 11 the emperor resigned without precondition, and at the suggestion of the Russian tsar Alexander, he was named sovereign of the tiny Mediterranean island of Elba. There he was allowed a modest court and all the perquisites of royalty, including a small standing army and cavalry. He was also joined on the island by his mother and his sister Pauline, the only one of his numerous siblings to voluntarily share his exile. “If it were not for his wife I would go lock myself up with him,” exclaimed Josephine on hearing the news.

  On the advice of Tsar Alexander, Josephine and Hortense returned to Malmaison in the spring of 1814. There, as the bridge between the former imperial court and the new regime, Josephine entertained various foreign rulers and dignitaries with her usual charm and elegance, never hesitating to inform them that if she had still been Napoleon’s wife she would have been proud to accompany him to Elba. She maintained his rooms at Malmaison, shrine-like, just as he had left them.

  By this time, Josephine was fifty years old. Her skin had become discolored and her usually dulcet voice was raspy and hoarse. She had caught a cold in mid-May after going riding in one of her flimsy white muslin frocks and the chill had metamorphosed into a fever. Her symptoms were those of diphtheria. Yet she refused to remain in bed, hosting a dinner and dance in the tsar’s honor on the evening of May 24. Over the next couple of days her condition worsened. On May 27 sh
e became delirious, murmuring snatches of a one-sided conversation: “Bonaparte”—which was how she always addressed him—“Elba . . . the king of Rome” [the title he’d given his son by Marie Louise of Austria].

  Josephine’s children were beside her gilded swan-shaped bed when she died on the morning of May 29, “as gently and sweetly as she lived,” according to her son, Eugène. Mourning etiquette prevented her children from attending their mother’s funeral, a quiet ceremony held in the church at Rueil, where they later erected a sculpture of her.

  According to Louis Marchand, Napoleon’s valet on Elba, when his master received the news of Josephine’s death he locked himself in his study for three days. “Why did they let my poor Josephine die?” he lamented to his physician, Dr. Corvisart.

  “Sire, I believe she died of a broken heart,” the doctor replied.

  Actually, Josephine’s autopsy revealed that she had died of pneumonia, extreme inflammation of the trachea, and a “gangrenous angina,” so in some respect Corvisart was correct.

  Napoleon looked at his doctor. “That bonne Josephine,” he said, adding, “she really loved me, didn’t she?”

  The deposed emperor penned a cathartic note to his late ex-wife, telling Josephine, “I have never passed a night without clasping you in my arms. . . . No woman was ever loved with more devotion, passion, and tenderness.” His years of ill treatment of her had evidently evanesced, replaced with rosier memories and a bit of revisionist history.