Marielle Brie de Lagerac

Doubtless no campaign was exhausting like the Napoleonic campaigns. That a good physical condition is essential to make a good soldier, no one will doubt it, but more than for any other, the conscripts of the Napoleonic wars had to have an iron health. Probably, no one imagined the harshness and endurance required that soldiers would have to display to face the forced marches on often bad and chaotic terrain.

Conscription then concerned young people aged 20 to 25, in good health naturally. Drawn by lot, the conscripts designated by Fortune – whose good intentions can legitimately be questioned – had to be trained quickly to integrate regiments made up of young and old experienced soldiers. At the cost of intensive and severe military training, it took three months of service to make a recruit into an effective infantryman. However, the very first teaching provided often consisted in differentiating his right foot from his left foot, a rudimentary exercise but essential for the good soldier to walk correctly in step. For these young people, mostly uneducated and more versed in the art of working the land than moving around it in an orderly and synchronous manner, the instructors found a trick that put at the center of the future soldier’s life an accessory that would focus their attention steadily until they return, perhaps one day, to civilian life: the shoes. In the left shoe (or the hoof for those who were not yet perfectly equipped) we placed straw while the right shoe was stuffed with hay. Thus, the soldier went at a walk without being mistaken at the chanted cry of his superior “Straw – Hay!” Straw – Hay! “. The attested anecdote has something to smile about if the problem of shoes in the Napoleonic armies had not become a permanent concern for the General Staff.

The Napoleonic campaigns to be dazzling must be led by enduring soldiers, without injury and therefore well equipped. Because the steps are terribly long. Linking one city to another, one battlefield to another, often involves traveling tens of kilometers a day in a very short time at a sustained pace. The feat of the troops of General Friant (1758 – 1829) compelled admiration in this sense when his troops rallied the battlefield of Austerlitz by covering more than one hundred kilometers in 44 hours. On average, the troops traveled 50 kilometers daily in often difficult conditions (terrain, climate). We therefore understand the capital importance for soldiers to be well shod.

The shoes distributed by the Army were made of turned cowhide and weighed 611 grams (only, one might add). They were of three sizes ranging from small (between 20 and 23 cm) to large (over 27 cm) through a medium size (between 23 and 27 cm). The last sole was in tanned cowhide leather then reinforced with shoemaker’s nails: there were between 36 and 40 depending on the size. The soldier tied them firmly with a leather lace passing through two holes without eyelets; wear was to come to an end very quickly. Like almost all shoes from this era, the toe was square. A peculiarity all the same specific to the military shoe: there was neither right nor left foot. The two perfectly identical shoes were shaped by the foot of their wearer according to the grueling steps he took. Thus, each new recruit was given a uniform, a weapon and of course a pair of shoes normally designed to travel a thousand kilometers.

But the latter were worn out so quickly that numerous testimonies report that at the end of the fighting, the soldiers hastened to remove the shoes of the dead when they did not make their own shoes with the means at hand. During the Spanish Civil War, spare shoes did not arrive, the soldiers became shoemakers in addition to their usual duties. In his Briefs , David Victor Belly de Bussy (1768 – 1848) reports that men made boots for themselves by rolling cowhide around each leg and foot, taking care to leave the animal’s hair out.

Thus, despite the importance that Napoleon Bonaparte always attached to the good equipment of his troops, the stewardship took under the Empire such an extent that the financiers struggling to win military contracts had no qualms about providing poor quality equipment. for the bulk of the troops. Not to mention the problems associated with supplies, soldiers’ shoes were a constant concern and a recurring subject in Napoleon’s correspondence.

The contracts signed with the army were juicy for those who had the means to pay the advances and to come to an understanding in unofficial politics. Corruption and the friendships of a close circle of power were absolutely necessary for anyone aspiring to do business.

For the Italian campaign, it was the Coulon brothers, friends of Bourienne (1769 – 1834) who won the market for soldiers’ shoes, but their bankruptcy put an end to this contract. Before the Battle of Marengo, a treaty was signed with Étienne Perrier and his counterpart Louis Cerf, both shoemaker and bootmaker. These two Parisian artisans were responsible for supplying Hungarian-style shoes and boots to the Army corps. But it was undoubtedly Arman-Jean-François Seguin (1767 – 1835) who won the biggest contract. This chemist had succeeded in developing a rapid tanning process that required only three weeks instead of the traditional six months. Naturally, this innovation attracted the attention of the State, which granted Seguin the market for “all the tanned, wrought and honed leathers necessary for the footwear and the equipment of all the troops on foot and on horseback” for a duration of 9 years from year VI (1796).

These markets with insubstantial economic benefits were not, however, inspected as one might expect from a state order. The financiers therefore made a point of reducing the quality of the products in order to make more profit. The case of the cardboard shoes seems to start off as a joke, but it is not.

For the Russian campaign, the soldiers of the Grand Army were given faux leather shoes with cardboard soles. What would have been an annoyance in Spain turned into a frozen nightmare in Eastern Europe. Gabriel-Julien Ouvrard (1770 – 1846) one of the most important financiers of the time – a character that Bonaparte did not like but needed – was suspected of being at the origin of this dishonest and contemptuous delivery. It seems that no proof can yet formally attest to this.

The soldiers were thus the worst shod. But the higher we rose in the military hierarchy, the more we favored the comfort of our feet (among other things). The highest ranks were gaiters and boots, although the quality was not always there. If necessary, the emoluments however made it possible to afford a pair made of good leather.

Napoleon I never distinguished himself on the battlefields or during the campaigns by an inappropriate luxury and naturally his taste went to simplicity. He always favored quality although he was often negligent. His shoemaker Jacques, installed rue Montmartre in Paris, said that Napoleon had the nasty habit of stoking the fire in the bivouacs with the tip of his boot, thus wearing out many pairs which, without this wicked treatment, would have lasted a long time. Bonaparte attached himself a model of high boots to the rider – supple boots with cuffs – in black morocco which he ordered in numerous copies. He wore a current size 40 and paid them 80 francs, which is 20 francs more than the famous black beaver hat (link). A tidy sum for the commoner, but almost too low for an Emperor whose taste for simple things must be recognized – at least.

Although it is difficult to obtain an exact figure, many historical studies are today consensus and allow not only to better understand the Napoleonic history but also to place it in relation to other great wars which marked France and the European continent. We will also appreciate the quality of the long, patient and referenced work of emeritus historians in the face of the epileptic and vociferous agitation of Internet users who are too happy to be freed from any academic commitment to shout a story rewritten by their care, a story whose primary quality is to travel light; in fact, these individuals rarely encumber themselves with serious bibliographic sources. That being said, it’s okay (but not always, as everyone sees on a daily basis) to use the numbers with caution. Chateaubriand accused Napoleon of having killed more than five million French people in eleven years of reign. We know the literary value of Chateaubriand’s writings, we can no longer ignore after reading such an assertion the little importance he made of learning mathematics. Because indeed, figures can say anything and everything depending on whether or not the details are given. How did Chateaubriand arrive at this figure? Impossible to say. Was he a sharp critic of Bonaparte? Did he have any complaints against him? This is no longer to prove. Can we consider as fair and objective the figures put forward without argument by a man who resented the one he accused? Maybe not. This is why the work of historians is once again capital and essential to consider calmly and as objectively as possible such a burning subject.

The death toll attributed to Napoleon’s military deployments spanned fifteen years in several countries. To suspiciously attribute several million deaths to Bonaparte is often an assumed or even claimed approximation, peremptory affirmations are always more comfortable than the complicated meanders of nuance and study. Of course, it is not a question of being naive: the Napoleonic campaigns were not walks in the park and, over fifteen years, the human losses, whatever the camp which one chooses, are considerable. But are they more so than other conflicts before (the Thirty Years War) or after (the First World War)? The response of historians tends to be negative.

Before considering the figures put forward by historians, let us recall that before the present day, human losses were not or little counted, leaving room for partisan assumptions that were often excessively high or excessively low. Jacques Houdaille (1924 – 2007) – teacher at several American universities and director of research at the National Institute of Demographic Studies (1970-1988) – used the army personnel registers to assess Land army losses under the First Empire. His studies of historical demography are today considered the most reliable by historians and scholars of Napoleonic history. From the start of his study, he drew attention to:

A confusion, difficult to avoid, between soldiers who died in combat and soldiers who died or disappeared under the Empire [which] allowed all the more fanciful assertions since, even for the losses of the French army, it was difficult to distinguish the French born in France, within its borders of 1815, Belgians, Italians, Rhenish and Dutch born in the annexed departments between 1792 and 1811.

This gives a little insight into the difficulty, knowledge and mastery of research protocols and historical tools as well as the patience required to undertake such a study. The figure put forward by Chateaubriand quickly appears inconsistent compared to those collected by researchers. Because if 2,432,335 French were called to military service from 1799 to 1815, two million were actually conscripted (Chateaubriand’s five million are largely excessive). For France alone and based on the work of Jacques Houdaille and those of other historians, we manage to establish a high (one million dead) and low (400,000 dead) range of human losses over the cited previous period; and if the estimate is still difficult, as Thierry Lentz, the director of the Fondation Napoléon, rightly points out, it can reasonably be argued that the average range – or around 700,000 French deaths – is the closest to the truth.

This fifteen years of history obviously did not affect only the French. The European toll is also high and the average estimate tends around more or less two million dead, including the human losses of Russia (500,000 men), Prussia and Austria (500,000 men), the Poles and Italians (200,000 men), the Spaniards and Portuguese (700,000 men) and the British (300,000 men). *

The reports are further refined thanks to the patient studies of the battles led by Danielle and Bernard Quintin ** using the method of Jacques Houdaille. Thus for the Battle of Austerlitz (December 1805), there were 1,538 dead in the French camp for 72,500 combatants, or 2.12% of the troops. In Eylau (February 1807) 2711 died and 44 presumed dead, i.e. a 5% loss, and at Friedland (June 1807) 1,849 men were killed, 68 presumed dead and 341 missing.

Of course, the loss of life is colossal and always too high, whatever the conflict. But are they more so than other wars that have ravaged Europe? Obviously no.

The Thirty Years’ War (1618 – 1648) caused nearly two million deaths among combatants and even more among civilians. There are at least five million victims for a total population of fifteen to twenty million inhabitants in the Holy Roman Empire. The First World War caused 18.6 million deaths in four years, including soldiers and civilians. Some will be offended to see us compare conflicts and their losses with regard to the demographics of each era or to the weapon technologies employed. But in this case, how do you support the idea that Napoleon Bonaparte was a power-thirsty with no regard for the lives of his soldiers? An assertion works against a referent, and in either case (in comparison or without comparison) the argument does not hold. Judging Bonaparte’s action against what our time considers the right way to act as head of the army is also unreasonable. The beginning of the 19th century is a far cry from our post WWII era. However, let us insist on this point: Napoleon Bonaparte is not a holy personage or an incarnate demon. He was an ambivalent, opportunistic and ambitious personality in a time of turmoil. Let us also remember that the Napoleonic wars are largely (not all, we insist: in large part) the continuation of the wars of the French Revolution which then responded to the attacks of the united European monarchies.

Napoleon Bonaparte cannot be credited with the invention of war nor with the complete loss of life in the conflicts of the first fifteen years of the 19th century. Although an emeritus strategist, he was recognized during his lifetime – and testimonies abounded in this direction after his death – as a man close to his soldiers, the latter appreciated and recognized his experience in the field. A quality that many military leaders will not have during the First World War, a hundred years later.

As often, this historical figure crystallizes blind partisanship or stubborn hatred, the two having in common being simplistic. As History is nuanced, so are the characters who make it up. Only the work of historians can scientifically shed light on the areas of our history; to better understand it, we must rid it of its preconceived ideas and accept to question our certainties in the light of the most serious and recent research.

*Chiffres issus de l’étude de Alexander Mikaberidze, avocat et historien considéré comme un des meilleurs spécialistes étrangers du Premier Empire.
**Auteurs d’ouvrages de fond sur le Premier Empire, ils reçurent en 2007 le Prix spécial du Jury de la Fondation Napoléon pour l’ensemble de leur œuvre.

Joseph Bonaparte did not have time to take advantage of his privilege as a big brother for long. The young Napoleon, born a year after him, would turn upside down his life and that of his family. Although these two were bound together all their lives by a deep brotherly love, the younger often bullied his elder. The latter always tolerated wickedness with a patience that should command respect. The two were a pair, however, one climbing the ladder of power while the other remaining in the shadows amassed fortune and distinction, serving his brother’s ambition more out of loyalty than taste. Although he certainly had a taste for diplomacy, a quality one would imagine to be necessary when it came to living and working in the circle closest to Napoleon. Joseph, who was determined not to anger anyone, certainly had every opportunity to perfect this art during the reign of his brother. In turn, he was ambassador, senator, king of Naples, then leaving Italy for Madrid, he became king of Spain, general lieutenant of the kingdom in 1814 and finally president of the Council of Ministers during the Hundred Days. The fall of Napoleon was not, however, quite his. With his voluntary exile in America, Joseph was going to begin the best years of his life, more than twenty years of daily savoring what he liked the most, reading, receiving and living comfortably surrounded by art and friendly people.

Overnight between July 24 to 25, Joseph left the French coast, leaving behind his brother, whom he would never see again. He embarked for New York on a discreet brig with his aide-de-camp, his cook and his interpreter James Carret who left to posterity some notes on their Atlantic crossing, notes which set the tone for the comfortable future that will be offered to Joseph in the New World. The trip was pleasant and punctuated, according to James Caret, with the poetic enthusiasm of Joseph, who brilliantly recited French as well as Italian poetry, declaiming entire passages from Tasse, Racine or Corneille without any oversight. Joseph’s memory seemed to be as powerful as his voice, certainly intoxicated by the vastness of the ocean, chanted as if he wanted to be heard from both the old and the new continent.

He first set foot in America on August 20, 1815. Newly arrived in New York, Joseph’s new life, to be pleasant, had to be discreet. The fall of the Emperor and his exile had ushered in a new era in Europe, and times did not spare Bonaparte’s former relatives and supporters. Joseph was perfectly aware that he had to keep a low profile and adopted for his peace of mind the name of Comte de Survilliers. The title was not usurped as it was that of a small property that Joseph owned near Mortefontaine, his French beloved estate. Throughout his stay, even after he was discovered as the brother of the fallen Emperor, he retained this name by which he always presented himself in America.

In New York, he introduced himself to Mayor Jacob Radcliffe, who urged him to come to Washington and make known his kind regards to President James Madison (1751 – 1836). For Joseph in fact had no political inclinations in America, quite the contrary! But as was to be expected, the reception was reserved. On his way to Washington, a messenger came to meet the elder Bonaparte informing him that the president could not receive but that he wanted to assure Joseph that he could remain in the United States as long as he pleased if he remained discreet. It was obvious to Joseph and even rather a wish than a condition. So he turned back to where he came from.

Some time later he left New York (where he was unwillingly recognized as the former King of Spain) and found a home in Philadelphia, at the corner of Second and Markets Street.

This residence hosted Bonapartist refugees as well as other passing French throughout the stay of the former King of Naples. But one never maked waves, visitors always prefered finding in Joseph’s home the comfort of speaking French language as finding the customs and traditions that made French culture. For Napoleon’s brother, the residence was ideally located about fifty kilometers from the land he had just acquired in Bordentown (New Jersey) and which he was busy developing. The house would soon become a benchmark of good taste and French art de vivre because Point Breeze estate, owned by the Count of Survilliers, was for Joseph the work in which he invested much of his fortune but even more himself.

Conveniently located along the Delaware River, in a beautiful landscape, Point Breeze estate required four years of development during which Joseph spared no effort. Supervising the work himself, it was not uncommon for him to show up dusty and in mud-covered clothes, far away from the distinction befitting the duties he had once held. The park was cleaned, fitted out with walks, gardens and flowerbeds. Inside, paintings, bronzes, marble busts, statues and tapestries amazed visitors who were astonished to discover the rooms and lounges, one more elegant than the other. Frances Wright, an English visitor, gave a precise description of reception rooms in the house. Each was furnished with superb mahogany pieces in the finest French style that we now call Consulate and Empire (link). The billiard room was probably the one that Joseph liked most because he spent a lot of time there with his guests. Adorned with white curtains edged in green, the carpets on the floor were white and a very beautiful red. On the walls we admired paintings by Rubens and Vernet, the palettes of which were not to clash with the colors of the room.

Adjacent to the billiard room, the Great Hall was the privileged place for large receptions. The most beautiful pieces of furniture were there, the walls hung with the same blue fabric that covered the armchairs and benches. In the center of this sumptuous room, two spectacular tables with marble tops – gray for one and black for the other – presented a superb collection of bronzes. It seems that a white marble fireplace donated by Cardinal Fesch (1763 – 1839) was also installed in this elegant room. On the floor was a Goblin rug so large that it covered almost the entire surface of the room. And everywhere masterpieces, objects and works of art of the highest quality adorned walls and furniture with a taste that made a visitor tell out loud what many were secretly thinking, namely that Point Breeze was arguably the most beautiful estate of America.

Joseph won unanimous support everywhere. This refined man charmed with his wit, his discretion and his liberality. Certainly because our Bonaparte never failed to open the doors of his home to passing visitors, to curious people, to neighbors and even to artists eager to admire or copy the superb masterpieces which made all the salt of Point Breeze. His desire to promote French and European art through his collection did not stop there. Anxious to show to many people as possible the paintings of the most famous masters in his collection, between 1822 and 1829 he loaned several paintings to the annual exhibition of the Academy of Fine Arts in Pennsylvania. His Bonaparte crossing the Grand Saint Bernard signed by the hand of the famous Jacques-Louis David (1748 – 1825) was presented each year and it was considered by the painter himself as “a great honor”. But Joseph Bonaparte, as a great connoisseur and patron that he was, knew the importance of not underestimating the unknown artists who would perhaps make the famous names of tomorrow. Thus, he welcomed painters artists, both professional and amateur, but one anecdote conveys better than words Joseph’s still keen interest in art rather than ostentation. One day when the young apprentice George Robert Bonfield (1805 – 1898) was sent to Point Breeze for some job, the young man took advantage of a few stolen moments to copy down into a small notebook – which he kept near him – details of a Shipwreck of Claude-Joseph Vernet (1714 – 1789). Joseph passing by surprised the apprentice who had great difficulty in hiding his drawing in time; Joseph then asked to see the notebook and George sheepishly handed it to him. He later rejoiced at this awkwardness because Bonaparte, impressed by the young man’s talent, allowed and encouraged him to draw whatever he wanted in the house! Bonfield made a career and later became an important cultural figure in Pennsylvania.

You have to imagine what the possibility of drawing and reproducing the masterpieces from the Point Breeze collection meant for our young painter. Because if David’s painting was certainly one of the most spectacular, one could also admire works by the hand of Correggio (1489 – 1534), Titian (1490 – 1576), Pierre Paul Rubens (1577 – 1640) or Antoine van Dyck (1599 -1641), of Vernet and David Teniers the Younger (1610 – 1690) as well as Paulus Potter (1625 – 1654), Charles-Joseph Natoire (1700 – 1770), Jean-Baptiste Wicar (1762 – 1834) or François Gérard (1770 – 1837). Without counting the tapestries of the Gobelins, the bronzes and sculptors of the greatest names such as Antonio Canova (1757 – 1822) whose Joseph possessed a bust of Madame Mère (Letizia Bonaparte), a bust of Pauline Borghese and one of Napoleon, of which several visitors admitted that at first glance it was difficult to say whether it was a bust of the Emperor or of his brother as the resemblance between the two was striking!

Point Breeze therefore appeared, in fact, as an emblem of French taste in general but more broadly as the refined taste of the Old Continent, bearing the memory of the former lives of Napoleon’s elder brother whose artworks, it must be said, were not always added to his personal collection in a very legitimate way… But times were different and so were mentalities!

In America, he was not held against him and we constantly marveled at his collection and his library (then the largest in the United States since that of Congress had only 6,500 volumes while that of Joseph had more than 8,000 !) as well as on jewels and gems whose provenance was still questionable… Whatever! We weren’t going to take offense at this affable and courteous man who gave work to all (it was said that in Bordentown there were no poor as long as Joseph Bonaparte lived there). Every Sunday, the doors of the residence were opened wider and opened the vast park along the Delaware River to residents of the neighborhood who did not deny themselves their pleasure! The delights of the gardens in summer were matched only by the frozen lake in winter. In what is now known as Bonaparte’s Pond, one skated happily on the thick ice while Joseph rolled apples on it, which the skaters enthusiastically chased.

The inhabitants held the Comte de Survilliers in high esteem and never missed the opportunity to greet him when he passed by on horseback – an activity to which he was very attached – and, for his birthday, a brass band was sent to him from the locals. We couldn’t ask for a better neighborhood in Bordentown. Bonaparte did not like discord or aggressive confrontations, always preferring arrangement and negotiation. One example: when the railroad came to pass through his Point Breeze lands, he did not even consider a lawsuit that promised to be as long as it was uncertain. He settled out of court an inconvenience that became a source of profit: in exchange for the train to pass through his property, Joseph obtained a thousand shares in the Baltimore railway company. All his life, the elder brother of the Bonaparte family had shown remarkable intelligence in business, thus accumulating a colossal wealth which allowed him to live in more than luxurious comfort without having to worry about a thing. Although the phrase is exaggerated, it has been said many times that Joseph Bonaparte was the richest man in the United States, which already says a lot about what this character showed of himself to other people. 

Joseph had arrived in New York without his wife Julie Clary (1771 – 1845) who never joined him there. In fragile health, she preferred to settle in Switzerland, in Brussels and then in Florence, where Joseph would find her at the end of their life. If American society was full of praise for the former King of Spain, we can at least say that it was careless about the very personal notion that the man had of marital fidelity! Annette Savage (1800 – 1865), whose Quaker family claimed to be descended from Princess Pocahontas, was his first mistress in the New World. Two children were born from this union: Caroline Charlotte in 1819 and Pauline Josèphe in 1822. He also fell in love with Émilie Hémart, wife of one of his lawyers (who was clearly not destined to become a divorce professional). Émilie gave birth to Félix Joseph, born in 1825. Either way, Joseph never neglected his children and always made sure that they lacked nothing.

It is easy to understand from studying his American life why Joseph Bonaparte said he was spending the best years of his life at Point Breeze. To Frances Wright, our English visitor, who pointed out to him that he seemed very happy to be busy embellishing his park and his house, he gave her a colorful response. As he plucked a small wild flower, he compared this tiny beauty to the pleasures of privacy while the showy blossoms in the flowerbed reminded him of ambition and power that he felt presented better from afar than near. He will always remember this American happiness and his friends there. It was moreover as a friend that he was gradually considered, until he was received at the White House by Andrew Jackson (1767 – 1845) not as a political refugee but as a friend of America. It was also in this same spirit that he was admitted in April 1823 to the American Philosophical Society founded by Benjamin Franklin (1706 – 1790) in 1743.

Yet he lived through discouraging and painful times there. The fire which ravaged his home on July 4, 1820 was dramatic without however destroying it completely, reassured that it was by the help and the kindness of the inhabitants of Bordentown, what he testifies in a letter to the mayor, William Snowden:

You have shown me so kind an interest since my arrival in this country, and especially since the incident of the 4th of this month, that I am sure you will be willing to say to your fellow citizens how greatly I am touched by what they did for me on that occasion. I being absent myself from home, they hastened, of their own accord and at the first alarm, to overcome the conflagration ; and, when it became evident that this could not be done, they directed their efforts to save as much as possible of what had not been already destroyed. The furniture, the statues, the pictures, silver, jewels, linen and books, in fact everything that could be brought out, were placed with the most scrupulous care under charge of my servants. Indeed, all through the night, as well as upon the following day, boxes and trays were brought to me which contained articles of the greatest value. This proves to me how clearly the inhabitants of Bordentown appreciate the interest that I have always taken in them.

The Count of Survilliers rebuilt a second house on the same land. It was in this home that he learned of his brother’s death in 1821 and his mother’s death in 1836, two ordeals for Joseph. For if he didn’t show it, didn’t talk about politics, and pretended not to care (at least for a while), the loss of his younger brother and his mother were undoubtedly painful trials. After a brief return to Europe from 1832 to 1835, he returned to Point Breeze where he lived for another five years until 1839. The death of his own daughter Charlotte in 1839 followed shortly after by that of his dear uncle Joseph Fesch then (only 5 days later) the death of his sister Caroline decided him to return to Europe for good. He eventually joined his wife Julie in Florence in 1840 and lived there for the last few years suffering regularly from stroke before falling into a coma on July 27, 1844 and dying the following day.

When he left the United States for good, he left nothing but good memories. Several of his friends received wonderful gifts from him from his superb collection of artworks and art objects. A large part of these gifts are now exhibited in American museums and one even find in the White House, at the entrance of the Red Room, a mahogany console that Jacky Kennedy particularly appreciated and which was first the property of Joseph Bonaparte. At auctions, a few objects sometimes reappear, testifying to the pomp and assured taste of Napoleon I’s elder brother. Joseph Bonaparte will never cease to assure himself that he lived, in America and at Point Breeze in particular, his best years. Praising the prosperity and beauty of this country, he undoubtedly appreciated the possibility of being himself at last. Now freed from the obligation to serve his brother’s consuming ambition, America was for him the land of a new life – light, luxurious and comfortable – a much coveted life as a gentleman farmer.

As far as the portraits of Napoleon go back, only the imperial crown has supplanted the famous cocked hat. An exception of prestige which, however, only manages to equal in our imagination what this forehead wore the most and the best, this simple and black hat, without braid or embellishment. With Bonaparte, and this is a rare thing in history, the title never surpasses the myth. It was his character that made legend. A strategist gifted both in the military and in propaganda, Napoleon had a character that easily accommodated himself to precisely what set him apart from the crowd. For him, creating and maintaining this image should therefore only be a habit that is as daily as it is natural, a habit carried by a recurring outfit that regularly spares him the convolutions that so often come with the visits of wardrobes. This is evidenced by the number of bicornes he used throughout his life: from 1800 to 1812, he had between 120 and 160 delivered, which, at most, makes a dozen per year. Let us count those he lost on the battlefield and this consumption appears to be quite reasonable, almost thrifty if we compare it to the expenditure of the monarchs before him for their toilets. The stingy Letizia (1750 – 1836) must have had genes as determined as her son.

Tirelessly dressed in his gray frock coat – our man had few of them and the last was mended relentlessly even in Saint Helena – Napoleon’s black hats were more inclined to adapt, very lightly, to fashions. To such an extent that the painter Charles de Steuben (1788 – 1856) painted around 1826 a “Life of Bonaparte” through his cocked hat!

The first two are in Paris, we can see the towers of Notre-Dame in the background, then here are ancient columns: Italy and Egypt. The fourth cocked hat rests on olive branches, a symbol of peace, perhaps the Consulate, Austerlitz or Tilsit then an eagle rises towards the fifth central hat, with the profile of a crown, before the last three bicorne hat waver. The sixth, on the ground, faces the glowing sky of the flames ravaging Moscow. Then it’s a raised hat that leaves behind the snow of the terrible retreat from Russia: the flight of the Eagle and the Hundred Days precede a last cocked hat which has tipped, face down with the spur of Saint Helena at the back. A life summed up in cocked hats, a few years after Bonaparte’s death. All different bicorne who nevertheless embody the same person. Historical construction do you think? Lyricism of the legend you say?

This is to ignore the talent of communicator of Napoleon who, soon after his victories in Italy, put nothing in the hands of fate and everything in those of Jacques-Louis David (1748 – 1825). The artist painted his Bonaparte crossing the Great Saint-Bernard with as a model the outfit and the cocked hat that the general wore to Marengo and that he lent him especially (a loan and not a gift, undoubtedly the genes of the Corsican mother are tough). And what do we see in this work? A general “calm on a fiery horse” in the words attributed to Napoleon. But above all, a man wearing a hat whose embroidered border already shines like a crown. The painting’s vigorous guidelines are stabilized by the almost straight line of the cocked hat’s edge, the same as that of the general’s gaze. To follow the general, one must certainly follow his hat.

This cocked hat, which varied in shape from the Italian countryside to Saint Helena, always measured between 44 and 47 cm in length and 24 to 26 cm in height. Those of Napoleon have the particularity of not being provided with the sweat band that the Corsican could not bear and that he systematically removed. Of the four taken with him to Saint Helena, one was placed in his coffin, which is to say the importance Bonaparte attached to his bicorne and the symbol they represented in the eyes of his intimates.

Today between 20 and 30 bicornes are authenticated, many are kept in museums, some in private hands. In April 1969, the famous champagne house Moët & Chandon acquired a cocked hat for the sum of 140,000 francs. In 2014, a Korean businessman bought himself one of Napoleon’s hats for 1.8 million euros. The following year, the bicorn hat worn in 1807 during the Battles of Eylau and Friedland, as well as in the Treaty of Tilsit was sold by auction house Christie’s London for £ 386,000. Proof, if necessary, that the bicorne could become a natural metonymy of Napoleon. The only silhouette of the Courvoisier cognac house could finally convince us.

Because all his life, he was not only faithful to this style of hat but he was also to his hatter! The said Poupard soon took the distinction of “Hatter, costume designer and trimmer of the Emperor and the princes”, in the event that his sign subtitled “Le Temple du Goût” was not enough to let know everyone that no other craftsman was more qualified than him to cover the head with the most beautiful headdresses. The era was not afraid of superlatives, and Poupard had every reason in the world to boast. Because it was he who, from his Parisian boutique at the Palais – Royal, delivered the famous “French hat” to the General, First Consul and then Emperor. Initially sold for 48 francs, the bicorne price suddenly rose to 60 francs from 1806. For the same price, the common person could buy a thousand eggs or even a small fifty cheeses, two of the main popular foods at that time. 

If the price of these bicornes was so high for ordinary people, it was because Bonaparte’s choice always turned to those made from beaver skin. This excellent quality material, sought after for its resistance and fashionable since the 16th century, undermined the population of these peaceful animals, a few colonies of which lived in France and more numerous in northern Europe. In the 17th century, the European beaver had almost disappeared and we therefore set out to eradicate its American cousin in an approach far removed from our contemporary concerns.

Curious peculiarity: the Europeans bought from the North American natives only used beaver pelts! It was indeed more interesting in terms of work to provide themselves with beaver pelts already softened by the hunters who wore them as a cloak for several months, so that the pelts reached the hatters shops ready for use. There were two qualities of beaver hat: the half beaver (demi castor) and the beaver (castor). The nuance in this case was not due to the entire animal but to the use that was made of its skin and hair.

The half beaver was a classic wool felt with beaver hair glued onto it, while the beaver hat was made entirely from animal skin. The first was obviously more affordable than the second which, due to its rarity since the 17th century, had become a luxury item. 

No need to look for beaver hair on these historic bicornes, the softer and old leather no longer wears one. Nevertheless, these so-called “black beaver” or “fur felt” hats were of the best quality, resistant to bad weather as well as to the dictatorship of taste (and in this area, our Poupard knew something about it, he who led the Temple). These resistant and sober, soft, brilliant and elegant headdresses suited, one understands, the character of Bonaparte. With no other ornament than a tricolor cockade slipped into a black silk braid closed with a button, the Napoleonic cocked hat was practical, solid and elegant. An unbeatable quality / price ratio which soon won over our Bonaparte who, like a good soldier – and son of Letizia – sought above all efficiency and fair expenditure.

The first bill has not yet suffered the inflation of 1806 and the price of the “French hat” in beaver remains at 48 francs. The invoice is approved and signed by the Comte de Rémusat (1762 – 1823), the Emperor’s first chamberlain. The second bill is interesting by comparison. The first item invoiced to Napoleon I, namely “a full-size embroidered hat”, is sold for 660 francs, a fortune compared to the simple black beaver hat! The bills from Poupard to Bonaparte testify both to the latter’s simplicity in fashion, since he always preferred simple beaver hats to complicated headgear, as well as to his perfect awareness of assets of clothing for its communication and personal propaganda. If the bicorne comes back precisely as a signature, both in Poupard’s invoices and in the painted and written portraits we have of Bonaparte, it is because they are part of the legendary silhouette modeled by Napoleon. A silhouette all created by oppositions.

The bicorne inherited several modifications from a large military headgear from the beginning of the 17th century. To give birth to the famous French hat, it must indeed go through the no less famous hat of the musketeers. This large hat, regularly decorated with a feather or a ribbon, was formed from a large circle of felt; The effect was both spectacular and very elegant. But, it must be admitted, impractical. At a time when fighting was exclusively in contact with the adversary, swift and broad gestures at best disheveled and, at worst, hampered the fighter’s movement. The ridiculous, which we already knew in the 17th century, does not kill people, but defeats could not be excused by the whims of fashion. So it was decided to roll up the edges of the felt hat and steam harden the whole thing; thus the superb tricorn was obtained. The appearance was safe and the fighter at ease, the future of the tricorn hat looked bright for most of the 18th century. As much as in the 18th century, aristocrats wore it more on the arms than on the head to avoid dropping the powder from the wigs. In 1726, the Mercure de France ironically noted:

The hats are a reasonable size, they are worn under the arm and almost never over the head.

We therefore came to manufacture almost flat hats intended more for the arm than the head, hence their name of chapeau-bras, and among them the tricorn was a great success and establishing its noble label, which the Revolution will remember.

However, a horn still hindered those who wielded the rifle. Either, the tricorn was therefore sometimes amputated of a horn but coexisted with a bicorne worn “in battle” (each horn parallel to the shoulders), so as not to obstruct the view, a manner which finally became widespread in several regiments, between 1786 and 1791.

During and after the Revolution, the tricorn too associated with the Ancien Régime disappeared from the hatters’ shops. On the other hand, the military and bourgeois bicorne enters a prosperous period. The Republic quickly adopted it for its generals and representatives of the legislative and administrative power. The fashion is then to wear it “in column”, the horns perpendicular to the shoulders. Bonaparte, like all Republican soldiers, wears this headdress that we imagine then in half-beaver or wool felt because the young man was not rolling in it.

But by the end of the 1790s, the Italian campaign gave the young general the opportunity to seal the first stone of his legend in the making. During battles, Napoleon did not wear his cocked hat “in column” or “à la Frédéric II” (sideways, as the Prussian did) but “in battle”. From then on, it is easy to recognize the general in the chaos of the fighting. Quickly identifiable thanks to his hat, Napoleon Bonaparte already sits part of his mythical silhouette. The appearance will stand out even more when he adopts his famous gray frock coat. This outfit to which he remained faithful all his life suggests, beyond his taste for military simplicity which brought him closer to his soldiers, a perfect awareness of the potential of clothing as a political tool. For if all of Europe wore the bicorne at the turn of the 19th century, from Frederick II of Prussia (1712 – 1786) to Nicholas I (1796 – 1855), it seems nevertheless that it was created only for one man. A historical unicum skilfully mocked by the Jean Rostand character of Count Metternich (1773 – 1859) :

Because it is from a hatter that the legend leaves,

The real Napoleon, in short … is Poupard!

Edmond Rostand, L’Aiglon, 1900

The modest library of Charles Bonaparte (1746 – 1785) in the family home of Ajaccio was the first source which watered the future emperor. The young Napoleon discovered there authors who accompanied him all his life: Plutarch, Homer and Virgil to name but a few. His passion for history and politics was born in him; reading a few works on Corsica enriched a patriotism that was initially insular. Then the library of the Royal Military School of Brienne, made available to him during his studies, made him an assiduous reader with an ever more assertive taste for ancient and Renaissance classics. This taste was reproached to him by the one whom Napoleon admired for a long time: Pasquale Paoli (1725 – 1807), Corsican politician, who scolded him with a sharp sarcasm, reproaching his admirer for “being entirely out of Plutarch”. The hero of the young Napoleone was very severe… The first years of lieutenant, officer and then captain Bonaparte were for him occasions of bulimia of reading. The future Napoleon I intended to compensate for his shortcomings by rigorous training in everything he felt he lacked. Brienne had not taught him everything and going to a few salons taught him that he had to enrich himself intellectually. In Valence, the young lieutenant established solid relations with the aptly named bookseller Marc-Aurel, whose library he devoured. The son of the brave scholar will print a writing by Bonaparte when the latter still had some literary pretensions. Bonaparte renewed this relational experience by corresponding for a time with Paul Borde, bookseller in Geneva. The revolutionary period did not only awaken in him a taste for the State and for society. The many upheavals raised questions to which he sought answers everywhere; the works of history and political theory naturally had his full attention. In his own military field too, he studied unceasingly: the principles and history of artillery, the art of siege, Machiavelli or the stories of the campaigns of Frederick the Great (1712 – 1786) were among his readings. More surprisingly, he also set his sights on works whose subjects seem premonitory in the eyes of history. What to think of his readings on Arab cultures, on his interest in their mores and customs, the topography of their countries like that of Egypt and its history? He read – we know from his correspondence and his biographers – books relating to French finances, to the laws of population growth and mortality statistics, to the constitutions of the countries of Asia and of the ancient kingdoms of North America. South. We could sketch through these readings the portrait of an ambitious man, yet all this is in equal measure with his taste for Montaigne and Montesquieu, Rousseau, Buffon and Mirabeau, astronomy, geology and even meteorology. Frantically, he annotated his works – a habit he never lost -, noted words he did not know and patiently enriched his vocabulary. Nothing seems to have left him indifferent and his prodigious memory helping, no doubt that the lessons he drew from his readings made him an enlightened young man but also capable of forming his own opinion, drawing from a large arsenal of knowledge. An asset that undoubtedly made the difference at this troubled turn of the century where opinions could sometimes be worth having their heads cut off …

Once the young general was assigned to the small army of Italy, it was still in the books that Bonaparte prepared his departure. He plunged into it so much and so long that he arrived late own marriage with Joséphine on March 9, 1796 , it was not for lack of having ardently desired this union … The day before, Napoleon had gone to the National Library to consult the books likely to familiarize him with the country which was to make his glory. No doubt he borrowed books or procured them to study at home until late at night. Determined and scrupulous, the preparations for the Italian campaign were made above all by numerous readings which diverted and monopolized the fiancé to the point of making him reject his necessary presence near Beauharnais. Between duty and passion, we will judge the impossible choice that tugged Napoleon!

A few days after 18 Brumaire (November 9, 1799), the books again revealed the interests of the future Napoleon I. The new Consuls undertook to share the library of the Directory; one can imagine Napoleon as an enthusiastic supporter of this decision. Each therefore chose the books which he would make better use of and the rest formed the library of the Council of State. Napoleon’s sights were taken without surprise on the history and military art books. The taste for reading never passed and whether he was Consul or Emperor, he never stopped reading. But our man was on the move and the time of ebook was still far too far away to foreshadow the ease of traveling light! Not having the concern of transporting the heavy works of his library, it was decided – several times – to create a campaign library, the project took a long time to materialize …

Bonaparte’s first library was modest and really took shape during the Italian campaign. These works, generally bound in calfskin, bear on the back the number BP for “Bonaparte – La Pagerie”, the maiden name of Joséphine who loved reading as much as Napoleon enjoyed social life. As soon as he could afford it, Napoleon insisted that he always have at hand the works he wanted or needed. The task was not easy because the general did not keep in place: hardly had he returned from Italy that he had to leave for Egypt and so on. On the ship that took him to Egypt, he prepared his campaign in the same way he had done for that of Italy. The works followed one another so that he familiarized himself as much as possible with the culture, religion, history, topography and customs of the country in which he was preparing to fight. The on-board library contained nearly 300 books which, back in France in 1801, remained for many years in Marseille.

Once emperor, Napoleon I gathered thousands of books in his various libraries in Trianon, Rambouillet, Fontainebleau and especially in Malmaison. The collection included all genres and subjects. At Malmaison, the works bore the number of the first library and sometimes, on the cover, the inscription “Malmaison” in beautiful golden letters. Eugène de Beauharnais (1781 – 1824) inherited this treasure which was dispersed at auction in 1827. In 1815, the fallen emperor took with him into exile some volumes from this library to which he was particularly fond and which he remembered fondly in Saint Helena.

As early as 1809, during the war of the Fifth Coalition, the idea of a campaign library became more pressing. Napoleon I had already demanded it but it seems that it was slow to take shape. The emperor often complained to Antoine Barbier (1765 – 1825) his librarian, but the task was far from easy! Napoleon prescribed a campaign set comprising no less than… 3000 volumes! Something to frighten the most devoted bibliophile! Finally the long-awaited library was assembled for the Russian campaign, finally ready to travel the steppes. The mahogany cases which contained the works were, it seems, made by Jacob Desmalter (1770 – 1841). Librarian Barbier was responsible for filling them in following the recommendations of his imperial sponsor. Without much surprise, we found there a large number of works intended to prepare for the Russian campaign: topography, report on rivers, marshes, woods and paths. And in particular, for the nourishment of the spirit, a small volume of Montaigne. Had young Bonaparte’s interest in meteorology died out? We fear it! And the unfortunate Russian campaign which will severely punish the emperor also led to the disappearance by fire or looting of a large part of the library so long desired.

Here is Napoleon exiled to the Island of Elba. Books were still faithful friends there. He reread the great ancient classics he had loved in his youth and discovered new ones. Thus, Plutarch, Corneille, Racine and Voltaire stood side by side on the shelves with the many volumes of Thousand and one Night . This parenthesis did not last long and Napoleon quickly found the continent. If the campaign in France did not leave him the leisure to read, we find him at the Louvre at the end of March 1815 where he was happy to find his librarian to whom he brought back the books taken for his exile, thus honoring the reputation. that he always had to return a book he had borrowed.

The second exile, which his adversaries will be keen to make final, will not be as favorable as the first to Napoleon’s readings. On June 25, 1815, a few days after his abdication, Bonaparte undertook to prepare for his departure and instructed Antoine Barbier to prepare a library made up of all the campaign books to which should be added books on America, the continent where he was thinking. still be able to establish itself. Four days later, he finally wanted to take the Trianon library. The House of Representatives gave its agreement and it was 1929 books that had to be transported to Malmaison before Bonaparte left for Saint Helena. This was without counting the annoying Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher (1742 – 1819), a Prussian general, who opposed the transport of the books. His emissaries arrived after the departure of the first car and only 588 volumes sailed from Rochefort to Longwood. On his small island lost in the middle of the Atlantic, Napoleon remembered these works, many of which bore the stamp “Cabinet of HM the Emperor and King” as well as his arms, a modest memory of his reign. Until his death, he nevertheless received through his English jailers no less than 1,226 paperback or cardboard books sent from England between 1816 and 1821. We were then closer to the pocket book than to those of the Pléiade, but what does it matter, a reading enthusiast does not dwell on the form as long as the content is good! These books were sold in 1823 in London by Sotheby’s.

Each book lover has his little quirks and habits. Some annotate the pages, others fold them, stain them. Still others donate books they didn’t like or leave them in a public place. Napoleon Bonaparte, like any self-respecting reader, also had his little quirks. Manias that were however not accessible to ordinary people!

Bonaparte demanded efficiency everywhere. No convolution for him, the essentials above all else ! So he demanded for his campaign library that the (3000!) Books he wanted to have at hand be all reviewed in order to “correct them, to remove all that is useless like the notes of publishers, all Greek and Latin texts; keep only the French translation. A few only Italian works, of which there would be no translation, could be preserved in Italian. “(Antoine Barbier); efficiency, always. Whether he was busy with something else or tired of reading, his readers took over, although he always preferred Josephine to them who read, it is said, with the particular charm she put in everything. Poor Louis-Antoine Bourrienne (1769 – 1834), who sometimes had to replace her in this task, must have looked very poor!

Finally, there is a habit of the Emperor which always illustrated his intransigence. If a book had the misfortune to displease him, neither one nor two he threw it into the fire! And beware of those close to him who read a work of this kind because Bonaparte reserved the same fate for these books: the stake! Nothing annoyed him so much as wasting his time reading what he considered bad and Claude François de Ménéval (1778 – 1850), private secretary of the Emperor, conjured Barbier during the campaign of 1809 to send Bonaparte to better volumes because disappointing books “just jump out of the mailbox into the fireplace.” We must not send any more such garbage … Send as few verses as you can unless it is from our great poets. »No fireplace nearby? Never mind ! Napoleon threw books out of his car window just as well. The pages of his suite did not fail to collect them from then on, patiently forming a library which – if it had been completely burnt down by the Emperor – occupied them during their numerous trips.

If this portrait of Napoleon reader seems austere, it must finally be softened by the emperor’s taste for lighter readings. So the Mamluk Ali reported that in Saint Helena, Bonaparte enjoyed rereading a work of playful literature almost unmatched in his time: Green-Green written in 1734 by Jean-Baptiste Gresset. The humorous work never failed to make Napoleon laugh who appreciated, when they were well conducted, subjects full of lightness …

Joséphine de Beauharnais (1763 – 1814) met Napoleon for the first time (1769 – 1821) in 1795. She then reigned on the Directory alongside other young and elegant women – such as the spicy Madame Tallien – from whom she distinguished herself in being by far their eldest. Joséphine was 32 years old, widow and mother of two children. Her nobility was insignificant at best, while her debts enjoyed far more prestige than her name. With Napoleon, she pretended to be rich and he succumbed for a time to the charms of this deliquescent aristocracy; not enough, however, not to have the real state of her sweetheart’s finances checked. But whatever, this young man to whom Paul Barras (1755 – 1829) promised a great future, had to recognize that this marriage would be financially more favorable to him than to her: on March 8th, 1796, the marriage contract established indeed that Joséphine brought to the household her annual rent of 25,000 francs while Napoléon Bonaparte constituted for the moment a meager pension of 1,500 francs in case of widowhood…   Napoleon was madly in love with her Josephine, and he could no longer bear the idea of ​​marrying another woman than her. This state of mind was unfortunately not shared by this elegant woman. Her heart will not turned upside down for this man who was neither of her kind nor her spirit. What decided her was precisely what separated them from the start: for her, wedding was – as under the Ancien Regime – a matter of convenience and interests mixed, but in no case a matter of feelings! Napoleon, meanwhile, did not care about this separation of appearances and aspired to a marriage based on shared love, a very modern idea in this high society where the codes of a barely sleepy aristocracy still prevailed. When Josephine finally consented to this union, it was above all in order to preserve her worldly existence and the safety of her children. This glorious general brought her countenance and security at a time when Terror still haunted everyone. She thought by this marriage to preserve frivolities and worldliness, temporary gallantries and to ensure the security of the home. He imagined himself a fulfilled and loved husband of a wife who would take care of maintaining a respectable and happy home. Two worlds clashed without one figuring it out in the other.

Their respective correspondence is eloquent in this case. When Napoleon was moved “I wake up full of you”, Josephine complained to one of her friends “I find myself in a state of lukewarmness that I dislike and that the devotees find more vexing than anything”. Surely, Joséphine’s experience in the field of gallantry did not reveal anything of this lukewarmness to her husband. However, once he left for Italy, Madame Bonaparte’s undisguised indifference to the pleas of the general marked Parisian mind. Letters from Italy never dried up and arrived almost every day while responses were scarce and capricious. Tearful, lonely, barely consoled by his victories, how could one not feel all the general’s pain and despair when, impatient to get back (finally!) to her Josephine in Milan, he found the palace empty, the Beauty having eclipsed for enjoy the pleasures of Genoese society. In a heartbreaking letter, we read the general’s resignation:

I arrive in Milan, I rush to your apartment, I left everything to see you, to hug you; … you weren’t there: you run cities with parties; you move away from me when I arrive, you no longer care about your dear Napoleon. A whim made you love him, inconstancy makes you indifferent. Accustomed to dangers, I know the remedy for the troubles and evils of life. The unhappiness I experience is incalculable; I had the right not to count on it. I will be here until 9th. Do not bother ; run pleasures; happiness is for you. The whole world is too happy if you like it, and your husband alone is very, very unhappy.

The image of the uncompromising conqueror and strategist that Europe then discovered is far away here … The gap widened between the two spouses despite the perseverance of a Napoleon who suffered to admit that he was not loved by his wife. Returning from the Egyptian campaign, the threat of divorce hung over the young couple and Josephine measured with horror the damage she had committed. If the situation had nothing in common in this young XIXth century, what is original in our contemporary eyes?

By an ironic reversal of the situation of which life has the secret, it is Joséphine who will henceforth fear that Bonaparte will leave her. The latter having lost all illusions concerning his wife’s feelings towards him, gradually detached himself from her without ever taking away from him the affection that he had for her. If he could not demand mutual love, he nevertheless intended to maintain the tranquility and respectability of his house. These could not be more bourgeois demands for a man soon raised to imperial dignity. The entourage of the couple testified with astonishment to this family life far removed from the royal customs of his predecessors and to which we have always been used: “The Emperor was indeed one of the best husbands I have ever known” testifies Mademoiselle Avrillion (1774 – 1853), first maid of the empress. She continues “when the empress was inconvenienced, he spent with her as long as it was possible for him to steal from imperial matters […] He had a tender friendship for her”. The testimony of Louis Constant (1778 – 1845), the Emperor’s first valet, was no less unexpected “How touching was the agreement of this imperial household! Full of attention, respect, abandonment for Josephine, the Emperor liked to kiss her on the neck, in the face, patting her and calling her “my big beast”. And the “big beast” empress loved to read to her imperial husband in the evening! If the question of the heir was thorny, that of Joséphine’s children wasn’t and, as in a reconstituted family today, Napoleon I tenderly pampered his wife’s children. Hortense and Eugène were constantly at the center of his preoccupations and Bonaparte did not deny this nickname of “Bibiche” uncle which the son of Hortense gave him. Could these children have known a better stepfather? As in all modern households, arguments were inevitable, however. And if Napoleon Bonaparte imposed his will on Europe, he could hardly do so in his own home! Josephine was spending countless, and when her husband finally paid off her debts she had had plenty of time to create new ones. He, attached to order and regularity, succeeding by his genius in winning great battles across the continent, systematically failed to force Josephine to respect her budgets.

Were the domestic concerns of the imperial couple so different from the bourgeois concerns of the same era? If not the size of the house and the expenses, are they even different from ours? To be convinced, let’s add that pets did not escape this bourgeois life. Because the question arose: who will take the dog out? Not for his daily walk as you might think, but from Joséphine’s bed. Designating a frizzling hound (a poodle named Fortuné), Napoleon said to his friend Antoine-Vincent Arnault (1766 – 1834) “You see that gentleman here, he is my rival. He was in possession of Madame’s bed when I married her. I wanted to get it out: useless pretension, I was told that I had to make up my mind to sleep elsewhere or agree to share. » Napoleon knowing the dog unbeatable (an unpleasant irony for the one who won most of his battles) but not eternal, he took his pain in patience and the minute following the death of Fortuné, he strongly defended that a successor be designated. Wasting of time because Joséphine quickly went beyond her husband’s ban and acquired a pug. Furious, the Emperor then urged his cook to acquire a terrifying (and surely hungry) great mastiff in the hope that the latter would make his meal from the unwanted doggie.

Joséphine at the start of their relationship and during their first years of wedding deceived Napoleon with a casualness that marked the minds, to the point that Barras advised her to be careful in her relations with Charles Hippolyte (1773 – 1837). Then she was the one who feared her husband’s infidelities. A foreboding rightly worried her during Bonaparte’s stay in Poland in 1807. The Emperor and Mrs. Walewska (1786 – 1817) fell sincerely and lastingly in love and their idyll gave birth to the first son of the Emperor in 1810, indirectly proving the inability of Josephine to give him an heir and causing, regretfully, the initiation of divorce proceedings. The Emperor was therefore not loyal to Josephine either, but he took great care to ensure that his wife knew nothing about his affairs. An attitude far removed from the Europeans kings of that time who maintained and sometimes allowed official wives and mistresses to tear each others to pieces. Always Bonaparte wanted his entourage and his family to be happy and not worried, a concern still marked by a bourgeois mind. In this new society oscillating between the customs of the Ancien Regime and a post-revolutionary modernity, Napoleon and Josephine formed a finally united couple who knew how to dominate the military, political and worldly scenes each by their talent: when he “wins battles, Joséphine wins hearts ”.

Long after their divorce, relations between Napoleon and Josephine remained marked by tenderness and sincere friendship. Bonaparte’s visits to Josephine at Malmaison were frequent. He always ensured that she lacked nothing (despite her bad habit of maintaining debts) and kept her title of Empress despite their divorce. She still cared for him, sought and facilitated his marriage to Marie-Louise of Austria (1791 – 1847) and sincerely congratulated her ex-husband on the birth of the King of Rome. Throughout his life and again in Saint Helena, the Emperor will fondly recall his memories of Josephine. If history has paid little attention to Napoleon’s second wedding, this is no doubt due to this singular relationship which in the 19th century was certainly as unusual as it seems, to our contemporary eyes, strangely ordinary …