For two days the Viscountess of Beauharnais had borne the name of Citizeness Bonaparte. March 9, 1796 (19th Ventose, year IV.), she had married the hero of the 13th Vendemiaire, the saviour of the Convention; and two regicides, Barras and Tallien, had been present as witnesses at the wedding. Her husband had spent only two days with her, and during these forty-eight hours he had been obliged more than once to lock himself up with his maps and to plead the urgency of an imperative task in excuse, shouting through the door that he should have to postpone love till after the victory.

And yet, although younger than his wife, she was nearly thirty-three, he only twenty-six, Bonaparte was very much in love with her. She was graceful and attractive, although she had lost some of her freshness, and she had the art of pleasing her young husband; moreover, it is well known, as the Duke of Ragusa says in his Memoirs, "that in love it is idle to seek for reasons; one loves because one loves, and nothing is less capable of explanation and analysis than this feeling... Bonaparte was in love in every meaning of the word. It was, apparently, for the first time; and he felt it with all the force of his character." But he had just been appointed commander-in-chief of the Army of Italy. He was obliged to turn his back on love, to fly to peril and glory.

March 11, he wrote this letter to Letourneur, President of the Directory, to tell him of his marriage two days before: "I had commissioned Citizen Barras to inform the Executive Directory of my marriage with Citizeness Tascher Beauharnais. The confidence which the Directory has shown me in all circumstances makes it my duty to inform it of all my actions. This is a new tie of attachment to my country; it is an additional guarantee of my firm resolution to have no other interests than those of the Republic. My best wishes and respects."

The same day he left Paris, bidding farewell to his wife and to his little house in the rue Chantereine (later the rue de la Victoire), where his happiness had been so brief.

Accompanied by his aide-de-camp, Junot, and his commissary-general, Chauvet, he carried with him forty-eight thousand francs in gold, and a hundred thousand francs in drafts, which were in part protested. It was with this modest purse that the commander of an army that had long been in want was to lead it to the fertile plains of Lombardy. He stopped at the house of Marmont's father, at Chaillon-sur-Seine, whence he sent Josephine a power of attorney to draw certain sums.

March 14, at six in the evening, he stopped to change horses at Chanceaux and from there he wrote a second letter, as follows: "I wrote to you from Chatillon, and I sent you a power of attorney to draw certain sums which are due me. Every moment takes me further from you, and every moment I feel less able to be away from you. You are ever in my thoughts; my fancy tires itself in trying to imagine what you are doing. If I picture you sad, my heart is wrung and my grief is increased. If you are happy and merry with your friends, I blame you for so soon forgetting the painful three days' separation; in case you are frivolous and destitute of deep feeling. As you see, I am hard to please; but, my dear, it is very different when I fear your health is bad, or that you have any reasons for being sad; then I regret the speed with which I am separated from my love. I am sure that you have no longer any kind feeling towards me, and I can only be satisfied when I have heard that all goes well with you. When any one asks me if I have slept well, I feel that I can't answer until a messenger brings me word that you have rested well. The illnesses and anger of men affect me only so far as I think they may affect you. May my good genius, who has always protected me amid great perils, guard and protect you! I will gladly dispense with him. Ah! Don't be happy, but be a little melancholy, and above all, keep sorrow from your mind and illness from your body: you remember what Ossian says about that. Write to me, my pet, and a good long letter, and accept a thousand and one kisses from your best and most loving friend."

At this time, Bonaparte was much more in love with his wife than she was with him. He adored her, while she was but moderately touched by the fiery transports of a devoted husband who felt for her a sort of frantic idolatry. She remained in Paris, a little anxious, wondering whether the man with whose fate she had bound herself was a madman or a hero. At certain moments she felt perfect confidence in him; at others, she doubted.

As a woman of the old regime, she asked herself, "Was I wise to marry a friend of young Robespierre, a Republican general?" Bonaparte had fascinated Josephine; he had not yet won her heart. His violent, strange character inspired her, in fact, with more surprise than sympathy. He bore no likeness to the former courtiers of Versailles, her favorite types of nobility. What in him was later to be called genius, was now only eccentricity.

Josephine was not very anxious to go to join him in Italy. She loved the gutter of the rue Chantereine as Madame de Stael loved that of the rue du Bac. In Paris she was near her son and daughter, her relatives and friends. She took delight in the varied but brilliant society of the Directory, which had acquired some of the old-time elegance, and where her grace, distinction, and amiability aroused general admiration. She saw with pleasure the opening of a few dyawing rooms, which seemed, as it were, to rise from the ashes; and she was interested in the theatres and the social life in which even the most indifferent woman finds some charm.

Meanwhile, Bonaparte had reached Nice, and on the 29th of March had taken command of the Army of Italy.

"There were to be seen," says the General de Segur, fifty-two thousand Austrians and Sardinians and two hundred cannon, with abundant ammunition; and opposing them, thirty-two thousand French, without pay, without provisions, without shoes, who had sold half their belongings to buy tobacco, or some wretched food. Most of them lacked even bayonets. They had but sixty cannon, and insufficient ammunition; the guns were drawn by lame and mangy mules, the artillery-men went on foot; and the cavalry was of no service, for the men led rather than rode their horses."

It was to those men that the young general addressed this famous proclamation: "Soldiers, you are poorly fed and half-naked. The government owes you much but can do nothing for you. Your patience, your courage, do you honor, but they bring you no advantage, no glory. I am about to lead you into the most fertile plains in the world; there you will find large cities and rich provinces; there you will find honor, glory, and wealth. Soldiers of Italy, shall you lack courage?"

At the moment of beginning this wonderful campaign, in which success seemed impossible, so great was the numerical superiority of the hostile armies, Bonaparte, though his ambition was so eager, did not forget his love.

Before the first battle he wrote this letter, dated Porto Maurizio, the 14th Germinal (April 3, 1796): "I have received all your letters, but none has made such an impression on me as the last. How can you think, my dear love, of writing to me in such a way? Don't you believe that my position is already cruel enough, without adding to my regrets, and tormenting my soul? What a style! What feelings are those you describe! It's like fire; it burns my poor heart. My only Josephine, away from you, there is no happiness; away from you, the world is a desert in which I stand alone, with no chance of tasting the delicious joy of pouring out my heart. You have robbed me of more than my soul; you are the sole thought of my life. If I am worn out by all the torment of events, and fear the issue, if men disgust me, if I am ready to curse life, I place my hand on my heart; your image is beating there. I look at it, and love is for me perfect happiness; and everything is smiling, except the time that I see myself absent from my love."

Bonaparte, who was soon to be the prey of suspicion and jealousy, was now all confidence and rapture. A few affectionate lines from the hand he loved were enough to plunge him into a sort of ecstasy. "By what art," he goes on, "have you learned how to captivate all my faculties? to concentrate in yourself my whole being? To live for Josephine! That's the story of my life. I do every thing to get to you; I am dying to join you. Fool! I don't see that I am only going further away. How many lands and countries separate us! How long before you read these words, which but feebly express the emotions of the heart over which you reign!"

Alas! the sun of love is seldom for long unclouded, and these rapturous whispers are soon followed by lamentations. That day he doubted neither of his wife's fidelity, nor of her love, and yet he felt the melancholy which is inseparable from grand passions.

"Oh! my adorable wife!" he wrote, "I do not know what fate awaits me; but if it keeps me longer from you, I shall not be able to endure it; my courage will not hold out to that point. There was a time when I was proud of my courage; and when I thought of the harm that men might do me, of the lot that my destiny might reserve for me, I looked at the most terrible misfortunes without a quiver, with no surprise. But now, the thought that my Josephine may be in trouble, that she may be ill, and, above all, the cruel, fatal thought that she may love me less, inflicts tortures on my soul, stops the beating of my heart, makes me sad and dejected, robs me of even the courage of fury and despair. I often used to say, Man can do no harm to one who is willing to die; but now, to die without being loved by you, to die without this certainty, is the torture of hell; it is the vivid and crushing image of total annihilation. It seems to me as if I were choking. My only companion, you who have been chosen by fate to make with me the painful journey of life, the day when I shall no longer possess your heart will be that when for me the world shall have lost all warmth and all its vegetation... I will stop, my sweet pet; my soul is sad, I am very tired, my mind is worn out, I am sick of men. I have good reason for hating them; they separate me from my love."

A man of Bonaparte's character never suffers long from melancholy. All at once the warrior reappears. He is suddenly aroused from his dream by the call of a trumpet, and he closes his letter thus: "I am at Porto Maurizio, near Oneglia; to-morrow I am at Albenga. The two armies are in motion, each trying to outwit the other. The most skilful will succeed. I am much pleased with Beaulieu; he maneeuvres very well, and is superior to his predecessor. I shall beat him, I hope, out of his boots. Don't be anxious; love me like your eyes, but that's not enough, like yourself; more than yourself, than your thoughts, your mind, your life, your all. But forgive me, I'm raving; nature is weak, when one feels keenly, in him who loves you. To Barras, Sucy, Madame Tallien, my sincere regards; to Madame Chateau-Renard, the proper messages; to Eugene, to Hortense, my real love."

April 3, Bonaparte had perfect confidence in his wife; the 7th, he suspects her: the 3d, he blames her for writing too affectionately; the 7th, he blames her for writing too coldly.

He wrote to her from Albenga, the 18th Germinal (April 7, 1796): "I have received a letter which you interrupt to go, you say, into the country; and afterwards you pretend to be jealous of me, who am so worn out by work and fatigue. Oh, my dear! . . . Of course, I am in the wrong. In the early spring the country is beautiful; and then, the nineteen-year-old lover was there, without a doubt. The idea of wasting another moment in writing to the man, three hundred leagues away, who lives, moves, exists, only in memory of you; who reads your letters as one devours one's favorite dishes after hunting for six hours. I am not pleased. Your last letter is as cold as friendship. I find in it none of the fire which shines in your glance, which I have sometimes fancied that I saw there. But how absurd I am! I found your previous letters moved me too much; the emotions they produced broke my rest and mastered my senses. I wanted colder letters, but these give me the chill of death. The fear of not being loved by Josephine, the thought of her proving inconstant, of - But I am inventing trouble for myself. When there is so much that is real in the world, is it necessary to devise more? You cannot have inspired me with boundless love without sharing it, with your soul, your thought, your reason; and no one can, in return for such affection, such devotion, inflict a deadly blow... A memento of my only wife, and a victory, those are my wishes; a single, complete memento, worthy of him who thinks of you at every moment."

The victories were about to follow, swift and amazing. April 12, it was Montenotte; the 14th, Millesimo. On the heights of Monte Zemolo, the army saw suddenly at its feet the promised land, the rich and fertile plains of Italy, with their splendid cities, their broad rivers, their magnificent cultivation. The rays of the dawn lit up this unrivalled view; on the horizon were to be seen the eternal snows of the Alps. A cry of joy broke from the ranks. The young general, pointing to the scene of his future conquests, exclaimed, "Hannibal crossed the Alps, and we have turned them!"

April 22, the victory of Mondovi; on the 28th, the armistice of Cherasco with Piedmont. Bonaparte addressed this proclamation to his troops: "Soldiers, in fifteen days you have won six victories; captured twenty-one flags, fifty cannon, many fortified places; conquered the richest part of Piedmont; you have captured fifteen thousand prisoners, and killed and wounded ten thousand men. You lacked everything, you have supplied yourself with everything; you have gained battles without cannon; crossed rivers without bridges; made forced marches without shoes; often bivouacked without bread; the Republican phalanxes were alone capable of such extraordinary deeds. Soldiers, receive your due of thanks!"

Bonaparte sent his brother Joseph and his aide-de-camp Junot to Paris. The 5th Foreal (April 24, 1796), he wrote to his wife: "My brother will hand you this letter. I have a very warm friendship for him. He will, I hope, win yours; he deserves it. He is naturally of a very gentle character, and unfailingly kind; he is full of good qualities. I wrote to Barras asking that he be appointed consul in some Italian port. He wants to live in quiet with his little wife, out of the great whirl of important events. I recommend him to you. I have received your letters of the 16th and the 21st. You were a good many days without writing to me. What were you doing? Yes, my dear, I am, not jealous, but sometimes uneasy. Come quickly; I warn you that if you delay, you will find me ill. These fatigues and your absence are too much for me."

Henceforth Bonaparte's keenest desire was to see his wife come to Italy. He begs and entreats her not to lose a moment.

"Your letters," he goes on, "are the delight of my days, and my happy days are not very many. Junot is carrying twenty-two flags to Paris. You must come back with him; do you understand? It would be hopeless misery, an inconsolable grief, continual agony, if I should have the misfortune of seeing him come back alone, my adorable one. He will see you, he will breathe the air of your shrine, perhaps even you will grant him the singular and unappreciable favor of kissing your cheek, while I am alone, and very, very far away. But you will come, won't you? You will be here, by my side, on my heart, in my arms! Take wings, come, come, but travel slowly; the way is long, bad, and tiresome. If you were to upset or be hurt; if the fatigue. Come, eagerly, my adorable one, but slowly."

King Joseph, in his Memoirs, thus speaks of his and Junot's departure for Paris: "It was at Cherasco, the 5th of Floreal, that my brother commissioned me to set before the Directory his reasons for the speediest possible peace with the King of Sardinia, in order to isolate the Austrians in Italy. To his aide-de-camp Junot he assigned the duty of presenting the battleflags. We left in the same postchaise and reached Paris one hundred and twenty hours after our departure from Nice. It would be hard to form a notion of the popular enthusiasm. The members of the Directory hastened to testify their content with the army and its leader. Director Carnot, at the end of a dinner at his house at which I was present, indignant with the unfavorable opinion which Bonaparte's enemies expressed, declared before twenty guests that they did him injustice, and opening his waistcoat, he showed the portrait of the general, which he wore on his heart, and exclaimed, 'Tell your brother that he is there, because I foresee that he will be the saviour of France, and that he must well know that in the Directory he has only admirers and friends.'"

Murat, who had been sent from Cherasco, through Piedmont, to carry the draft of the armistice to Paris, arrived there before Joseph and Junot. Josephine asked of them all the most minute details concerning her husband's success. In a few days he had stepped from obscurity to glory. Citizeness Bonaparte did not regret her confidence in the star of the man of Vendemiaire, and already in the Republic she held the position of a princess.