The spring of 1797 was perhaps the happiest time in the lives of Napoleon and Josephine. The poet Arnault, when he came from Paris in May, found the two at Milan, settled in the Serbelloni Palace, which at that time attracted more attention from all Europe than did the residences of emperors and kings. The Duke of Serbelloni, a convert to the French notions of liberty, was proud to have under his roof the hero of Arcole, who was then looked on as the restorer of Italian liberty.

The Duke's palace, with its blocks of finished granite all sparkling with small crystals, its vast and sumptuous drawing-rooms, its lofty colonnades, its wide, long gallery, was one of the most luxurious residences of Milan. Arnault sets before us Bonaparte with his military court in a drawing-room where were Josephine and a few pretty women: Madame Visconti, Madame Leopold Berthier, Madame Yvan. Near the ladies was Eugene de Beauharnais, on a sofa, jesting as merrily as a page. The general made his appearance, and every one stood up. Berthier, Kilmaine, Clarke, and Augereau waited for a glance, a word, or the slightest sign.

The group gathered about Bonaparte, and he began to tell stories, to explain his victories, talking at one moment on military matters, and the next, philosophy and poetry. "To the interest of these remarks," Arnault goes on in his Souvenirs, "uttered now with a serious voice, and now with animation, must be added the authority that is given by a singularly mobile face, the severe expression of which is often tempered by the kindliest smile, by a look which reflects the deepest thoughts of a most powerful intelligence and the warmest feelings of a most passionate heart, to all this must be added the charm of a melodious and manly voice, and then it will be possible to conceive how easily Bonaparte won by his conversation those whom he desired to fascinate."

He had just been talking for two hours steadily, standing all the time, like the listeners, and no one had felt a moment's fatigue.

As he left, Arnault said to Regnauld de Saint Jean d'Angely: "That man is an exceptional being; everything succumbs to his superior genius, to the force of his character; everything about him bears the stamp of authority. You notice how his authority is recognized by the people, who submit to him without knowing it, or perhaps in spite of themselves. What an expression of respect and admiration the men wear who approach him! He is born to command, as so many others to obey. If he is not lucky enough to be carried off by a bullet before four years from now, he will be in exile or on the throne."

Josephine was already like a queen. She will confess later that nothing ever equalled the impression which she received at this time, when, according to Madame de Remusat, "love seemed to come every day to place at her feet a new conquest over a people entranced with its conqueror." Bonaparte was then the favorite of the populace of Milan. They used to wait for hours to see him come out of the Serbelloni Palace.

The Italians, who, like the rest of the world, are devoted to success, applauded the young general all the more enthusiastically because they regarded him as one of themselves. "Everything," he said one day, "even my foreign origin, which was brought up against me in France, has been of service to me. It caused me to be regarded as a fellow-countryman by the Italians, and greatly aided my success in Italy. When I had obtained my success, people began to look up the history of a family which had long fallen into obscurity. It was found, as all Italians knew, to have long played an important part with them. In their estimation it had become an Italian family, so much so that when the question came up of my sister Pauline's marriage with Prince Borghese, there was only one opinion in Rome and in Tuscany, in that family and all its branches. 'It's all right,' they said; 'it's between ourselves; it's one of our families.'

Later, when the question arose of the Pope's crowning me in Paris, this important matter encountered serious difficulties: the Austrian party in the Conclave opposed it violently; the Italian party prevailed by adding to the political considera, tion the force of national pride: 'After all,' they said, 'it's an Italian family that we are establishing over the barbarians; we shall be avenged for the Goths.'"

At Milan, as in Paris, Josephine was of great service to her husband's plans. She helped him play his double part now as a revolutionary leader, now as a conservative. When he wished to oppose royalism, he made use of men with the ideas of Augereau; when he wanted to cajole people of the old regime, Josephine, by her antecedents, her relations, her character, was the bond of union between him and the European aristocracy. He acknowledged this himself.

"My marriage with Madame de Beauharnais," said Napoleon, "brought me into relations with a party which I required for my plan of fusion, which was one of the most important principles of my administration, and one of the most characteristic. Had it not been for my wife, I should not have had any easy means of approaching it."

The drawing-room of the former Viscountess of Beauharnais, in the Serbelloni Palace, recalled the elegance and the traditions of the most brilliant drawing-rooms of the Faubourg Saint Germain. Josephine used to receive there the Milanese nobility with exquisite grace, and exercised a formal etiquette in marked contrast with the very demagogic tone of the addresses issued by the Army of Italy before the 18th Fructidor. Thanks to his Italian shrewdness, Bonaparte knew how to please both the sansculottes and those who wore knee-breeches. He intrigued as skilfully with the most ardent democrats as with the ambassadors of the old courts of Austria and Naples.

At one time he would be taken for a mounted tribune; at another, for a potentate. According to some, he was a Brutus; according to others, he was soon to be a Caesar. There is nothing more interesting than to study him in this double aspect. While Bonaparte's lieutenants used the most revolutionary language, he himself, in confidential talk with biintimates, expressed contempt for the methods of the demagogue.

This commander-in-chief, who had been appointed by the Directory, already felt for the Directors, and especially for Barras, his especial patron, the most profound scorn; but if such were his thoughts, he took care to hide them. The time had not come for throwing off his mask. Josephine, who was very intimate with Barras, helped, possibly without knowing it, to allay the discord which otherwise could not have failed to arise between the Director and the young, indocile general.

Barras, by expressing any discontent with Bonaparte, who often disobeyed the instructions of the Directory, would have feared to wound his friend Josephine, who was so charming at the festivities of the Luxembourg. Thus it was that she continued at Milan the work she had begun in Paris; and in fact, she was Bonaparte's with the Directory.

Josephine was at that time thirty-four years old. Her somewhat brown and faded complexion was disguised by rouge and powder, which she employed with great skill; the smallness of her mouth concealed the badness of her teeth: she remedied her natural defects by art. The elegance of her figure, her graceful movements, her refined expression, her soft eyes and gentle voice, her dignified bearing, and all the harmony of her person, gave her an exceptional charm.

Moreover, an air of coquetry, which was all the more attractive because it seemed natural and involuntary; an indolence, which was but another fascination; her unpretending but always pleasing conversation; her unfailing kindness; manners that recalled the best traditions of the court of Versailles; great taste in dress; toilettes and jewels that queens might have envied, all these things enable us to understand the power which so attractive a woman was able to exercise over Bonaparte's intelligence and heart. He was absolutely faithful to her; and this at a time when there was not a beauty in Milan who was not setting her cap for him.

His loyalty to her was partly a matter of love, partly of calculation. As he himself said, "his position was most delicate; he commanded old generals; jealous eyes spied his every movement; he was extremely circumspect. His fate depended on his conduct; he might have forgotten himself for an hour, and how many of his victories hung on no more than that brief space of time!"

Many years later, at the time of his coronation at Milan, the celebrated singer, Grassini, attracted his attention; circumstances were less austere; he sent for her, and after the first moment of a speedy acquaintance, she reminded him that she had made her first appearance at exactly the time of his first exploits as commander of the Army of Italy. "I was then in the full flower of my beauty and talent. No one talked of anything except of me in the Virgins of the Sun. I charmed every one. The young general alone was indifferent, and he alone interested me. How strange! When I really was somebody, and all Italy at my feet, I scorned it all for one of your glances. I could not win it, and now you let them fall on me when I am no longer worthy of you or them."

In May, 1797, Bonaparte was relatively happy, as happy as could be a man of his ardent and restless nature, for whom peace and happiness seemed not to exist. A few days had been enough to restore his strength after all his emotions, fatigues, and perils. The suspicions he had felt about his wife were speedily dissipated; and Josephine at last became accustomed to Italy, where she held so lofty a position, and her pride was thoroughly gratified.

As for the French army, it was wild with joy over its triumphs. Milan seemed its Paradise. Stendhal has written a most picturesque description of this enchanting period, when the officers and soldiers were all young and loving, the ladies of Milan were each more beautiful and more amiable than another. There was the promenade of the Corso on the bastion of the eastern gate, that old Spanish rampart planted with chestnut-trees and forty feet above the green plain; and there fashionable society used to meet every day -- the women in low carriages called bastardelles.

Before the French army reached Milan, there had never been more than two lines of carriages in the Corso; afterwards there were always four, sometimes six, filling the whole length of the promenade.

At the centre the carriages as they arrived took their single turn, at a gentle trot. Happy were the staff or cavalry officers who could dash into this labyrinth: they were objects of envy to the infantry officers. But when, as the evening comes on, and the hour of the Ave Maria, the carriages start again, and the ladies, without alighting, eat ices in front of a fashionable cafe, then the infantry officers have their innings at the entrance of the cafe of the Corsia de Servi.

Some have come ten leagues to be at the rendezvous. Fridays, when the theatres used to be closed, there was a ball at the casino of the Albergo della Citta: every other evening there were magnificent performances at the Scala. The ladies of Milan received in their boxes a number of French officers, thereby driving their cavalieri serventi to despair as they saw the attentions showered on the young conquerors. The pit was also filled with officers who were not happy enough to be invited into the boxes; but they were not discouraged by that, and they cast tender and respectful glances on the objects of their adoration.

Men who knew no shadow of fear in the face of shells and bullets blushed and trembled before a woman. They scarcely dared to raise their eyes to the boxes where shone, like stars, the ladies whom they worshipped. If their suit was hopeless, these ladies would look at them through the large end of their opera-glasses, which put them off at a distance; if, however, they looked at them through the other end, which brought them nearer, then they were filled with happiness!

"O primavera, gioventu dell' anno!
O gioventu, primavera della vita!"

O spring, youth of the year!
O youth, springtime of life!