Queen Hortense was no happier in her Holland palaces than was the Empress in the Tuileries. She had to endure all the grief, deception, and misery of an ill-assorted marriage. The incompatibility of disposition which existed between her husband and herself from the first days of their married life, made itself continually more felt. King Louis blamed his wife not merely for her faults, but also for her good qualities. He was sometimes annoyed because she was gracious, amiable, charming; and the general sympathy she aroused in Holland, as in France, excited the fears of this irritable and sullen husband. Hortense looked upon herself as a victim. She had a lively imagination, and exaggerated her grief to herself, suffering more keenly on account of her excitement, which was often very great. One day she said to Madame de RÉmusat, her intimate and admiring friend, that her life was so painful and apparently so hopeless that when she was at one of her villas near the sea, and looked out on the ocean where were the English fleets blockading her ports, she wished that chance might bring a ship to where she was, and she might be carried off a prisoner.

The conjugal infelicities of Louis and his wife attracted the attention of the Emperor, who kept as strict a guard over his family as over his Empire, and was as prompt to exercise control in private, as in political matters. He wanted his brother to obey him, both as King and husband, and in his discontent at seeing his orders disobeyed, he wrote to him, from the depths of Poland, April 4, 1807, this reproachful letter, which is a real reprimand: "Your quarrels with the Queen have become public. Show, then, in private life some of that paternal and effeminate character which you display in matters of government, and in business the same rigor you exercise in your household. You treat a young woman as we treat a regiment…. You have an excellent and most virtuous wife and you make her unhappy. Let her dance as much as she pleases; she is young. My wife is forty; I wrote to her from the battle-field to go to a ball. And you want a young woman of twenty, who sees her life flitting, and has every illusion, to live in a cloister, or to be always washing her baby like a nurse. You are too much you in your household, and not enough in your administration. I should not say all this to you except for the interest I have for you. Make the mother of your children happy; you have one way to do this: that is, by showing her esteem and confidence. Unfortunately your wife is too virtuous; if you had married a coquette she would lead you by the end of your nose. But you have a proud wife who is afflicted and distressed by the mere thought that you may have a bad opinion of her. You ought to have married any one of a number of women whom I know in Paris; she would have had no difficulty in getting ahead of you and would have kept you at her feet. It is not my fault, I have often told your wife so." Thus the Emperor, by taking part in behalf of his daughter-in-law and against his brother, took a position as arbiter in their domestic quarrels. This interference was all the more galling to Louis,—who would have liked to be master in both his own kingdom and in his own house,— that calumny, as he well knew, persisted in representing the Emperor as his rival in Hortense's love, and as the father of the Crown Prince.

This child was named Napoleon Charles. He was born in Paris, October 10, 1802. His grandmother, Josephine, nourished the hope that some day he might be heir to the Empire, and she regarded his birth as a pledge of final reconciliation between the Bonapartes and the Beauharnaises. She believed that his cradle saved her from divorce. The Emperor, who always liked children, was especially fond of his nephew. He watched his growth with the keenest interest, admiring his amiability, his precocity, his excellent disposition, The boy was really remarkable for intelligence and beauty. His large blue eyes reflected every mood of his mind. Good, loving, frank, and merry, he needed only to appear and all sadness was banished. His mother had brought him up to revere the Emperor. His father, the King, gave him new toys every day, choosing those he thought most attractive. The boy preferred those he received from his uncle, and when his father said, "But just see, Napoleon, those are ugly; mine are prettier." "No," said the young Prince, "those are very pretty, my uncle gave them to me." One morning on his way to see the Emperor, he passed through a drawing-room where happened to be among others, Murat, then Grand Duke of Berg. The young Napoleon walked straight ahead without paying attention to any one, and when Murat stopped him and said, "Don't you mean to say good-morning to me?" the child replied, "No; not before my uncle the Emperor." Who knows? if this little Prince had lived the Emperor might have desired no other heir, and perhaps the divorce would never have taken place.

This boy was his mother's hope and pride, her joy and consolation. His father, too, loved him much. He was a light in the darkness, a rainbow after the storm. Sometimes when his parents were quarrelling he succeeded in reconciling them. He used to take his father by the hand, who gladly let himself be led by this little angel, and then he would say in a caressing tone: "Kiss her, papa, I beg of you"; then he was perfectly happy when his father and mother exchanged a kiss of peace.

The little Prince had a sudden attack of croup in the night of May 4, 1807. He was thought to be lost, but in the evening he was a little better, and the physicians had some hope of saving him. The improvement lasted but a few minutes. In the course of the day he was given some English powders, which lent him a feverish strength, so that at six in the evening he asked for some cards and pictures to play with, but the fever only gave way to his death agony. Towards ten in the evening the child drew his last breath.

No words can describe the unhappy Queen's despair; she became stony with grief, and fears were felt for her reason. Josephine's grief was boundless. She did not dare to leave the Empire without the Emperor's authorization, and so did not go to The Hague, but went in all haste to the Castle of Laeken, near Brussels, whence she wrote to Hortense in the evening of May 14: "I have just readied the Castle of Laeken, my dear daughter, and await you here. Come and give me life; your presence is necessary for me, and you must have need of seeing me and of weeping with your mother. I should have liked to go further, but I was too weak, and besides I had not time to send word to the Emperor. I have summoned courage to come thus far; I hope that you will have enough to come to your mother. Good by, my dear daughter, I am worn out with fatigue and especially with grief." In the evening of May 15, Hortense arrived at the Castle of Laeken, accompanied by her husband and her sole surviving son. She was motionless, apathetic, the figure of despair. M. de RÉmusat, who was with the Empress, wrote the next day to his wife: "The Queen has but one thought, the loss she has suffered; she speaks of only one thing, of him. Not a tear, but a cold calm, an almost absolute silence about everything, and when she speaks she wrings every one's heart. If she sees any one whom she has ever seen with her son, she looks at him with kindliness and interest, and says, 'You know he is dead.' When she first saw her mother, she said to her: 'It's not long since he was here with me. I held him on my knees thus.' Seeing me a few minutes later, she made a sign for me to come forward. 'Do you remember Mayence? He acted with us.' She heard ten o'clock strike; she turned to one of the ladies and said, 'You know it was at ten that he died.' That is the only way she breaks her almost continual silence. With all that, she is kind, sensible, perfectly reasonable; she thoroughly understands her condition, and even speaks of it. She says she is glad that she has fallen into this numb state, otherwise her sufferings would have been too intense. Some one asked her if she was much moved when she saw her mother: 'No,' she answered; 'but I am very glad to have seen her.' Mention was made of Josephine's surprise at her lack of emotion on seeing her; 'Oh, Heavens!' she said, 'she must not mind it; that's the way I am.' To anything that is asked her on any other subject, she says, 'It's all the same to me; do as you please.'"

A messenger had been sent to carry the news to the Emperor, who was much affected by hearing it. He wrote to Josephine, May 14: "I can well imagine the grief which Napoleon's death, must cause. You can understand what I suffer. I should like to be with you, that you might be moderate and discreet in your grief. You were happy enough never to lose a child, but that is one of the conditions and penalties attached to our human misery. Let me hear that you are calm and well! Do you want to add to my regret? Good by, my dear."

May 17 an imposing ceremony took place in Paris—the carrying of the sword of Frederick the Great to the Tuileries. A triumphal chariot, richly decorated, carried the one hundred and eighty flags captured in the last campaign. Marshal Moncey, on horseback, held the hero's sword. The chariot proceeded to the iron gate of the Invalides, which it was too lofty to pass under. Then the veterans came to take the flags and to carry them into the church. The ceremony began with a song of triumph. Marshal SÉrurier, Governor of the Invalides, spoke: "We are here," he said, "to the number of more than nine hundred of those who fought against the great king whose warlike spoils our children have just won. At that time fortune did not always smile upon our valor. The fathers were no less brave than their sons, but they had not the same leader. Yet we can only recall with pride the words of that great man: 'If I were at the head of the French people, not a cannon would be fired in Europe without my permission'— honorable proof of his esteem for the soldiers who were fighting him. But it was in the reign of a sovereign even greater by his genius, his feats, his moderation, that the French people was to rise to such a height of power and glory. We swear faithfully to guard the treasure which his Imperial and Royal Majesty has entrusted to us." Then the old church echoed with cries of "We swear it!"

At this ceremony, the eloquent President of the Legislative Body, M. de Fontanes, made a fine speech full of enthusiasm for Napoleon, but respectful to the memory of the great Frederick and to the misfortunes of his successor. He closed with a few words on the grief that the death of the Crown Prince must have caused the Emperor: "Perhaps, at this moment," he said, "the hero who has saved us is weeping in his tent at the head of three hundred thousand victorious French, and of all the confederate kings and princes who march under his banner. He weeps, and neither the trophies heaped about him, nor the glory of the twenty sceptres he holds so firmly, which even Charlemagne failed to grasp, can distract his thoughts from the coffin of that boy, whose first steps he aided with his triumphant hands, whose promising intelligence he hoped one day to guide. Let him not forget that his domestic woes have been felt like a public calamity, and may a tender expression of the national interest bring him some slight consolation. All our alarm for the future is a more ardent expression of our homage. May fortune be satisfied with this one victim, and while she always favors the plans of the greatest of monarchs, may she not make him pay for his glory by similar misfortunes!"

Doubtless the death of this young child altered the face of things. If he had lived, it would have been for him, and not his brother, to bear the name of Napoleon III., or possibly even of Napoleon II., and apparently the destiny of the world would have been very different. Kingdoms and empires, on what does their fate depend! May 5 was to be a fatal date; the young Prince died May 5, 1807, and fourteen years later to a day his uncle was to die on the rock of Saint Helena.