But Monsieur Charles had short shrift when Napoleon’s jealousy was aroused.  He was quickly sent packing to Paris; and Josephine was left to write to her aunt, “I am bored to extinction.”  She was weary of her husband’s love-rhapsodies, disgusted with the crudities of his passion.  She had, however, a solace in the homage paid to her everywhere.  At Genoa she was received as a Queen; at Florence the Grand Duke called her “cousin”; the entire army, from General to private, was under the spell of her beauty and the graciousness that captivated all hearts.  She was, too, reaping a rich harvest of costly presents and bribes, from all who sought to win Napoleon’s favour through her.

The Italian campaign at last over, Madame found herself back again in her dear Paris, raised to a higher pinnacle of Queendom than ever, basking in the splendours of the husband whose glories she so gladly shared, though she held his love in such light esteem.  But for him, at least, there was no time for dallying.  Within a few months he was waving farewell to her again, from the bridge of the Ocean which was carrying him off to the conquest of Egypt, buoyed by her promise that she would join him when his work was done.  And long before he had reached Malta she was back again in the vortex of Paris gaiety, setting the tongue of scandal wagging by her open flirtation with one lover after another.

It was not long before the news of Madame’s “goings-on” reached as far as Alexandria.  The dormant jealousy in Napoleon, lulled to rest since Monsieur Charles had vanished from the scene, was fanned into flame.  He was furious; disillusion seized him, and thoughts of divorce began to enter his brain.  Two could play at this game of falseness; and there were many beautiful women in Egypt only too eager to console the great Napoleon.

When news came to Josephine that her husband had landed at Frejus, and would shortly be with her, she was in a state bordering on panic.  She shrank from facing his anger; from the revelation of debts and unwifely conduct which was inevitable.  Her all was at stake and the game was more than half lost.  In her desperation she took her courage in both hands and set forth, as fast as horses could take her, to meet Napoleon, that she might at least have the first word with him; but as ill-luck would have it, he travelled by a different route and she missed him.

On her return to Paris she found the door of Napoleon’s room barred against her.  “After repeated knocking in vain,” says M. Masson, “she sank on her knees sobbing aloud.  Still the door remained closed.  For a whole day the scene was prolonged, without any sign from within.  Worn out at last, Josephine was about to retire in despair, when her maid fetched her children.  Eugene and Hortense, kneeling beside their mother, mingled their supplications with hers.  At last the door was opened; speechless, tears streaming down his cheeks, his face convulsed with the struggle that had rent his heart, Bonaparte appeared, holding out his arms to his wife.”