At first the journey was attended with no danger, and Josephine’s heart began to beat with less anxiety; she already believed herself in safety.  Suddenly, from a neighboring coppice, there rushed out a division of the enemy’s cavalry; already were distinctly heard the shouts and cries with which they dashed toward the advancing carriage.  To oppose this vast number of assailants was not to be thought of; only the most rapid flight could save them.

The carriage was turned; the driver jumped upon the horses, and, in a mad gallop, onward it sped.  To the swiftness of the horses Josephine owed her escape.  She reached headquarters safely, and was received by Bonaparte with loud demonstrations of joy at her unexpected return.

But Josephine had not the strength to conceal the anxiety of her heart, her fears and alarms.  These horrible scenes of war, the sight of the wounded, the dangers she had lately incurred, the fearful preparations for fresh murders and massacres—­all this troubled her mind so violently that she lost at once all courage and composure.  A nervous trembling agitated her whole frame, and, not being able to control her agony, she broke into loud weeping.

Bonaparte embraced her tenderly, and as he kissed the tears from her cheeks, he cried out, with a threatening flash in his eyes, “Wurmser will pay dearly for the tears he has caused!” [Footnote:  Bonaparte’s words.—­“Memorial de Ste. Helene,” vol. i., p. 174.]

It was, however, a fortunate accident that the enemy’s cavalry had hindered Josephine from reaching Brescia.  A quarter of an hour after her return to headquarters the news arrived that the Austrians had advanced into Brescia.  Meanwhile Josephine had already regained all her courage and steadfastness; she declared herself ready to abide by her husband, to bear with him the dangers and the fatigues of the campaign; that she wished to be with him, as it behooved the wife of a soldier.

But Bonaparte felt that her company would cripple his courage and embarrass his movements.  Josephine once more had to leave him, so that the tender lover might not disturb the keen commanding general, and that his head and not his heart might decide the necessary measures.

He persuaded Josephine to leave him, and to retire into one of the central cities of Italy.  She acceded to his wishes, and travelled away toward Florence.  But, to reach that city, it was necessary to pass Mantua, which the French were investing.  Her road passed near the walls of the besieged city, and one of the balls, which were whizzing around the carriage, struck one of the soldiers of her escort and wounded him mortally.  It was a dangerous, fearful journey—­war’s confusion everywhere, wild shouts, fleeing, complaining farmers, constant cries of distress, anxiety, and want.

But Josephine had armed her heart with great courage and resolution; she shrank from no danger, she overcame it all; she already had an undaunted confidence in her husband’s destiny, and believed in the star of his prosperity.