“I am simply the Josephine of my Napoleon,” she replied, with a touch of melancholy.
“Josephine was not to compare with you!” said he. “Come; I will play a game of whist with my brother and the children. I must try my hand at the business of a family man; I must get Hortense a husband, and bury the libertine.”
His frankness so greatly touched poor Adeline, that she said:
“The creature has no taste to prefer any man in the world to my Hector. Oh, I would not give you up for all the gold on earth. How can any woman throw you over who is so happy as to be loved by you?”
The look with which the Baron rewarded his wife’s fanaticism confirmed her in her opinion that gentleness and docility were a woman’s strongest weapons.
But in this she was mistaken. The noblest sentiments, carried to an excess, can produce mischief as great as do the worst vices. Bonaparte was made Emperor for having fired on the people, at a stone’s throw from the spot where Louis XVI. lost his throne and his head because he would not allow a certain Monsieur Sauce to be hurt.
On the following morning, Hortense, who had slept with the seal under her pillow, so as to have it close to her all night, dressed very early, and sent to beg her father to join her in the garden as soon as he should be down.
By about half-past nine, the father, acceding to his daughter’s petition, gave her his arm for a walk, and they went along the quays by the Pont Royal to the Place du Carrousel.
“Let us look into the shop windows, papa,” said Hortense, as they went through the little gate to cross the wide square.
“What—here?” said her father, laughing at her.