"She is married to a husband whom she does not—cannot love," exclaimed Napoleon, impetuously. "He is a white-haired old man—a man of sixty years, to whom her parents have sold her!"
"But her husband is said to love his beautiful wife passionately."
"Let him dare molest her with his love," exclaimed Napoleon, menacingly; "let him touch only with the tip of his finger this flower that I myself would have! She has not deserved the sorry fate of withering at the side of a decrepit old man; she serves to bloom at the heart of an emperor! Oh, how beautiful she is! When I saw her, for the first time, at the ball in Warsaw, I fell in love with her, and felt that I must possess her. Her light-colored hair was shining about her noble head like a halo; heaven seemed to be reflected in her azure eyes, and the tinge of melancholy shading her face rendered her still more charming and seductive. She was an innocent victim of the selfishness of others; I perceived it at a glance, and have loved her ever since. I took a secret oath to rescue her from her misery, and, by my love, to restore happiness to her! And yet she disdains me, Duroc!"
"No, sire, she does not disdain the exalted lover whom she worships; she is not, however, a flirt, but a virtuous wife. She will not prove faithless to her husband; she will not break the vows she took upon herself at the altar. She is engaged in a terrible struggle between duty and love, for your majesty knows very well that Madame de Walewska loves you!"
"No, no, she does not love me," exclaimed Napoleon, vehemently. "If she really loved me, she would listen to no other voice than mine! I supplicated her with the whole strength of my affection—with all the anger of a spurned admirer, with all the humility of a doting lover, but neither my anger nor my supplications were able to move her. And yet she asserts that she loves me; she dares to say that she shares my passion! Oh, she is a cold-hearted, cruel coquette; it gladdens her to behold my sufferings, and to play with my heart!"
"Sire, you are unjust," exclaimed Duroc. "Madame de Walewska is an angel of virtue and purity; she would joyfully sacrifice her life to save your majesty a sigh!"
"But she is unwilling to sacrifice to me this chimera of virtue," exclaimed Napoleon, "although she has already disregarded it by loving me. She is not courageous enough to give up the semblance after having already parted with the substance. Like all women she is timid, and incapable of a great resolution! How many letters have I not written to her since I last saw her! After the battle of Eylau—like a miserable adventurer—a knight-errant—I went in disguise to the village where she had at length promised to meet me at her brother's house. What a wretched rendezvous it was! Nothing but a farewell scene! She desires to go into a convent, and give her heart to God, because she is not allowed to give it to me. I am no Abélard, however, and do not want her to become a Héloïse! If she goes into a convent, I shall have its walls torn down, and the order she has joined abolished."
"But she will not go into a convent, sire; love will at last triumph over her virtue, and she will finally declare herself vanquished. She promised your majesty to defer the execution of her purpose for a year, but, I am sure, she will not be strong enough to close her heart so long against the passionate entreaties of a lover whom she adores. The letters which your majesty writes to her, and which she does not refuse to accept, are like hot shells thrown into the fortress of her heart. They do a great deal of mischief."
"Forsooth, it is a consolation that she does not refuse my notes. I have sent them almost every day during two months; every week I send a courier who meets her when, escaping from the Argus-eyes of her husband, she goes to the cathedral. But I receive only laconic replies. This woman is either incapable of genuine love, or she is a demon who delights in torturing me."
"Sire, does it please your majesty to partake of this fruit?" said a gentle voice behind him.