The empress in the mean time had returned to her rooms, sad and absorbed in her reflections. She had dismissed her ladies of honor; only her mistress of ceremonies, Madame de Rémusat, was still with her, and her maids were in the adjoining room to await her orders until she retired.
No sooner had Josephine reached her room than she sat down slowly and abstractedly, and, throwing back her head, fixed her eyes on the ceiling. An expression of profound grief was visible in her features, and darkened the shade with which age was veiling her countenance. When smiling, Josephine was still a graceful and fascinating woman, but when melancholy it was but too plainly to be seen that her charms were fading, and neither the flattering rouge nor the skill of the artist could conceal this fact.
Josephine's brow was now often clouded, and her youthful beauty was fast losing its charms. Gloomy forebodings were constantly passing over her heart; she felt that she was standing as on the brink of a precipice, and that the days of her happiness were numbered. She awoke every morning in terror, for before the evening she might be cast into an abyss of sorrow—removed from the Tuileries and the side of her husband—replaced by another, a younger woman, the daughter of an ancient sovereign house, who was to become the wife of Napoleon and the mother of his sons. Josephine knew that the brothers and sisters of the emperor were constantly importuning him to disown his childless wife, and to secure his throne and dynasty, as well as their own, by choosing another consort giving an heir to his crown. She knew that Talleyrand was representing this to him daily as a political necessity, without which his empire and his greatness would be endangered. She knew also that Napoleon no longer, as formerly, closed his ears against these insinuations, but, eagerly listening, held them in serious consideration.
Josephine was aware of all this, and sat in her room a prey to well-grounded suspicion and sorrowful presentiments.
Madame de Rémusat looked at her awhile, sighing and in silence; she now softly approached the empress, and, taking her hand, said in an affectionate voice, "Your majesty ought to retire! You need sleep; it is long past midnight, and your eyes are weary."
"Not from waking—from weeping, my dear Rémusat," said the empress, pressing the hand of her confidante. "But you are right, I will retire. In sleep we forget our grief. Rémusat, in my dreams I always see Napoleon as affectionate, as loving as he ever was—in my dreams he loves me still and looks at me, not with the stern eyes of the emperor, but of a tender husband. When I awake, Rémusat, his fine face still before my mind, and remember that his love is now gone and lost forever—oh, then a sword seems to pierce my heart, and I shed scalding tears in spite of myself! And yet I will retire. He commanded me, and I will obey."
"How discouraged your majesty is again to-day!" said Madame de Rémusat, sighing. "Still it seems to me there is less cause than ever. The emperor was more cordial and affectionate than usual. He was evidently abstracted, and occupied with important plans, and yet he returned; his expression was unusually gentle, and his voice trembled when he bade farewell to your majesty."
"But why did he bid me farewell?" exclaimed the empress. "This is what fills me with anxiety. Heretofore he only said to me, 'Good-night!' and, 'we shall meet again to-morrow, Josephine!' But to-day he said. 'Farewell, and au revoir!' Rémusat, there was a hidden meaning in these words. Something unusual is to happen, for the emperor never took leave of me in this manner. 'Au revoir!' You never say that to one whom you meet again in the morning. It means assuredly something! But you are right—I need repose, for my limbs are trembling, and my head is burning, as if I had fever! Call my maids!"
Josephine sighed deeply, and rose to be undressed. She was so absorbed in her reflections that she, who always addressed a pleasant word to her servants, did not apparently notice their presence. In silence she allowed her jewels to be removed, which Madame de Rémusat carefully put away into their caskets; in silence she suffered herself to be divested of her blue satin dress, embroidered with silver, and her white satin underskirt, without observing that her first maid was absent. When her wrapper was brought by the second maid, she noticed that the first was not present.
"Where is Dufour?" she asked, hesitatingly.