But, alas! the second day was different. The smiles of the unfortunate woman met with no reply. The emperor was taciturn and gloomy. Wrapped in his sable robe, he was leaning in a corner of the carriage, and made only stern and brief answers to Josephine's questions. The heart and countenance of the empress grew heavy and anxious.
When they arrived at Strasburg on the evening of the fourth day, each of them sat silent—the empress with tearful eye; the emperor frowning and stern. Napoleon offered his arm to his consort, and conducted her into the palace. "Good-night, Josephine," he said, standing still at the entrance of the rooms destined for her, "good-night!"
"You will not take supper with me?" asked the empress in a low, imploring voice.
"No, I have business to attend to. Good-night!" And he walked away without saluting or even looking at her. Josephine went into her rooms. She refused to partake of refreshment, and avoided the necessity of admitting the officials, who wished to pay their respects to her, by sending them word that she was too fatigued to receive any one. Alone she could weep without being disturbed.
At an unusually early hour on the following morning Napoleon entered her room. Josephine was just about to dress, assisted by her Parisian maids. He motioned them to withdraw, and then commenced pacing the room in his usual manner, when excited.
"Napoleon," said Josephine, in a tremulous voice, "you have come with bad news. My heart tells me so, and I read it on your gloomy brow. Speak, and tell me every thing at once. I am prepared for it."
"Well, then, I must say," replied Napoleon, vehemently,—"you cannot, Josephine, accompany me farther. We must part this hour. I yielded to your wishes in spite of myself, but only thus far! A new campaign is about to begin; days of battles, troubles, and fatigues, are awaiting me. You must not and cannot share them. You must remain here."
Josephine cast a melancholy look on him. "But when you have conquered, when you have made again your triumphant entry into Vienna, will you then call me, Napoleon? Shall I then share your triumphs as I used to do? Bonaparte, do not now make an evasive reply! Tell me the truth, for I can bear it. Tell me, when the fortune of war has favored you—when you have vanquished Austria, as you have hitherto every other enemy—will you then call me to you? The truth, my friend, the truth!"
"Very well, I will tell you the truth," exclaimed Napoleon, after a brief hesitation. "No, Josephine—I will not. You can share my triumphs no more!"
Josephine uttered a cry, and her eyes filled with tears. "I am doomed, then," she said, "and what Fouché told me was true!"