"Oh," exclaimed Hortense, in terror, "if he calls for me, he must be very ill indeed!--Forward, forward, with all possible speed; I must see my son!"
And onward they went with the speed of the wind from station to station, approaching nearer and nearer to their destination; but as they neared their destination, the faces they met grew sadder and sadder. At every station groups of people assembled about her carriage and gazed at her sorrowfully; everywhere she heard them murmur: "Napoleon is dead! Poor mother! Napoleon is dead!" Hortense heard, but did not believe it! These words had not been spoken by men, but were the utterances of her anxious heart! Her son was not dead, he could not be dead. Napoleon lived, yes, he still lived! And again the people around her carriage murmured, "Napoleon is dead!"
Hortense reclined in her carriage, pale and motionless. Her thoughts were confused, her heart scarcely beat.
At last she reached her destination; her carriage drove up to the house in Pesaro, where her sons were awaiting her.
At this moment a young man, his countenance of a deathly pallor, and flooded with tears, rushed out of the door and to her carriage. Hortense recognized him, and stretched out her arms to him. It was her son Louis Napoleon, and on beholding his pale, sorrowful countenance, and his tear-stained eyes, the unhappy mother learned the truth. Yes, it was not her heart, it was the people who had uttered the fearful words: "Napoleon is dead! Poor mother! Napoleon is dead!"
With a heart-rending cry, Hortense sank to the ground in a swoon.
CHAPTER VI.
THE FLIGHT FROM ITALY.
But Hortense now had no leisure to weep over the son she had so dearly loved; the safety of the son who remained to her, whom she loved no less, and on whom her whole love must now be concentrated, was at stake.