He stood silent for a few minutes, as if waiting for her assent. She waved her hand, and the boldest political intriguer of his time departed, conscious of having done that which none other in France would have presumed.
Josephine turned away with a beating heart. She reached her apartments, and throwing herself on a sofa, gave vent to her over-burthened soul in a flood of tears. It was not long before dinner was announced; but she refused to appear at the table, on a plea of indisposition, and retired to her chamber.
It was a short time afterward that the door of the chamber opened, and the emperor entered. He approached Josephine. Her eyes were red with weeping, and the tears yet moistened those bright orbs, in defiance of her efforts to appear calm. He seated himself beside her, and put his arm around her waist.
“Josephine,” said he, in an affectionate tone, “what is the cause of this emotion?”
“Nothing,” she answered, in a faltering voice, and scarcely audible.
“Something has occurred to bring forth those tears. Tell me, what is it?” and he looked tenderly in her face.
“I cannot,” she said, bitterly, whilst she leaned her head upon his shoulder, and gave vent to another flood of tears. “No, I cannot speak those fearful words.”
“What words, Josephine? speak; what words?”
She hesitated, and then faltered out,
“That—that you—you do not love me as you used to.”