“ ’Tis false!” he exclaimed.
“Then why wish to be separated? why wish for a divorce? Oh! Napoleon, is it my fault that we have no children to bless our union? God has so willed it,” and her bosom heaved convulsively.
He started as she pronounced the two first sentences, and compressed his lips as if to suppress the pang of conviction that shot through his heart.
“Josephine,” said the emperor, tenderly, “some one has been poisoning your mind with idle tales. Who has it been?”
She then related to him her interview with Fouché, and asked him to dismiss that minister as a penalty for his audacity in playing with her feelings. He strenuously denied the communication; but refused to dismiss him.
“No,” said he, “circumstances compel me to retain him, though he well deserves my displeasure. But why give credit to such silly assertions, Josephine? Have I ever treated you but with affection? Have you discovered aught in my behaviour to warrant suspicion? No; believe me you are still dear to me. Banish those foolish fears from your breast then, and weep no more.” So saying, he imprinted a kiss upon her lips, and left the chamber to attend to the affairs of state.
It was touching to hear such expressions of tenderness issue from the greatest monarch of his time, and to witness that act of devotion—to see that proud spirit unbent; but it was those tears of anguish, and the whisperings of that “still small voice” of conscience, that had humbled him, to whom kings and monarchs humbled themselves, and whose mighty mind aspired to the conquest of the world.
The setting sun threw its parting rays over the earth, and pierced the windows of the imperial palace. The golden flood, softened by the crimson curtains, fell upon the charming features of the empress Josephine, as she sat in thoughtful attitude, with her head resting upon her hand, on a sofa of royal purple, near the centre of her chamber. A page, in waiting, stood near the door, carelessly humming a light ditty; his heart as sunny as his own native France. What a contrast with that which beat within the bosom of the empress! Care weighed heavily upon her breast. Long before her interview with Fouché she had, from the very cause hinted at by the minister, dreaded a withdrawal of her husband’s affections; but since that event her anxieties had doubly increased, and suspicion would take possession of her mind, amounting, at times, even to jealousy. Not that she apprehended his proceeding to that extreme at which the wily minister had hinted; no!—no person on earth could have persuaded her that he, whose joys and woes she had cheerfully shared, wished for a separation: but that some Syren would ensnare him with her charms, and usurp that place in his heart which she only should hold. All the powers she possessed were exerted by Josephine, in order to retain his love, and sometimes she fancied she had succeeded; for of late, in proportion as the sense of injustice he was about to do her, presented itself to his mind, he became more than usually kind and tender; but there were moments when a gloomy melancholy would settle upon her—an indefinable something that seemed to warn of approaching affliction.
It was in one of those fits of abstraction, so foreign to her naturally cheerful nature, that she sat, as we have said, seemingly unconscious of all around, when the door opened, and Napoleon entered. He seemed disturbed, and trouble was vividly depicted in his expressive countenance. He motioned for the page to retire, and seated himself beside her.
“Josephine!” he said.