The sergeant saluted and withdrew.
Then Napoleon went again to the despatch box; this time he took from it two miniatures.
At the one he looked at first, his face took on an expression of mingled affection and regret. It was the counterfeit presentment of the Empress Josephine, taken many years before; and the painter had been happy in his conception, for, though he had not actually sacrificed truth to flattery in any single feature, yet he had, somehow, so idealized the whole, as to depict a marvelously lovely face, that certainly surpassed in fascination the original. She seemed to be just opening her mouth to speak; one could almost see the lips in motion; and the eyes and every feature were instinct with the vivacity which was her greatest charm.
The Emperor gazed at it for a minute. Then, "No, no," he muttered; "it is useless." He sighed, then laid the miniature, lovingly and reluctantly, as it seemed, upon the table.
Then he took up the other, and this also he subjected to a long and earnest scrutiny. It was the portrait of a much younger woman—a mere girl in fact—with far less pretentions to feminine attractions than had Josephine. This was the Archduchess Marie Louise, the daughter of Napoleon's most stubborn foe: but, for all that, chosen by the great conquerer to be his wife, so soon as he should have freed himself from his present matrimonial claims.
With fear and trembling, and a sickening feeling at his heart, St. Just stood watching every movement, and scanning every feature of Napoleon; but to the mood of the man within, the stern, impassive countenance gave no clue. Hope was not wholly dead in St. Just, but despair predominated.
A quick, military step was heard approaching, and, immediately afterwards, an officer entered the tent, first pausing at the entrance to salute the Emperor.
A glance sufficed to show St. Just that his journey had been fruitless. The dread, muttered words "Too late" penetrated to his brain, and all the heart went out of him. The newcomer was Colonel Tremeau, the officer he had met a few days before in the garden at St. Cloud. He guessed that his conversation with the Empress had been overheard. He must have traveled post haste in order to outstrip him—and he had succeeded.
Napoleon noted the surprise and terror of St. Just, and a cruel smile began to flit about his face—the smile that did not betoken approval of the person whom it felt, but was, rather, devilish, and calculated to fill the stoutest heart with dread.
"You know this gentleman, Mons. St. Just," he said, and his tone was cold and calm. "You should have ridden faster. You did not know it was a race. Your rival came in first. Your information was forestalled; your plot has failed."