It was a cozy, pleasant room, and, at this time, a cheering fire was blazing in the grate. As he glanced around, his eye fell on the various familiar objects gathered in his journeyings and associated with his profession. Over the mantelpiece was the sword that he had worn in Egypt; while, in a small glass case below it, was the little reddish yellow brick of gold that he and Halima had picked up by the lake, beneath which had lain the subterranean city. In the bookcase on his right were three calf-bound volumes found at Moscow in the ruins of the Kremlin. Two of these were stamped with Napoleon's arms, the third displayed the Imperial arms of Russia.
He glanced at these and other memorials of his travels; then, with a sigh for what he might have done and been, but for his infatuation for the dark-eyed beauty who controlled him, he stepped to the escritoire and took out the packet.
Then a curious hesitation came upon him: a sort of fear of the news it might contain. He turned the packet about in his hands, his fingers trembling, and again carefully scrutinized the address. He did not recognize the writing and tried to think out the writer's personality.
At last he murmured, "Why do I hesitate? Why do I fear, I who have thrice braved Napoleon's wrath, and remained unscathed? Pshaw! I can have nothing to fear, so here goes."
And, with a hand that shook, for all the bravery of his words, he took a pair of scissors from the table and cut the stitches that secured the wrapper.
On removing this, what first met his gaze was a small packet carefully secured in oilskin. It was sealed with a seal that made his heart beat faster, and brought the tears to his eyes; for in the impression he recognized the cipher of the Empress Josephine.
This packet was addressed:
"S. M. I. L'Empereur Napoleon."
St. Just laid it down and took up a second package, heavier and bulkier than the first. This was addressed to himself and was in Josephine's handwriting.
"To Major St. Just,