on. "On recovering from my swoon," says
Josephine, "I perceived that Corvisart was in attendance, and my poor
daughter, Hortense, weeping over me. No! no! I can not describe the
horror of my situation during that night! Even the interest he affected
to take in my sufferings seemed to me additional cruelty. Oh! how much
reason had I to dread becoming an empress!"

A fortnight now passed away, during which Napoleon and Josephine saw
but little of each other. During this time there occurred the
anniversary of the coronation, and of the victory of Austerlitz. Paris
was filled with rejoicing. The bells rang their merriest peals. The
metropolis was refulgent with illuminations. In these festivities
Josephine was compelled to appear. She knew that the sovereigns and
princes then assembled in Paris were informed of her approaching
disgrace. In all these sounds of triumph she heard but the knell of her
own doom. And though a careful observer would have detected indications,
in her moistened eye and her pallid cheek, of the secret woe which was
consuming her heart, her habitual affability and grace never, in public,
for one moment forsook her. Hortense, languid and sorrow-stricken, was
with her mother.

Eugene was summoned from Italy. He hastened to Paris, and his first
interview was with his mother. From her saloon he went directly to the
cabinet of Napoleon, and inquired of the emperor if he had decided to
obtain a divorce from the empress. Napoleon, who was very strongly
attached to Eugene, made no reply, but pressed his hand as an expression
that it was so. Eugene immediately dropped the hand of the emperor, and
said,

"Sire, in that case, permit me to withdraw from your service."

"How!" exclaimed Napoleon, looking upon him sadly; "will you, Eugene, my
adopted son, leave me?"

"Yes, sire," Eugene replied, firmly; "the son of her who is no longer
empress can not remain viceroy. I will follow my mother into her
retreat. She must now find her consolation in her children."

Napoleon was not without feelings. Tears filled his eyes. In a mournful
voice, tremulous with emotion, he replied, "Eugene, you know the stern
necessity which compels this measure, and will you forsake me? Who,
then, should I have a son, the object of my desires and preserver of my
interests, who would watch over the child when I am absent? If I die,
who will prove to him a father? Who will bring him up? Who is to make a
man of him?"

Eugene was deep