l not go into a convent, sire; love will at last triumph
over her virtue, and she will finally declare herself vanquished. She
promised your majesty to defer the execution of her purpose for a year,
but, I am sure, she will not be strong enough to close her heart so long
against the passionate entreaties of a lover whom she adores. The
letters which your majesty writes to her, and which she does not refuse
to accept, are like hot shells thrown into the fortress of her heart.
They do a great deal of mischief."

"Forsooth, it is a consolation that she does not refuse my notes. I have
sent them almost every day during two months; every week I send a
courier who meets her when, escaping from the Argus-eyes of her husband,
she goes to the cathedral. But I receive only laconic replies. This
woman is either incapable of genuine love, or she is a demon who
delights in torturing me."

"Sire, does it please your majesty to partake of this fruit?" said a
gentle voice behind him.

The emperor started. Absorbed in his passion--filled with the idea now
agitating his soul, he had not heard the door of the cabinet softly
open, and was unaware that one of the imperial pages, holding a golden
fruit-plate, had entered. Duroc also had not noticed that he was present
while the emperor was still speaking, and that he must have overheard
the last words of his majesty. The page leaned, pale and exhausted,
against the wall near the door, and the golden plate was trembling in
his hands.

Napoleon cast a glowing glance on him, and rushing toward him, snatched
the plate and threw it on the floor. As the peaches rolled across the
room, he seized the page's arms, and drew him toward the window. "Who
are you?" he asked, scarcely able to master his emotion. "Who are you?
Speak, that I may hear your voice!"

The page looked in his face, aglow with anger, and his large blue eyes
filled with tears. "I am a demon who delights in torturing you," he said
in a low voice.

Napoleon did not utter a word. He tore the velvet cap from the page's
head, and when his long silken hair fell on his shoulders in heavy
masses, a smile of unutterable bliss overspread the emperor's face. He
seized the fair ringlets with his hands and kissed them; he laid them on
his own head, and they covered his face like a golden veil. He then
shook them off with a merry laugh, and encircled the page so violently
in his arms, that he uttered a cry. "Mary, Mary," he exclaimed
pass