no
relief; and until then, there was no authority to obey but the Duke
d'Abrantes, the poor madman!

No other authority, no institution, had the right to place itself in his
stead, or to assume his prerogatives for an instant even, without
violating the seal of sovereignty that Napoleon had impressed on the
brow of his governor!

Napoleon, whose crown was already trembling on his head, who was
already so near his own fall, still possessed such gigantic power that
its reflection sufficed to protect, at a distance of a thousand miles
from the boundaries of France, the inviolability of a man who had lost
his reason, and no longer had the power of reflection and volition.

How handsome, how amiable, how chivalrous, had Junot been in his earlier
days! How well he had known how to charm beautiful women in the
drawing-rooms, soldiers on the battle-field, and knights at the tourney!
In all knightly accomplishments he was the master--always and everywhere
the undisputed victor and hero. These accomplishments had won the heart
of Mademoiselle de Premont. The daughter of the proud baroness of the
Faubourg St. Germain had joyfully determined, in spite of her mother's
dismay, to become the wife of the soldier of the republic, of Napoleon's
comrade-in-arms. Although Junot had no possession but his pay, and no
nobility but his sword and his renown, this nevertheless sufficed to win
him the favor of the daughter of this aristocratic mother--of the
daughter who was yet so proud of being the last descendant of the
Comneni. Napoleon, who loved to see matrimonial alliances consummated
between his generals and his nobility and the old legitimist nobility of
France, rewarded the daughter of the Faubourg St. Germain richly for the
sacrifice she had made for his comrade-in-arms, in giving up her
illustrious name, and her coat-of-arms, to become the wife of a general
without ancestors and without fortune. He made his friend a duke, and
the Duchess d'Abrantes had no longer cause to be ashamed of her title;
the descendant of the Comneni could content herself with the homage done
her as the wife of the governor of Lisbon, contented with the laurels
that adorned her husband's brow--laurels to which he added a new branch,
but also new wounds, on every battle-field.

The consequences of these wounds had veiled the hero's laurels with
mourning-crape, and destroyed the domestic happiness of the poor duchess
forever. She had first discovered her hus