des those of his victim. From his
wife to his groom there was not one of those who were about him who did
not live in dread of being held up to ridicule and infamy before a
smiling crowd, whose amusement was only tempered by the reflection that
each of them might be the next to endure the same exposure.

As to Josephine, she had taken refuge in a woman's last resource, and
was crying bitterly, with her graceful neck stooping towards her knees
and her two hands over her face. Madame de Remusat was weeping also,
and in every pause of his hoarse scolding--for his voice was very hoarse
and raucous when he was angry--there came the soft hissing and clicking
of their sobs. Sometimes his fierce taunts would bring some reply from
the Empress, some gentle reproof to him for his gallantries, but each
remonstrance only excited him to a fresh rush of vituperation. In one
of his outbursts he threw his snuff-box with a crash upon the floor as a
spoiled child would hurl down its toys.

'Morality!' he cried, 'morality was not made for me, and I was not made
for morality. I am a man apart, and I accept nobody's conditions.
I tell you always, Josephine, that these are the foolish phrases of
mediocre people who wish to fetter the great. They do not apply to me.
I will never consent to frame my conduct by the puerile arrangements of
society.'

'Have you no feeling then?' sobbed the Empress.

'A great man is not made for feeling. It is for him to decide what he
shall do, and then to do it without interference from anyone. It is
your place, Josephine, to submit to all my fancies, and you should think
it quite natural that I should allow myself some latitude.'

It was a favourite device of the Emperor's, when he was in the wrong
upon one point, to turn the conversation round so as to get upon some
other one on which he was in the right. Having worked off the first
explosion of his passion he now assumed the offensive, for in argument,
as in war, his instinct was always to attack.

'I have been looking over Lenormand's accounts, Josephine,' said he.
'Are you aware how many dresses you have had last year? You have had a
hundred and forty--no less--and many of them cost as much as twenty-five
thousand livres. I am told that you have six hundred dresses in your
wardrobes, many of which have hardly ever been used. Madame de Remusat
knows that what I say is true. She cannot deny it.'

'You like me to dress well, Napoleon.'

'I