rence between the "Malbrook" and the
"Marseillaise." Ah, here is the Empress--and how charming she is
looking!'

Josephine had entered, with several of her ladies in her train, and the
whole assembly rose to do her honour. The Empress was dressed in an
evening gown of rose-coloured tulle, spangled with silver stars--an
effect which might have seemed meretricious and theatrical in another
woman, but which she carried off with great grace and dignity. A little
sheaf of diamond wheat-ears rose above her head, and swayed gently as
she walked. No one could entertain more charmingly than she, for she
moved about among the people with her amiable smile, setting everybody
at their ease by her kindly natural manner, and by the conviction which
she gave them that she was thoroughly at her ease herself. 'How amiable
she is!' I exclaimed. 'Who could help loving her?'

'There is only one family which can resist her,' said de Caulaincourt,
glancing round to see that Murat was out of hearing. 'Look at the faces
of the Emperor's sisters.'

I was shocked when I followed his direction to see the malignant glances
with which these two beautiful women were following the Empress as she
walked about the room. They whispered together and tittered
maliciously. Then Madame Murat turned to her mother behind her, and the
stern old lady tossed her haughty head in derision and contempt.

'They feel that Napoleon is theirs and that they ought to have
everything. They cannot bear to think that she is Her Imperial Majesty
and they are only Her Highness. They all hate her, Joseph, Lucien--all
of them. When they had to carry her train at the coronation they tried
to trip her up, and the Emperor had to interfere. Oh yes, they have the
real Corsican blood, and they are not very comfortable people to get
along with.'

But in spite of the evident hatred of her husband's family, the Empress
appeared to be entirely unconcerned and at her ease as she strolled
about among the groups of her guests with a kindly glance and a pleasant
word for each of them. A tall, soldierly man, brown-faced and
moustached, walked beside her, and she occasionally laid her hand with a
caressing motion upon his arm.

'That is her son, Eugene de Beauharnais,' said my companion.

'Her son!' I exclaimed, for he seemed to me to be the older of the two.

De Caulaincourt smiled at my surprise.

'You know she married Beauharnais when she was very young--in fact she