as a poor widow, she had felt the sting of misfortune; as a great empress, her reign had been limited to making others happy, to relieving indigence and consoling misfortune. Joséphine had ascended the

throne with modesty, and she descended it with dignity; she never ceased to love him who had abandoned her for a younger woman, whose coldness often stung Napoléon to the quick; her advice to her son Eugène was, to remain faithful to France, to his sword, and continue to defend the man who would no longer have disinterested friends around him. Eugène obeyed his mother.

When Bonaparte was unhappy, she wrote to him and offered him consolation, which she ended with that memorable sentence,- -a sentence sufficient to overthrow the calumnies of those who neither knew how to appreciate nor to imitate her," Vous êtes malheureux et abandonné, si je suis la seule femme qui veuille faire son devoir et se dévouer à vous, dites que vous me désirez, et Joséphine ira vous consoler." Napoléon did not answer.

During the hour I remained at Malmaison, Joséphine spoke feelingly of the Emperor and of the new Empress; the former I could see she loved still as dearly as ever; she even applauded his resolution of marrying another. It was for the good of France, she said; and what was a woman when the whole nation was concerned? She was still the Empress, and when we parted I might have fancied her on the throne of the Tuileries.

In the following spring we left Paris for Bransac, where we spent the whole of the summer months; and often did I look at the portrait of the sweet and lovely Sister Magdeleine, and wonder whether her sorrowful life had been cut short, and if she had rejoined him whom she had so much loved.

My husband was excessively fond of the country, and there, I might say, we enjoyed unclouded happiness. There are sites, seasons, and hours which harmonize so much with one's heart's impressions, that one's soul seems to be part and parcel of nature, and I think it was the case with us. We loved Bransac and its situation; we loved the hours we spent there, because they were all happiness and sunshine; but had Madame de Meilhan and her daughter been with us, I think the scenes would have been discoloured, the charm would have vanished; and therefore I thanked the Almighty, night and morning, that He had spared me what would have been utter misery.

Never having been out of France, I begged M. de Meilhan to take me to Switzerland; we were not far from it, and when we first arrived there I was in raptures at the lovely scenery we met at every step. Strong and healthy as I was then, I could follow my husband in all his excursions; and to travel with a beloved object is perhaps one of the greatest felicities the heart can feel. Edouard knew Switzerland very well. During his years of exile he had taken walking tours, and now he took me to all the places where he

had been, making me thus feel doubly interested in our pilgrimage. We had begun with the north, visiting part of the Tyrol, returning through the south. When at Lausanne I felt rather ill, and the doctor we called in ordered me to go to Aix, in Savoy. Brown autumn, with its dun tints, but soft and pleasant, had set in then. The leaves, frozen

by the night frosts, fell from the vineyards, the gigantic chestnut-trees, and the walnut-trees, and were swept by the warm winds of the south. All was calm and beautiful when we arrived, and I saw with pleasure that all the visitors had left, with the exception of one person, of whom I shall speak further. We had taken a small house, most pleasantly situated; from our windows we saw the Alps, hiding their peaks in the misty firmament, and from the mountain passes came to us the sound of the cold wind blowing hard between their narrow space, bringing over to us murmurs, sad and melodious, with which the soul was moved to its depths; it was like unearthly whispers from some departed spirits. We both liked it, for although Nature seemed to enjoy her last sunny rays, it was but like youth, dying in all its grace and beauty.

During our excursions we had met several times a woman whose elegant figure and deep mourning had attracted us; she lived but a few yards from our house, and yet we had never been able to see her face. One evening-as the fresh and bluish shadows had spread like a shroud over the horizon-we were hastening home, when we saw a boat on the lake, gliding silently

over its deep waters; it was tenanted by the strange lady I felt so curious to know, accompanied only by two boatmen; they soon threw down their oars on the strand and helped the unknown to step out of the boat; but she appeared ill, and almost unable to proceed to her dwelling. We approached her, and inquired whether we could be of any assistance to her; she answered in a plaintive musical voice that she would gladly accept my husband's arm, as she could scarcely stand. Before reaching her house, however, we had been obliged to make her rest on the bench outside the boatman's inn, and I was then at leisure to examine her. Hers was an ethereal beauty; her complexion was perfectly transparent; the lips of her chiselled mouth were slightly parted, displaying when she spoke the most beautiful teeth I had ever seen; her large black-lashed soft grey eyes seemed to pierce through a mysterious veil, hiding the unknown regions of eternity. Her dark hair made the fairness of her skin still more conspicuous; all her features were in unison, and never at Court, or among the noble ladies of the Faubourg, had I seen a lovelier being, with perhaps, however, the exception of Sister Magdeleine. Little by little her strength seemed to return, and we accompanied her to the house where she lived; I asked permission to call upon her the next day, which she readily granted.

Frequent were my visits to the unknown, as she was obliged to keep her room, and she appeared so entirely desolate and lonely in the world that I could

not refrain from offering my sympathy and friendship, which she accepted with overflowing gratefulness. One day M. de Meilhan had gone with two guides to make an excursion towards the Italian side of the mountains; I was not strong enough to accompany him, and I went to spend the day with the fair, sweet Oléa, the only name by which I am allowed to speak of her. We had been so much taken with one another that she did not hesitate to relate to me the sad story of her married life. I will let her speak for herself:

"At sixteen I had lost my father, and my mother was so much bowed down by her sorrow, that within two months she had followed him to the grave, leaving me an orphan. My guardian was General de B: I had known him from my childhood; I had played on his knees as I had done with my father; he had spoilt me with toys and bonbons as a child, and when older, with every knicknack pleasing to a young girl of my own age. The day after my mother's death he said to me:—'Oléa, my regiment leaves in a fortnight hence, and therefore I must look for a school, where you can remain until you have made up your mind with which of your relations you wish to live. Had I been thirty years younger, I might have offered you my hand; but, with your youth and beauty, you will form a more suitable match, and therefore we must bid adieu to one another.'

"I had never thought of love; my father and mother had been everything to me, and General de B—— had