In one of the chambers of the royal palace there lies a maiden, sixteen years of age, the daughter of the king. Her father and mother, in the consternation of their flight, were compelled to leave behind them their sick child. Her cheek is flushed with fever, and again paled with terror, as the uproar of the assault, like angry thunders, fill the air. The glare of bursting shells and the flames of the spreading conflagration portentously gleam through the windows upon the eye of the sick and terrified sufferer. She in vain buries her head beneath the bed-clothes to shut out the hor. rid cries of the assailants and the shrieks of the wounded.

In the midst of this most dreadful scene, the gates of the city are suddenly thrown open, and a small party emerge, and with a flag of truce pass through the embattling hosts, till they approach the presence of Napoleon. They inform him of the situation and the peril of the princess. He instantly orders the direction of every gun to be changed which might endanger her person. The flag of truce again retires within the walls, and the awful bombardment continues. For ten long hours this terrific storm of iron descends upon the city, till three thousand shells have filled its streets with ruins and with blood. But Maria Louisa remains upon her bed unharmed, though other parts of her father's palace are blown from their foundations. Little did she imagine, in the consternation of that dreadful night, that it was her future husband who was thus raining down destruction upon her father's capital; and little did the plebeian conqueror imagine, as he compassionately changed the direction of his guns, that this maiden was to be the Queen of France, and that by this bombardment he was wooing and winning for his bride a daughter of the Cæsars

A daughter of the Cæsars! What a mysterious influence there is in ancestral renown! Napoleon even, the creator of his crown, the fabricator of his own glory, was dazzled by its glare. Maria Louisa was a lineal descendant of the proudest monarchs of Rome. The blood which circulated in her veins had passed to her from the Cæsars, and through the heroic heart of Maria Theresa. She had been cradled and nurtured amid scenes of moral sublimity and regal magnificence, which, one would think, would give an impress of grandeur even to the meanest soul. Surely, then, her spirit must be animated with all that is lofty and ennobling in human character. Alas! it was not so. She was nothing more than a mild, amiable, pretty girl, utterly incapable of cherishing an idea of magnanimity or of heroism. She was endowed by nature only with those qualities which were most common-place and earthly, and was entirely unqualified to act a noble part in the lofty drama through which she was destined to move.

Napoleon was at this time contemplating a divorce from Josephine. He loved Josephine as intensely as so ambitious a spirit was capable of loving any person. His connection with her had been founded on the most romantic attachment, and was associated with all the most interesting events of his history. His desire for a divorce did not originate in any waning of affection, but was urged by those considerations of state policy for which, in his boundless ambition, he was ready to sacrifice every affection. He deemed it essential to the perpetuity of his throne that he should add the grandeur of ancestral renown to the glory of his unparalleled exploits; and his desire was intense to be blessed with an heir who should inherit his power and perpetuate his name.

suspense.

Rumors had for some time been reaching Josephine of the doom which was impending over her. Agitated with the most terrible fears, and again clinging to trembling hope, the unhappy empress passed several weeks in the agony of Both were under great restraint, and neither hardly ventured to look at the other. The contemplated divorce was noised abroad, and Josephine read, in the averted looks of her former friend, the indications of her approaching disgrace. Napoleon and Josephine had been accustomed to live upon terms of the most affectionate intimacy, and in their private hours, free from the restraints of a court, she would loiter in his cabinet, and he would steal in, an ever-welcome visiter, upon the secrecy of her boudoir. Now, reserve and restraint marked every word and movement. The private access between their apartments was closed. Napoleon no longer entered her boudoir; but, when he wished to speak to her, respectfully knocking at the door, would wait her approach. Whenever Josephine heard the sound of his approaching footsteps, the fear that he was coming with the terrible announcement of separation immediately caused such violent palpitations of the heart that it was with the utmost difficulty she could totter across the floor, even when supporting herself by leaning against the walls, and catching at the articles of furniture. They had many private interviews before Napoleon ventured to announce directly his determination, in which he hinted at the necessity of the measure. From all these interviews Josephine returned with her eyes so swollen with weeping as to give her attendants the erroneous impression that personal violence was used to compel her to consent.

The fatal day for the announcement at length arrived.

Josephine appears to have had some presentiment that her loom was sealed, for all the day she had been in her private apartment weeping bitterly. As the dinner-hour approached, to conceal her weeping and swollen eyes she wore a head-dress with a deep front, which shaded the whole of the upper part of her face. They dined alone. Napoleon entered the room in the deepest embarrassment. He uttered not a word, but mechanically struck the edge of his glass with his knife, as if to divert his thoughts. Josephine could not conceal the convulsive agitations of her frame. They sat together during the whole meal in silence. The various courses were brought in, and removed untouched by either. Says Josephine, "We dined together as usual. I struggled with my tears, which, notwithstanding every effort, overflowed from my eyes. I uttered not a single word during that solitary meal; and he broke silence but once, to ask an attendant about the weather. My sunshine, I saw, had passed away; the storm burst quickly." Immediately after this sorrowful repast, Napoleon requested the attendants to leave the room. The emperor, closing the door after them with his own hand, approached Josephine, who was trembling in every nerve. The struggle in the soul of Napoleon was fearful. His whole frame trembled. His countenance assumed the expression of the firm resolve which nerved him to this unpardonable wrong. He took the hand of the empress, pressed it to his heart, gazed for a moment, speechless, upon those features which had won his youthful love, and then, with a voice tremulous with the storm which shook both soul and body, said, "Josephine, my good Josephine, you know how I have loved you; it is to you, to you alone, that I owe the few moments of happi

ness I have known in the world. Josephine, my destiny is more powerful than my will. My dearest affections must yield to the interests of France." "Say no more," exclaimed the empress, in mortal anguish; "I expected this. I understand and feel for you; but the stroke is not the less mortal." And, with a piercing shriek, she fell lifeless upon the floor. Napoleon hastily opened the door and called for help. His physician, Dr. Corvisart, was at hand, and, entering with other attendants, they raised the unconscious Josephine from the floor, who, in a delirium of agony; was exclaiming, "Oh no! you can not, you can not do it! you would not kill me." Napoleon supported the limbs of Josephine, while another bore her body, and thus they conveyed her to her bed-room. Placing the insensible empress upon the bed, Napoleon again dismissed the attendants and rang for her women, who, on entering, found him bending over her lifeless form with an expression of the deepest anxiety and anguish. Napoleon slept not that night, but paced his room in silence and solitude, probably lashed by an avenging conscience. He frequently, during the night, returned to Josephine's room to inquire concerning her situation, but each time the sound of his footstep and of his voice almost threw the agonized empress into convulsions. "No! no!" says Josephine, "I can not describe the horror of my situation during that night! Even the interest which he affected to take in my sufferings seemed to me additional cruelty. O! how justly had I reason to dread becoming an empress !"

At length the day arrived for the public announcement of the divorce. The imperial council of state was convened in the Tuileries, and all the members of the imperial family