via this polish widow

science, but also
the mother of the poor, the ministering angel of the unhappy, whose
tears she dried, and whose misery she alleviated--and this royal pair,
though adored and blessed by their subjects, could not find within their
palaces the least reflection of the happiness they so well knew how to
confer upon others without its walls. Between these two beings, so
gentle and yielding to others, a strange antipathy continued to exist,
and not even the birth of a second, and of a third, son could fill up
the chasm that separated them.

And this chasm was soon to be broadened by a new blow of destiny.
Hortense's eldest, the adopted son of Napoleon, the presumptive heir to
his throne, the child that Napoleon loved so dearly that he often played
with him for hours on the terraces of St. Cloud, the child Josephine
worshipped, because its existence seemed to assure her own happiness,
the child that had awakened the first feeling of motherly bliss in
Hortense's bosom, the child that had often even consoled Louis Bonaparte
for the unenjoyable present with bright hopes for the future--the little
Napoleon Charles died in the year 1807, of the measles.

This was a terrific blow that struck the parents, and the imperial pair
of France with equal force. Napoleon's eyes filled with tears when this
intelligence was brought him, and a cry of horror escaped
Josephine's lips.

"Now I am lost!" she murmured in a low voice; "now my fate is decided.
He will put me away."

But after this first egotistical outburst of her own pain, she hastened
to the Hague to weep with her daughter, and bring her away from the
place associated with her loss and her anguish. Hortense returned with
the empress to St. Cloud; while her husband, who had almost succumbed to
his grief, was compelled to seek renewed health in the baths of the
Pyrenees. The royal palace at the Hague now stood desolate again; death
had banished life and joy from its halls; and, though the royal pair
were subsequently compelled to ret


.