ing to each, but
yet endeavor to let good taste pervade the selection."

For some time, meanwhile, Hortense had participated with less zest than
formerly in the amusements and parties of the day; for some time she had
seemed to prefer being alone more than in previous years, and held
herself aloof in the quiet retirement of her own apartments, where the
melancholy, tender, and touching melodies which she drew from her harp
in those lonely hours seemed to hold her better converse than all the
gay and flattering remarks that she was accustomed to hear in her
mother's grand saloons.

Hortense sought solitude, for to solitude alone could she confide what
was weighing on her heart; to it alone could she venture to confess that
she was in love, and with all the innocent energy, all the warmth and
absolute devotion of a first attachment. How blissful were those hours
of reverie, of expectant peering into the future, which seemed to
promise the rising of another sun of happiness to her beaming gaze! For
this young girl's passion had the secret approbation of her mother and
her step-father, and both of them smilingly pretended not to be, in the
least degree, aware of the tender understanding that subsisted between
Hortense and General Duroc, Bonaparte's chief adjutant; only that, while
Josephine took it to be the first tender fluttering of a young girl's
heart awaking to the world, Bonaparte ascribed a more serious meaning to
it, and bestowed earnest thought upon the idea of a union between
Hortense and his friend. He was anxious, above all other things, to give
Duroc a more important and imposing status, and therefore sent him as
ambassador to St. Petersburg, to convey to the Emperor Alexander, who
had just ascended his father's throne, the congratulations and good
wishes of the First Consul of France.

The poor young lovers, constantly watched as they were, and as
constantly restrained by the rules of an etiquette which was now
becoming more and more rigid, had not the consolation accorded to them
of exchanging even one last unnoticed pressure of the hand, one last
tender vow of eternal fidelity, when they took leave of each other. But
they hoped in the future, and looked forward to Duroc's return, and to
the precious recompense that Bonaparte had significantly promised to his
friend. That recompense was the hand of Hortense Until then, they had to
content themselves with that sole and sweetest solace of all parted
lovers,