ould no longer remain in Foligno; she
must be nearer her sons, she must view the dangers that encompassed
them, and, if need be, share them. Hortense, therefore, left Foligno,
and started for Ancona.

On her arrival at the first station, she saw a man descend from a
carriage and approach her. He was unknown to her, and yet she felt a
dark foreboding at his approach. The mother's heart already felt the
blow that awaited her.

This man was a messenger from her sons. "Prince Napoleon is ill," said
he.

Hortense remembered that she had heard that a contagious disease was
ravaging the vicinity. "Is he indeed ill?" cried she, in dismay.

"Yes; and he earnestly desires to see you, madame!"

"Oh," exclaimed Hortense, in terror, "if he calls for me, he must be
very ill indeed!--Forward, forward, with all possible speed; I must
see my son!"

And onward they went with the speed of the wind from station to station,
approaching nearer and nearer to their destination; but as they neared
their destination, the faces they met grew sadder and sadder. At every
station groups of people assembled about her carriage and gazed at her
sorrowfully; everywhere she heard them murmur: "Napoleon is dead! Poor
mother! Napoleon is dead!" Hortense heard, but did not believe it! These
words had not been spoken by men, but were the utterances of her anxious
heart! Her son was not dead, he could not be dead. Napoleon lived, yes,
he still lived! And again the people around her carriage murmured,
"Napoleon is dead!"

Hortense reclined in her carriage, pale and motionless. Her thoughts
were confused, her heart scarcely beat.

At last she reached her destination; her carriage drove up to the house
in Pesaro, where her sons were awaiting her.

At this moment a young man, his countenance of a deathly pallor, and
flooded with tears, rushed out of the door and to her carriage. Hortense
recognized him, and stretched out her arms to him. It was her son Louis
Napoleon, and on beholding his pale, sorrowful countenance, and his
tear-stained eyes, the unhappy mother learned the truth. Yes, it was not
her heart, it was the people who had uttered the fearful words:
"Napoleon is dead! Poor mother! Napoleon is dead!"

With a heart-rending cry, Hortense sank to the ground in a swoon.

CHAPTER VI.

THE FLIGHT FROM ITALY.

But Hortense now had no leisure to weep over the son she had so dearly
loved; the safety of the son who remained to her, whom she lo