interest myself particularly for
the Princess de Montfort[66]."

[Footnote 65: The king's own words. See Voyage en Italie, etc., p. 201.]

[Footnote 66: The Princess de Montfort was the wife of Jerome, the
sister of the King of Wuertemberg, and a cousin of the Emperor
of Russia.]

Hortense had listened to the king, her whole face radiant with delight.
The king's beneficent countenance, his friendly smile, his hearty and
cordial manner, dispelled all doubt of his sincerity in Hortense's mind.
She believed in his goodness and in his kindly disposition toward
herself; and, in her joyous emotion, she thanked him with words of
enthusiasm for his promised benefits, never doubting that it was his
intention to keep his word.

"Ah, sire!" she exclaimed, "the entire imperial family is in misfortune,
and you will have many wrongs to redress. France owes us all a great
deal, and it will be worthy of you to liquidate these debts."

The king declared his readiness to do every thing. He who was so fond of
taking in millions and of speculating, smilingly promised, in the name
of France, to disburse millions, and to pay off the old state debt!

The duchess believed him. She believed in his protestations of
friendship, and in his blunt sincerity. She allowed him to conduct her
to his wife, the queen, and was received by her and Madame Adelaide with
the same cordiality the king had shown. Once only in the course of the
conversation did Madame Adelaide forget her cordial disposition. She
asked the duchess how long she expected to remain in Paris, and when the
latter replied that she intended remaining three days longer, Madame
exclaimed, in a tone of anxious dismay: "So long! Three days still! And
there are so many Englishmen here who have seen your son in Italy, and
might recognize you here!"

But Fate itself seemed to delay the departure of the duchess and her
son. On returning home from her visit to the Tuileries, she found her
son on his bed in a violent fever, and the physician who had been called
in declared that he was suffering from inflammation of the throat.

Hortense was to tremble once more for the life of a son, and this son
was the last treasure Fate had left her.

Once more the mother sat at the bedside of her son, watching over him,
lovingly, day and night. That her son's life might be preserved was now
her only wish, her only prayer; all else became void of interest, and
was lost sight of. She only left her son's