and emotion choked her voice. Handing the
paper to a friend and sobbing aloud, she sank into a chair and buried
her face in her handkerchief. Her friend, M. Reynaud, read the paper,
which was as follows:

[Illustration: THE DIVORCE ANNOUNCED.]

"With the permission of my august and dear spouse, I must declare that,
retaining no hope of having children who may satisfy the requirements of
his policy and the interests of France, I have the pleasure of giving
him the greatest proof of attachment and devotedness which was ever
given on earth. I owe all to his bounty. It was his hand that crowned
me, and on his throne I have received only manifestations of love and
affection from the French people. I respond to all the sentiments of the
Emperor, in consenting to the dissolution of a marriage which is now an
obstacle to the happiness of France, by depriving it of the blessing of
being one day governed by the descendants of that great man who was
evidently raised up by Providence to efface the evils of a terrible
revolution, and to restore the altar, the throne, and social order. But
the dissolution of my marriage will in no respect change the sentiments
of my heart. The Emperor will ever find in me his best friend. I know
how much this act, commanded by policy and exalted interests, has rent
his heart. But we both glory in the sacrifices we make for the good
of the country."

"After these words," says Thiers, "the noblest ever uttered under such
circumstances--for never, it must be confessed, did vulgar passions less
prevail in an act of this kind--Napoleon, embracing Josephine, led her
to her own apartment, where he left her, almost fainting, in the arms of
her children."

The next day the Senate was convened in the grand saloon to sanction the
legal consummation of the divorce. Eugene presided. As he announced the
desire of the Emperor and Empress for the dissolution of their marriage,
he said: "The tears of his Majesty at this separation are sufficient for
the glory of my mother." The description of the remaining scenes of this
cruel tragedy we repeat from "Abbott's Life of Napoleon."

"The Emperor, dressed in the robes of state, and pale as a statue of
marble, leaned against a pillar, careworn and wretched. Folding his arms
upon his breast, with his eyes fixed upon vacancy, he stood in gloomy
silence. It was a funereal scene. The low hum of mournful voices alone
disturbed the stillness of the room. A circular table wa