handkerchief. The table was
covered with the letters which she had received from Napoleon, and which
she had evidently been perusing. Hortense, the victim of grief and
despair, was standing in the alcove of a window.

[Illustration: THE RECONCILIATION.]

Apparently Josephine did not hear the approaching footsteps of her
husband. He advanced softly to her chair, placed his hand upon it, and
said, in tones almost of wonted kindness, "Josephine." She started at
the sound of that well-known and dearly-loved voice, and turning towards
him her swollen and flooded eyes, responded, "My dear." The words of
tenderness, the loving voice, brought back with resistless rush the
memory of the past. Napoleon was vanquished. He extended his hand to
Josephine. She rose, threw her arms around his neck, rested her
throbbing, aching head upon his bosom, and wept in convulsions of
anguish. A long explanation ensued. Napoleon again pressed Josephine to
his loving heart, satisfied, perfectly satisfied that he had deeply
wronged her; that she had been the victim of base traducers. The
reconciliation was perfect.

Soon after this Napoleon overthrew the Directory, and established the
Consulate. This was on the ninth of November, 1799, usually called 18th
Brumaire. Napoleon was thirty years of age, and was now First Consul of
France. After the wonderful achievements of this day of peril, during
which Napoleon had not been able to send a single line to his wife, at
four o'clock in the morning he alighted from his carriage at the door of
his dwelling at the Rue Chantereine. Josephine, in a state of great
anxiety, was watching at the window for his approach. She sprang to meet
him. Napoleon encircled her in his arms, and briefly recapitulated the
memorable scenes of the day. He assured her that since he had taken the
oath of office, he had not allowed himself to speak to a single
individual, for he wished the beloved voice of his Josephine might be
the first to congratulate him upon his virtual accession to the Empire
of France. Throwing himself upon a couch for a few moments of repose, he
exclaimed gayly, "Good-night, my Josephine. To-morrow we sleep in the
palace of the Luxembourg."

This renowned palace, with its vast saloons, its galleries of art, its
garden, is one of the most attractive of residences. Napoleon was now
virtually the monarch of France. Josephine was a queen, Eugene and
Hortense prince and princess. Strange must have been the