’In that case we shall sit down and await his return.  Ah, Monsieur de Meneval, how I pity you when I see you among all those papers!  I was desolate when Monsieur de Bourrienne deserted the Emperor, but you have more than taken his place.  Come up to the fire, Madame de Remusat!  Yes, yes, I insist upon it, for I know that you must be cold.  Constant, come and put the rug under Madame de Remusat’s feet.’

It was by little acts of thoughtfulness and kindness like this that the Empress so endeared herself that she had really no enemies in France, even among those who were most bitterly opposed to her husband.  Whether as the consort of the first man in Europe, or as the lonely divorced woman eating her heart out at Malmaison, she was always praised and beloved by those who knew her.  Of all the sacrifices which the Emperor ever made to his ambition that of his wife was the one which cost him the greatest struggle and the keenest regret.

Now as she sat before the fire in the same chair which had so recently been occupied by the Emperor, I had an opportunity of studying this person, whose strange fate had raised her from being the daughter of a lieutenant of artillery to the first position among the women of Europe.  She was six years older than Napoleon, and on this occasion, when I saw her first, she was in her forty-second year; but at a little distance or in a discreet light, it was no courtier’s flattery to say that she might very well have passed for thirty.  Her tall, elegant figure was girlish in its supple slimness, and she had an easy and natural grace in every movement, which she inherited with her tropical West Indian blood.  Her features were delicate, and I have heard that in her youth she was strikingly beautiful; but, like most Creole women, she had become passee in early middle age.  She had made a brave fight, however—­with art as her ally—­against the attacks of time, and her success had been such that when she sat aloof upon a dais or drove past in a procession, she might still pass as a lovely woman.  In a small room, however, or in a good light, the crude pinks and whites with which she had concealed her sallow cheeks became painfully harsh and artificial.  Her own natural beauty, however, still lingered in that last refuge of beauty—­the eyes, which were large, dark, and sympathetic.  Her mouth, too, was small and amiable, and her most frequent expression was a smile, which seldom broadened into a laugh, as she had her own reasons for preferring that her teeth should not be seen.  As to her bearing, it was so dignified, that if this little West Indian had come straight from the loins of Charlemagne, it could not have been improved upon.  Her walk, her glance, the sweep of her dress, the wave of her hand—­they had all the happiest mixture of the sweetness of a woman and the condescension of a queen.  I watched her with admiration as she leaned forward, picking little pieces of aromatic aloes wood out of the basket and throwing them on to the fire.