particular favorites were affectionately pointed out.  The old domestic who acted as my guide spoke low, as if afraid of disturbing her repose, or as if the sanctity of death still pervaded the apartments.  He could not mention her without emotion; and he told enough of her quiet, unobtrusive life, of her kindness to the poor, of her gentleness to all about her, to account for the devotion of her dependants.  The evidences of her refined taste were everywhere, and there were tokens that her love for her husband had survived his injustice and desertion.  After his second marriage, he occasionally visited her, and she never allowed anything to be disturbed which reminded her that he had been there.  Books were lying open on the table as he had left them; the chair on which he sat was still where he had arisen from it; the flower he had plucked withered where he had dropped it.  Every article he had touched was sacred, and remained unprofaned by other hands.  Doubtless, long after he had returned to his brilliant capital, and all remembrance of her was lost in the glittering court assembled about the fair-haired daughter of Austria, that lone woman wandered, in solitary sadness, through the places which had been hallowed by his presence, and gazed on the senseless objects consecrated by his passing attention.

After his last abdication, he retired once more to Malmaison, where he passed the few days that remained, until he bade a final farewell to the scenes which he had known at the dawn of his prosperity.  No man can tell his thoughts during those lonely hours.  His wife was in the palace of her ancestors, and his child was to know him no more.  He could hear the din of marching soldiers, and the roar of distant battle, but they were nothing to him now.  His wand was broken, the spell was over, the spirits that ministered to him had vanished, and the enchanter was left powerless and alone.  But, in the still watches of the night, a familiar form may have stood beside him, and a well-known voice again whispered to him in the kindly tones of by-gone years.  The crown, the sceptre, the imperial purple, the long line of kings, for which he had renounced a woman worth them all, must have faded from his memory in the swarming recollections of his once happy home.  He could not look around him without seeing in every object an accusing angel; and if a human heart throbbed in his bosom, retribution came before death.

Yet call him not up for judgment, without reflecting that his awful elevation and the gigantic task he had assumed had perverted a heart naturally kind and affectionate, and left him little leisure to devote to the virtues which decorate domestic life.  The numberless anecdotes related of him, the charm with which he won to himself all whom he attempted to conciliate, the warm attachment of those immediately about him, tend to the belief that there was much of good in him.  But his eye was continually fixed on the star he saw