of dignity to go about with the Prince and others of lower ranks to second-rate theatres, even under the cover of incognito.  He does not appear to have thought there was anything more than Josephine’s habitual lack of respect for herself and the high position he had preserved for her, though according to the unreliable Madame de Remusat Napoleon suggested to his divorced wife that she should take Prince Mecklenburg as her husband.  The same authority (?) asserts that the Prince had written to Napoleon asking his permission, and, further, says that Josephine told her this curious story.  It is entirely unsupported by either the words or actions of the Emperor himself, and may be put aside as another of the fabrications of the memoir writer.

That there was a flirtation there can be little doubt, but the Prince’s object may have been part of the political intrigue, rather than carnal intercourse with a woman of nearly fifty years of age.  Josephine, always sorry for herself, a sieve of the first water, susceptible to flattery, blind to device, yearning for admiration and pity, was rejoiced to find attention extended to her from any quarter, but coming from the Royal House of Prussia or any other royal personage it was a dazzling compliment to the high esteem in which she believed she was held, and enhanced the luxury of feeling that she was the centre of international sympathy.

It was not that she had any malicious intent to do deliberate wrong to Napoleon, or any thought of degrading herself.  Her mind did not work in these grooves.  She was merely carried off her feet by vain love of self-approbation, which led her far beyond the bounds of honourable prudence.  She was interred at Rueil amidst quiet solemnity, and in 1825 Eugene and Hortense erected a monument in her memory.

The legend is that her last articulate utterance was the enchanted name of “Napoleon”—­“Elba.”  Corvisat, the Imperial physician, was piteously asked by the Emperor on his return why he allowed her to die, and the nature of the malady that took her spirit away.  He replied that she “Died of grief and sorrow.”  Her own doctor, Horeau, told him pretty much the same thing, which brought forth the sad reply, she was a “good woman” and “loved me well.”  The intimation that she had spoken often and kindly of him brought back all the old passion for her and filled him with emotion.  He had heard of her death while at Elba, and told Corvisat that it was a most acute grief to him, and although she had her failings she at least would “never have abandoned him”; and possibly this latter expressed opinion, so often repeated, might have been fulfilled had he at once thrown Marie Louise over after her desertion of him.