It was on the 20th of April that Napoleon once more called his officers about him, and signified that they were summoned to receive his last adieus.  Several of the marshals and others who had some time before sworn fealty to the king, were present.  “Louis,” said he, “has talents and means:  he is old and infirm; and will not, I think, choose to give a bad name to his reign.  If he is wise, he will occupy my bed, and only change the sheets.  But he must treat the army well, and take care not to look back on the past, or his time will be brief.  For you, gentlemen, I am no longer to be with you;—­you have another government; and it will become you to attach yourselves to it frankly, and serve it as faithfully as you have served me.”

He now desired that the relics of his imperial guard might be drawn up in the courtyard of the castle.  He advanced to them on horseback; and tears dropped from his eyes as he dismounted in the midst.  “All Europe,” said Napoleon, “has armed against me.  France herself has deserted me, and chosen another dynasty.  I might, with my soldiers, have maintained a civil war for years—­but it would have rendered France unhappy.  Be faithful to the new sovereign whom your country has chosen.  Do not lament my fate:  I shall always be happy while I know that you are so.  I could have died—­nothing was easier—­but I will always follow the path of honour.  I will record with my pen the deeds we have done together.  I cannot embrace you all” (he continued, taking the commanding officer in his arms)—­“but I embrace your general.  Bring hither the eagle.  Beloved eagle! may the kisses I bestow on you long resound in the hearts of the brave; farewell, my children—­farewell, my brave companions—­surround me once more—­farewell!”

Amidst the silent but profound grief of these brave men, submitting like himself to the irresistible force of events, Napoleon placed himself in his carriage, and drove rapidly from Fontainebleau.

Of all that lamented the fall of this extraordinary man, no one shed bitterer tears than the neglected wife of his youth.  Josephine had fled from Paris on the approach of the Allies; but being assured of the friendly protection of Alexander, returned to Malmaison ere Napoleon quitted Fontainebleau.  The Czar visited her frequently, and endeavoured to soothe her affliction.  But the ruin of “her Achilles,” “her Cid” (as she now once more, in the day of misery, called Buonaparte), had entered deep into her heart.  She sickened and died before the Allies left France.

Maria Louisa, meanwhile, and her son, were taken under the personal protection of the Emperor of Austria, and had begun their journey to Vienna some time before the fallen “Child of Destiny” reached Elba.