It was late in the evening of the 20th that Bonaparte entered Paris in an open carriage, which was driven straight to the gilded gates of the Tuileries.  He received the acclamations of the military and of the lower classes of the suburbs, but most of the respectable citizens looked on in silent wonderment.  It was quite evident then that he was recalled by a party—­a party, in truth, numerous and powerful, but not by the unanimous voice of the nation.  The enthusiasm of his immediate adherents, however, made up for the silence and lukewarmness of others.  They filled and crammed the square of the Carrousel, and the courts and avenues of the Tuileries; they pressed so closely upon him that he was obliged to cry out, “My friends, you stifle me!” and his aides de camp were compelled to carry him in their arms up the grand staircase, and thence into the royal apartments.  It was observed, however, that amongst these ardent friends were many men who had been the first to desert him in 1814, and that these individuals were the most enthusiastic in their demonstrations, the loudest in their shouts!

And thus was Napoleon again at the Tuileries, where, even more than at Fontainebleau, his mind was flooded by the deep and painful recollections of the past!  A few nights after his return thither he sent for M. Horan, one of the physicians who had attended Josephine during her last illness.  “So, Monsieur Horan,” said he, “you did not leave the Empress during her malady?”—­“No, Sire.”

What was the cause of that malady?”—­“Uneasiness of mind . . . grief.”—­“You believe that?” (and Napoleon laid a strong emphasis on the word believe, looking steadfastly in the doctor’s face).  He then asked, “Was she long ill?  Did she suffer much?”—­“She was ill a week, Sire; her Majesty suffered little bodily pain.”—­“Did she see that she was dying?  Did she show courage?”—­“A sign her Majesty made when she could no longer express herself leaves me no doubt that she felt her end approaching; she seamed to contemplate it without fear.”—­“Well!—­well!” and then Napoleon much affected drew close to M. Horan, and added, “You say that she was in grief; from what did that arise?”—­“From passing events, Sire; from your Majesty’s position last year.”—­“Ah! she used to speak of me then?”—­“Very often.”  Here Napoleon drew his hand across his eyes, which seemed filled with tears.  He then went on.  “Good woman!—­Excellent Josephine!  She loved me truly—­she—­did she not? . . .  Ah!  She was a Frenchwoman!”—­“Yes, Sire, she loved you, and she would have proved it had it not been for dread of displeasing you:  she had conceived an idea.”—­“How? . . .  What would she have done?” “She one day said that as Empress of the French she would drive through Paris with eight horses to her coach, and all her household in gala livery, to go and rejoin you at Fontainebleau, and never quit you mare.”—­“She would have done it—­she was capable of doing it!”

Napoleon again betrayed deep emotion, on recovering from which he asked the physician the most minute questions about the nature of Josephine’s disease, the friends and attendants who were around her at the hour of her death, and the conduct of her two children, Eugene and Hortense.