be wholly devoted to their interests; and you will be laughed at, like one of Moliere’s husbands, if you are displeased with your wife’s conduct you can call her to account when you have nothing better to do.  Begin by raising up the state.  After that you may find a thousand reasons for your resentment when now you would not find one.  You know the French people well enough to see how important it is that you should not commence with this absurdity.”

By these and other similar remarks M. Collot thought he had produced some impression, when Bonaparte suddenly exclaimed:  “No, my determination is fixed; she shall never again enter my house.  I care not what people say.  They will gossip about the affair for two days, and on the third it will be forgotten.  She shall go to Malmaison, and I will live here.  The public know enough, not to be mistaken as to the reasons of her removal.”

M. Collot vainly endeavoured to calm his irritation.  Bonaparte vented a torrent of reproaches upon Josephine.  “All this violence,” observed M. Collot, “proves that you still love her.  Do but see her, she will explain the business to your satisfaction and you will forgive her.”—­“I forgive her!  Never!  Collot, you know me.  If I were not sure of my own resolution, I would tear out this heart, and cast it into the fire.”  Here anger almost choked his utterance, and he made a motion with his hand as if tearing his breast.

   When this violent paroxysm had somewhat subsided M. Collot withdrew;
   but before he went away Bonaparte invited him to breakfast on the
   following morning.

At ten o’clock M. Collot was there, and as he was passing through the courtyard he was informed that Madame Bonaparte, who, as I have already mentioned, had gone to Lyons without meeting the General, had returned during the night.  On M. Collot’s entrance Bonaparte appeared considerably embarrassed.  He led him into a side room, not wishing to bring him into the room where I was writing.  “Well,” said Bonaparte to M. Collot, “she is here.”—­“I rejoice to hear it.  You have done well for yourself as well as for us.”—­“But do not imagine I have forgiven her.  As long as I live I shall suspect.  The fact is, that on her arrival I desired her to be gone; but that fool Joseph was there.  What could I do, Collot?  I saw her descend the staircase followed by Eugine and Hortense.  They were all weeping; and I have not a heart to resist tears Eugene was with me in Egypt.  I have been accustomed to look upon him as my adopted son.  He is a fine brave lad.  Hortense is just about to be introduced into society, and she is admired by all who know her.  I confess, Collot, I was deeply moved; I could not endure the distress of the two poor children.  ‘Should they,’ thought I, ‘suffer for their mother’s faults?’ I called back Eugene and Hortense, and their mother followed them.  What could I say, what could I do?