Josephine felt irritated, excited by the coldness with which Napoleon spoke of the slaughter of that day; and her eyes, otherwise so full of gentleness, were now animated with flashes of anger.

“Oh,” cried she, “if you must purchase fame at such a price, I would sooner you were one of the victims!”

Bonaparte looked at her with astonishment, but as he perceived her flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, the sight of her grace and beauty ravished him, and a soft, pleasant smile suddenly illumined his countenance.  He answered her violent attack by a light pleasantry, and with gladsome unaffectedness he gave to the conversation another turn.  The small, pale, gloomy general was at once changed into a young, impassioned, amiable cavalier, whose countenance grew beautiful under the sparkling intelligence which animated it, and whose enchanting eloquence made his conversation attractive and lively, carrying with it the conviction of a superior mind.

After the visitors who had met that morning in Josephine’s drawing-room had departed the general still remained, notwithstanding the astonished and questioning looks of the viscountess, paying no attention to her remarks about the fine weather, or her intention to enjoy a promenade.  With rapid steps, and hands folded behind his back, he paced a few times to and fro the room, then standing before Josephine he fixed on her face a searching look.

“Madame,” said he, suddenly, with a kind of rough tone, “I have a proposition to make:  give me your hand.  Be my wife!”

Josephine looked at him, half-astonished, half-irritated.  “Is it a joke you are indulging in?” said she.

“I speak in all earnestness,” said Bonaparte, warmly.  “Will you do me the honor of giving me your hand?”

The gravity with which Bonaparte spoke, the deep earnestness imprinted on his features, convinced Josephine that the general would not condescend to indulge in a joke of so unseemly a character, and a lovely blush overspread the face of the viscountess.

“Sir,” said she, “who knows if I might not be inclined to accept your distinguished offer, if, unfortunately, fate stood not in the way of your wishes?”

“Fate?” asked Bonaparte, with animation.

“Yes, fate! my general,” repeated Josephine, smiling.  “But let us speak no more of this.  It is enough that fate forbids me to be the wife of General Bonaparte.  I can say no more, for you would laugh at me.”

“But you would laugh at me if you could turn me away with so vague an answer,” cried Bonaparte, with vivacity.  “I pray you, explain the meaning of your words.”

“Well, then, general, I cannot be your wife, for I am destined to be Queen of France—­yes, perhaps more than queen!”

It was now Bonaparte’s turn to appear astonished and irritated, and using her own words he said, shrugging his shoulders, “Madame, is it a joke you are indulging in?”