“I will purchase a country residence either near Paris or in Burgundy; I am thinking of passing the winter there and of shutting myself up; I feel weary with human nature; I need solitude; I want to be alone; grandeur oppresses me, my feelings are distorted.  Fame appears insipid at my twenty-nine years; I have tried every thing; nothing remains but to become an egotist.” [Footnote:  “Memoires du Roi Joseph.” vol. i., p. 189.]

But, according to himself, “he cherished in his heart, at the same time; all manner of emotions for the same person;” that is, he hated and detested Josephine, but he also loved and admired her; was angry with her, and yet longed for her; he found her frivolous and faithless, and yet something in his heart ever spoke in her favor, and assured him that she was a noble and faithful being.

Fortunately, there was one who confirmed into full conviction these low whisperings of his heart; fortunately, Bourrienne ceased not to argue against this jealousy of Bonaparte, and to assure him again and again that Josephine was innocent, that she had committed nothing to excite his anger.

Finally, after three days of complaints and dreary accusations, love conquered in the heart of Bonaparte.  He went to Josephine.  She advanced to meet him with tears in her eyes, but with a soft, tender smile.  The sight of her gracious appearance, her blanched cheeks, moved him, and, instead of explanations and mutual recriminations, he opened his arms to her, and she threw herself on his breast with a loud cry of exultation.

Then came the explanations.  He now believed that she had left Paris hurriedly for the sake of meeting him; and, as regarded the dangerous “blond,” the private secretary of Barras, M. Charles Botot, Josephine smilingly handed to her husband a letter she had received from him a few days before.  In this letter Charles Botot acknowledged his long-cherished affection for her daughter Hortense, and he claimed her hand in due form.

“And you have doubtless accepted his offer?” asked Bonaparte, his face overcast again.  “Since, unfortunately, you are married yourself, and he cannot be your husband, then of course he must marry the daughter, so as to be always near the mother.  M. Charles Botot is no doubt to be your son-in-law?  You have accepted his hand?”

“No,” said she, softly, “we have refused it, for Hortense does not love him, and she will follow her mother’s example, and marry only through love.  Besides,” continued Josephine, with a sweet smile, “I wanted him no longer.”

“You wanted him no longer!  How is this?” asked General Bonaparte, eagerly.

“Barras has sent him his dismissal,” said she, looking at her husband with an expression of cunning roguery.  “M.  Botot could no longer, as he has hitherto been—­without, however, being conscious of it—­be my spy in the Directory; I could no longer learn from him what the Directory were undertaking against my Bonaparte, against the hero whom they envy and caluminate so much, nor in what new snares they wished to entangle him!  What had I to do with Botot, since he could not furnish me news of the intrigues of your enemies, nor afford me the chance of counteracting them?  Charles Botot was nothing more to me than a mere lemon, which I squeezed for your sake; when there was nothing left in it I threw it away.”