In the mean time what was Napoleon doing at Paris.  Since the annulment of his marriage with Josephine he had gone into a sort of retirement.  Matters of state, war, internal reforms, no longer interested him; but that restless brain could not sink into repose.  Inflamed with the ardor of a new passion, that passion was all the greater because he had never yet set eyes upon its object.  Marriage with an imperial princess flattered his ambition.  The youth and innocence of the bride stirred his whole being with a thrill of novelty.  The painted charms of Josephine, the mercenary favors of actresses, the calculated ecstasies of the women of the court who gave themselves to him from vanity, had long since palled upon him.  Therefore the impatience with which he awaited the coming of Marie Louise became every day more tense.

For a time he amused himself with planning down to the very last details the demonstrations that were to be given in her honor.  He organized them as minutely as he had ever organized a conquering army.  He showed himself as wonderful in these petty things as he had in those great strategic combinations which had baffled the ablest generals of Europe.  But after all had been arranged—­even to the illuminations, the cheering, the salutes, and the etiquette of the court—­he fell into a fever of impatience which gave him sleepless nights and frantic days.  He paced up and down the Tuileries, almost beside himself.  He hurried off courier after courier with orders that the postilions should lash their horses to bring the hour of meeting nearer still.  He scribbled love letters.  He gazed continually on the diamond-studded portrait of the woman who was hurrying toward him.

At last as the time approached he entered a swift traveling-carriage and hastened to Compiegne, about fifty miles from Paris, where it had been arranged that he should meet his consort and whence he was to escort her to the capital, so that they might be married in the great gallery of the Louvre.  At Compiegne the chancellerie had been set apart for Napoleon’s convenience, while the chateau had been assigned to Marie Louise and her attendants.  When Napoleon’s carriage dashed into the place, drawn by horses that had traveled at a gallop, the emperor could not restrain himself.  It was raining torrents and night was coming on, yet, none the less, he shouted for fresh horses and pushed on to Soissons, where the new empress was to stop and dine.  When he reached there and she had not arrived, new relays of horses were demanded, and he hurried off once more into the dark.

At the little village of Courcelles he met the courier who was riding in advance of the empress’s cortege.

“She will be here in a few moments!” cried Napoleon; and he leaped from his carriage into the highway.

The rain descended harder than ever, and he took refuge in the arched doorway of the village church, his boots already bemired, his great coat reeking with the downpour.  As he crouched before the church he heard the sound of carriages; and before long there came toiling through the mud the one in which was seated the girl for whom he had so long been waiting.  It was stopped at an order given by an officer.  Within it, half-fainting with fatigue and fear, Marie Louise sat in the dark, alone.