Marie Louise had been brought up, as all German girls of rank were then brought up, in quiet simplicity and utter innocence.  In person she was a tall blonde, with a wealth of light brown hair tumbling about a face which might be called attractive because it was so youthful and so gentle, but in which only poets and courtiers could see beauty.  Her complexion was rosy, with that peculiar tinge which means that in the course of time it will become red and mottled.  Her blue eyes were clear and childish.  Her figure was good, though already too full for a girl who was younger than her years.

She had a large and generous mouth with full lips, the lower one being the true “Hapsburg lip,” slightly pendulous—­a feature which has remained for generation after generation as a sure sign of Hapsburg blood.  One sees it in the present emperor of Austria, in the late Queen Regent of Spain, and in the present King of Spain, Alfonso.  All the artists who made miniatures or paintings of Marie Louise softened down this racial mark so that no likeness of her shows it as it really was.  But take her all in all, she was a simple, childlike, German madchen who knew nothing of the outside world except what she had heard from her discreet and watchful governess, and what had been told her of Napoleon by her uncles, the archdukes whom he had beaten down in battle.

When she learned that she was to be given to the French emperor her girlish soul experienced a shudder; but her father told her how vital was this union to her country and to him.  With a sort of piteous dread she questioned the archdukes who had called Napoleon an ogre.

“Oh, that was when Napoleon was an enemy,” they replied.  “Now he is our friend.”

Marie Louise listened to all this, and, like the obedient German girl she was, yielded her own will.

Events moved with a rush, for Napoleon was not the man to dally.  Josephine had retired to her residence at Malmaison, and Paris was already astir with preparations for the new empress who was to assure the continuation of the Napoleonic glory by giving children to her husband.  Napoleon had said to his ambassador with his usual bluntness: 

“This is the first and most important thing—­she must have children.”

To the girl whom he was to marry he sent the following letter—­an odd letter, combining the formality of a negotiator with the veiled ardor of a lover: 

My cousin:  The brilliant qualities which adorn your person have inspired in me a desire to serve you and to pay you homage.  In making my request to the emperor, your father, and praying him to intrust to me the happiness of your imperial highness, may I hope that you will understand the sentiments which lead me to this act?  May I flatter myself that it will not be decided solely by the duty of parental obedience?  However slightly the feelings of your imperial highness may incline to me, I wish to cultivate them with so great care, and to endeavor so constantly to please you in everything, that I flatter myself that some day I shall prove attractive to you.  This is the end at which I desire to arrive, and for which I pray your highness to be favorable to me.