The
struggle was long, but gradually pride and passion yielded, and
love regained the ascendency. Napoleon so far surrendered on the
third day, as to enter the apartment of Josephine. She was seated at
a toilet-table, her face buried in her hands, and absorbed in the
profoundest woe. The letters, which she had received from Napoleon,
and which she had evidently been reading, were spread upon the
table. Hortense the picture of grief and despair, was standing in
the alcove of a window. Napoleon had opened the door softly, and
his entrance had not been heard. With an irresolute step he advanced
toward his wife, and then said, kindly and sadly, "Josephine!"
She started at the sound of that well-known voice, and raising her
swollen eyes, swimming in tears, mournfully exclaimed, "Monami"
--my friend . This was the term of endearment with which she had
invariably addressed her husband. It recalled a thousand delightful
reminiscences. Napoleon was vanquished. He extended his hand.
Josephine threw herself into his arms, pillowed her aching head
upon his bosom, and in the intensity of blended joy and anguish,
wept convulsively.
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