The scene, however, was not quite as the poet makes it out, but it was bad enough, if we may credit Madame Junot: ‘We have read of the revolutions of the seraglio: of those of the Lower Empire: of the assassinations of Russia; we have seen the blood-stained crowns of India given to vile eunuchs; but nothing in the pages of history presents any parallel to what passed at Fontainebleau during the days, and above all the nights, passed there by the hero, abandoned by fortune, and surrounded by those whom he supposed to be his friends. A thick veil was drawn over the event, for the principal actors in it carefully concealed their baseness from the eye of the world. Few persons are aware that Napoleon was doomed to death during the few days which preceded his abdication, by a band of conspirators composed of the most distinguished chiefs of the army. ‘“But,” said one of them in the council in which these demons discussed their atrocious project, “what are we to do with him? There are two or three among us, who, like Antony,[39] would exhibit their blood stained robes to the people, and make us play the part of Cassius and Brutus. I have no wish to see my house burned, and to be sent into exile.” “Well,” said another, “we must leave no trace of him. He must be sent to heaven like Romulus.” The others applauded, and then a most horrible discussion commenced. It is not in my power to relate the details. Suffice it to say that the Emperor’s death was proposed and discussed for the space of an hour, with a degree of coolness which might be expected among Indian savages armed with tomahawks. “But,” said he who had spoken first, “we must come to some determination. The Emperor of Russia is impatient. The month of April is advancing, and nothing has been done. Now, for the last time, we will speak to him of his abdication. He must sign it definitely--or----” A horrible gesture followed the last word. ‘Yes, the life of Napoleon was threatened by those very men whom he had loaded with wealth, honours, and favours; to whom he had given lustre from this reflection of his own glory. Napoleon was warned of the conspiracy, and it must have been the most agonising event of his whole life. The torments of St. Helena were nothing in comparison with what he must have suffered when a pen was presented to him by a man who presumed to say, “Sign--if you wish to live.” If these last words were not articulated, the look, the gesture, the inflection of the voice, expressed more than the tongue could have uttered.’ How these rats left the falling house!--Berthier, with a lie on his lips, promising to return, yet knowing full well he never meant to; Constant, his valet, running away with 100,000 francs, and burying them in the forest of Fontainebleau; and Rustan, the _faithful_ Mameluke, running away to Paris. Is it not a sickening sight to see these pitiful rogues deserting their master?