In a salon, on the _bel étage_ of the Grand Hôtel in the Boulevard des Italiens, sat the Empress Charlotte of Mexico, dressed entirely in black. Her face once so lovely, fresh, and charming, was pale and sad; it was already marked with deep lines which gave her the appearance of premature old age, her hair was entirely concealed beneath the black lace handkerchief which came low down on her forehead, her mouth had a restless nervous movement, and her wearied eyes shone at times with an unsteady feverish brilliancy. Before the empress stood General Almonte, the Mexican ambassador in Paris, a pleasing-looking man of the southern type. He gazed sadly at the princess, who not long before had crossed the sea to ascend the dazzling throne of Montezuma, in fabulous splendour, and who now sat before him broken down by the deepest sorrow; instead of Montezuma's diadem, she had found Guatimozin's crown of martyrdom. "You do not believe then, general," asked the empress in a trembling voice, "that anything is to be hoped from France?" "I do not believe it," replied the general gravely; "according to all that I have seen and heard here, the emperor is quite determined to withdraw quickly and definitely from the whole affair. If his majesty the Emperor Maximilian wishes to maintain his throne, (which I ardently desire for the sake of an unhappy country robbed by one adventurer after another)--he must not rely on France--he must find supporters in the country itself. Before all, he must endeavour to win back the firmest and mightiest support, which he has lost--the Church and the clergy; they will procure him both money and soldiers. Not here," added the general, "is help to be found; if your majesty takes my advice you will go to Rome--the pope alone can restore to the emperor the mighty power of the Mexican clergy--certainly he would require conditions, but quick action is needful, before it is too late," he added in a gloomy voice. "Oh!" cried the empress, standing up and walking up and down the room with hasty footsteps, "oh! that my noble, unhappy husband should have listened to the enticing words of that fiend, whom men call Napoleon; that he should have forsaken our beautiful Miramar, to hurl himself into this abyss, in which we sink deeper and deeper. If you knew," she cried, with sparkling eyes, as she stood still before the general, "how I entreated him, this man--he went to St.-Cloud, to avoid me," she cried, speaking quicker and with still greater excitement; "I followed him there, I pressed myself upon him, I begged and implored him, I repressed all the anger in my heart, I prayed to him as we pray to God, I threw myself at his feet, I, the grand-daughter of Louis Philippe, threw myself at the feet of the son of that Hortense--oh! my God!" She sank back exhausted on the sofa. "And what did the emperor reply?" asked the general, looking with deep compassion at the unhappy lady, whose diadem weighed so heavily upon her brow.