"Your majesty is the _judge_," she said, "then let me be the _advocate_ of the honour of France, my blood gives me this right, the blood of Henri Quatre flows in my veins, and my grandfather was the French king!" The emperor's long eyelashes were raised, and his angry eyes gazed on the excited woman who sat trembling before him. He stood up. The empress also rose. She pressed both hands upon her heart, her whole form swayed to and fro with the violent effort she made to recover her calmness. "Sire," she said in a low soft voice, "forgive the wife who pleads for the honour and the life of her husband, if her zeal has made her speak too boldly in a cause which must ever be to her the highest and the holiest on earth. Sire, I implore you for God's sake, for the sake of eternal mercy,--have pity on us, give us your protection one year longer, or give us money, if the blood of France is too precious." And with an imploring look of indescribable anguish she gazed up at this man, from whose mouth the words of hope could come, which she might bear back to the husband longing for her with such weary anxiety, refreshing his harassed soul with new strength. Napoleon spoke in a cold voice. "Madame, the greatest service at this grave moment is perfect truth and openness. I should sin against your majesty, if I allowed you to entertain vain hopes. My decision is as unalterable as the necessity that dictates it. I have nothing more for Mexico--not a man, not a franc!" The features of the empress grew frightfully distorted, the whites of her eyes grew red as blood, a flaming brightness glowed in her gaze, her lips receded and showed her gloaming white teeth; with outstretched arms she walked close up to the emperor, and with hissing breath that seemed to drive the words from her breast, she cried in a voice which no longer sounded human: "Yes! it is true, the image of my dream, the horrible apparition of my sleep! there he stands with his goblet of blood!--demon of hell!--executioner of my family!--murderer of my husband!--laughing devil!--murder me, the grand-daughter of Louis Philippe,--of that king who rescued you from misery, and saved you from the scaffold." As if before some supernatural appearance the emperor slowly stepped backwards to the door. The empress stood still, and stretching out her hand towards him she cried, whilst her features grew more frightfully convulsed, and her eyes glowed more wildly: "Hence, fiend! but take with thee my curse. The curse which God hurled at the head of the first murderer shall destroy thy throne! flames shall blot out thy house! and when thou liest in the dust from whence thou hast risen, expiring in shame and weakness, the avenging angel shall shake the depths of thy despairing soul with the cry of 'Charlotte and Maximilian!'"