“Then why wish to be separated? why wish for a divorce? Oh! Napoleon, is it my fault that we have no children to bless our union? God has so willed it,” and her bosom heaved convulsively. He started as she pronounced the two first sentences, and compressed his lips as if to suppress the pang of conviction that shot through his heart. “Josephine,” said the emperor, tenderly, “some one has been poisoning your mind with idle tales. Who has it been?” She then related to him her interview with Fouché, and asked him to dismiss that minister as a penalty for his audacity in playing with her feelings. He strenuously denied the communication; but refused to dismiss him. “No,” said he, “circumstances compel me to retain him, though he well deserves my displeasure. But why give credit to such silly assertions, Josephine? Have I ever treated you but with affection? Have you discovered aught in my behaviour to warrant suspicion? No; believe me you are still dear to me. Banish those foolish fears from your breast then, and weep no more.” So saying, he imprinted a kiss upon her lips, and left the chamber to attend to the affairs of state. It was touching to hear such expressions of tenderness issue from the greatest monarch of his time, and to witness that act of devotion—to see that proud spirit unbent; but it was those tears of anguish, and the whisperings of that “still small voice” of conscience, that had humbled him, to whom kings and monarchs humbled themselves, and whose mighty mind aspired to the conquest of the world.