The setting sun threw its parting rays over the earth, and pierced the windows of the imperial palace. The golden flood, softened by the crimson curtains, fell upon the charming features of the empress Josephine, as she sat in thoughtful attitude, with her head resting upon her hand, on a sofa of royal purple, near the centre of her chamber. A page, in waiting, stood near the door, carelessly humming a light ditty; his heart as sunny as his own native France. What a contrast with that which beat within the bosom of the empress! Care weighed heavily upon her breast. Long before her interview with Fouché she had, from the very cause hinted at by the minister, dreaded a withdrawal of her husband’s affections; but since that event her anxieties had doubly increased, and suspicion would take possession of her mind, amounting, at times, even to jealousy. Not that she apprehended his proceeding to that extreme at which the wily minister had hinted; no!—no person on earth could have persuaded her that he, whose joys and woes she had cheerfully shared, wished for a separation: but that some Syren would ensnare him with her charms, and usurp that place in his heart which she only should hold. All the powers she possessed were exerted by Josephine, in order to retain his love, and sometimes she fancied she had succeeded; for of late, in proportion as the sense of injustice he was about to do her, presented itself to his mind, he became more than usually kind and tender; but there were moments when a gloomy melancholy would settle upon her—an indefinable something that seemed to warn of approaching affliction. It was in one of those fits of abstraction, so foreign to her naturally cheerful nature, that she sat, as we have said, seemingly unconscious of all around, when the door opened, and Napoleon entered. He seemed disturbed, and trouble was vividly depicted in his expressive countenance. He motioned for the page to retire, and seated himself beside her. “Josephine!” he said. She started from her reverie, as he pronounced her name—for buried in thought, she had not observed his entrance—and bent upon him such a look, full of sweetness and affection, that it disarmed him; he could not proceed. He arose. He folded his arms upon his breast and paced to and fro; his brow was contracted,—his lips compressed; and the unquiet restlessness of his piercing eye, betokened the agitation he could scarce control. He thus continued for some moments. At length he stopped before her, as if his resolution was taken, and then again turned away, continuing to walk up and down the apartment with rapid and hasty strides. After a short time he stopped again. “It must be done,” he muttered, “I will acquaint her with it at once; delay but makes it still more difficult.” He made an effort to suppress his emotion, and seated himself beside her. But again his voice failed him, and he could only articulate,— “Josephine, prepare yourself for sad news.”