“Are you not better pleased to salute me Emperor than general?” he persisted, without noticing her serious looks. “I am—for the higher title endows you with the prerogative of mercy,” she replied; “and I have an appeal to make to your clemency.” It was now Napoleon’s turn to relapse into gravity. Knitting his brows, he prepared himself sternly for resistance—ever on the watch lest the influence of Josephine over his mind should beguile him into some culpable weakness in matters of state. “How often have you promised me,” said he in a tone of severity, “to interfere no more with the course of public justice? Do you suppose that the privilege of according pardon is assigned to sovereigns, that they may gratify the caprices of their private feelings? Mercy should be exercised only to soften the too rigorous justice of the laws, or rectify the errors of public tribunals. To extend one’s hand in continual acts of forgiveness, is wantonly to multiply and strengthen the ranks of the enemies of government.” “Nevertheless, sire,” remonstrated Josephine, concealing with her handkerchief the tendency to mirth which she could scarcely repress, “you will certainly comply with the request I am about to make.” “I doubt it.” “And I persist in my opinion; for it is an act of justice rather than of clemency, I implore at your hands. I demand that two oppressors should be removed from the post they hold! Yes, sire—let them be dismissed with ignominy—let them be condemned, and discarded for ever from the service of your majesty!” “How, Josephine!” cried Napoleon, “it is by _your_ lips that for once I am instigated to severity? Have _you_ become the advocate of punishment? Upon whom, pray, are you thus desirous to call down vengeance?” “Upon two flagstones, sire, which are superfluous in the pavement of a courtyard!” replied the Empress, indulging, unrestrained, in the merriment she had so long found it difficult to repress. “Two flagstones! are you making a jest of me?” cried Napoleon, in a severe tone, piqued at supposing himself treated with levity by his wife. “Never was I more truly in earnest,” replied Josephine, “for on the removal of these two stones depends the happiness of a suffering human being. Let me entreat your majesty’s attention to a history that requires your utmost indulgence, both towards myself and its unfortunate object.” And without farther circumlocution, she proceeded to acquaint him with the particulars of her singular interview with Teresa Girardi, and the devoted services of the poor girl towards a friendless prisoner, whose name she studiously kept concealed. While enlarging on the sufferings of the captive, on his passion for his plant, and the disinterestedness of his young and lovely advocate—all the natural eloquence of a humane and truly feminine heart flowed from her lips, and irradiated her speaking countenance.