MALMAISON. THE EMPRESS JOSÉPHINE’S BEDCHAMBER [The walls are in white panels, with gilt mouldings, and the furniture is upholstered in white silk with needle-worked flowers. The long windows and the bed are similarly draped, and the toilet service is of gold. Through the panes appears a broad flat lawn adorned with vases and figures on pedestals, and entirely surrounded by trees—just now in their first fresh green under the morning rays of Whitsunday. The notes of an organ are audible from a chapel below, where the Pentecostal Mass is proceeding. JOSÉPHINE lies in the bed in an advanced stage of illness, the ABBÉ BERTRAND standing beside her. Two ladies-in-waiting are seated near. By the door into the ante-room, which is ajar, HOREAU the physician-in-ordinary and BOURDOIS the consulting physician are engaged in a low conversation.]

HOREAU Lamoureux says that leeches would have saved her Had they been used in time, before I came. In that case, then, why did he wait for me?

BOURDOIS Such whys are now too late! She is past all hope. I doubt if aught had helped her. Not disease, But heart-break and repinings are the blasts That wither her long bloom. Soon we must tell The Queen Hortense the worst, and the Viceroy.

HOREAU Her death was made the easier task for grief [As I regarded more than probable] By her rash rising from a sore-sick bed And donning thin and dainty May attire To hail King Frederick-William and the Tsar As banquet-guests, in the old regnant style. A woman’s innocent vanity!—but how dire. She argued that amenities of State Compelled the effort, since they had honoured her By offering to come. I stood against it, Pleaded and reasoned, but to no account. Poor woman, what she did or did not do Was of small moment to the State by then! The Emperor Alexander has been kind Throughout his stay in Paris. He came down But yester-eve, of purpose to inquire.

BOURDOIS Wellington is in Paris, too, I learn, After his wasted battle at Toulouse.

HOREAU Has his Peninsular army come with him?

BOURDOIS I hear they have shipped it to America, Where England has another war on hand. We have armies quite sufficient here already— Plenty of cooks for Paris broth just now! —Come, call we Queen Hortense and Prince Eugène. [Exeunt physicians. The ABBÉ BERTRAND also goes out. JOSÉPHINE murmurs faintly.]

FIRST LADY [going to the bedside] I think I heard you speak, your Majesty?

JOSÉPHINE I asked what hour it was—-if dawn or eve?

FIRST LADY Ten in the morning, Madame. You forget You asked the same but a brief while ago.

JOSÉPHINE Did I? I thought it was so long ago!... I wish to go to Elba with him so much, But the Allies prevented me. And why? I would not have disgraced him, or themselves! I would have gone to him at Fontainebleau, With my eight horses and my household train In dignity, and quitted him no more.... Although I am his wife no longer now, I think I should have gone in spite of them, Had I not feared perversions might be sown Between him and the woman of his choice For whom he sacrificed me.

SECOND LADY It is more Than she thought fit to do, your Majesty.

JOSÉPHINE Perhaps she was influenced by her father’s ire, Or diplomatic reasons told against her. And yet I was surprised she should allow Aught secondary on earth to hold her from A husband she has outwardly, at least, Declared attachment to.

FIRST LADY Especially, With ever one at hand—his son and hers— Reminding her of him.

JOSÉPHINE Yes.... Glad am I I saw that child of theirs, though only once. But—there was not full truth—not quite, I fear— In what I told the Emperor that day He led him to me at Bagatelle, That ’twas the happiest moment of my life. I ought not to have said it. No! Forsooth My feeling had too, too much gall in it To let truth shape like that!—I also said That when my arms were round him I forgot That I was not his mother. So spoke I, But oh me,—I remembered it too well!— He was a lovely child; in his fond prate His father’s voice was eloquent. One might say I am well punished for my sins against him!

SECOND LADY You have harmed no creature, madame; much less him!

JOSÉPHINE O but you don’t quite know!... My coquetries In our first married years nigh racked him through. I cannot think how I could wax so wicked!... He begged me come to him in Italy, But I liked flirting in fair Paris best, And would not go. The independent spouse At that time was myself; but afterwards I grew to be the captive, he the free. Always ’tis so: the man wins finally! My faults I’ve ransomed to the bottom sou If ever a woman did!... I’ll write to him— I must—again, so that he understands. Yes, I’ll write now. Get me a pen and paper.

FIRST LADY [to Second Lady] ’Tis futile! She is too far gone to write; But we must humour her. [They fetch writing materials. On returning to the bed they find her motionless. Enter EUGÈNE and QUEEN HORTENSE. Seeing the state their mother is in, they fall down on their knees by her bed. JOSÉPHINE recognizes them and smiles. Anon she is able to speak again.]

JOSÉPHINE [faintly] I am dying, dears; And do not mind it—notwithstanding that I feel I die regretted. You both love me!— And as for France, I ever have desired Her welfare, as you know—have wrought all things A woman’s scope could reach to forward it.... And to you now who watch my ebbing here, Declare I that Napoléon’s first-chose wife Has never caused her land a needless tear. Tell him—these things I have said—bear him my love— Tell him—I could not write! [An interval. She spasmodically flings her arms over her son and daughter, lets them fall, and becomes unconscious. They fetch a looking-glass, and find that her breathing has ceased. The clock of the Chateau strikes noon. The scene is veiled.]