"Go, my son, and embrace the lady," said Napoleon, dropping the hand
of the prince. He advanced, while his father stood at the table in
the middle of the room, supporting his right hand on the marble
slab. He looked gravely but kindly upon the empress, from whom he
felt separated, by the presence of his child, as by an impassable
gulf.
The little prince offered his hand to the empress with a smile, and
Josephine drew him into her arms, pressing his head to her bosom. A
sigh, in spite of herself, came from the depths of her heart. She
slowly bent back the boy's head and gazed at him with a mournful but
loving expression. Then her glance fell upon the emperor, and, with
an indescribable look of love and tenderness, she said: "Sire, he is
like you; God bless him for it!"
There was something so touching and heartfelt in these words--in the
tone of her voice, and the glance of her eyes, that the emperor was
profoundly moved, and responded only by a silent nod, not venturing
to speak lest the tremor of his words should betray his emotion.
Even the little king seemed to understand the excellent heart of
this lady. He clung to her and said in a sweet voice, "I love you,
madame, and want you to love me, too!"
"I love you, sire," cried Josephine, "and shall pray God every day
to preserve you to your father--to your parents," she corrected
herself with the self-abnegation of a true woman.
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