Her
blood raced indignantly in her veins as she thought of it. She admired
intellect, supremacy, the gifts of temperament, deeds of war and
adventure beyond all. As yet her brain was stronger than her feelings;
there had been no breakers of emotion in her life. A wife, she had no
child; the mother in her was spent upon her husband, whose devotion,
honour, name, and goodness were dear to her. Yet--yet she had a world of
her own; and reading Napoleon's impassioned letters to his wife, written
with how great homage! in the flow of the tide washing to famous
battle-fields, an exultation of ambition inspired her, and the genius of
her distinguished ancestors set her heart beating hard. Presently, her
face alive with feeling, a furnace in her eyes, she repeated a paragraph
from Napoleon's letters to Josephine:
The enemy have lost, my dearest, eighteen thousand men, prisoners,
killed, and wounded. Wurmzer has nothing left but to throw himself
into Mantua. I hope soon to be in your arms. I love you to
distraction. All is well. Nothing is wanting to your husband's
happiness, save the love of Josephine.
She sprang to her feet.
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