raised out
of her first existence as though it were upon the wings of a mighty
tempest, and in the dim horizon of the path along which her delirium
hurried her, she saw the stone which covered her tomb upraised, and the
dark and appalling interior of eternal night revealed to her distracted
gaze. But the horror of the dream which had possessed her senses soon
faded away, and she was again restored to the habitual resignation of
her character. A ray of hope penetrated her heart, as a ray of sunlight
streams into the dungeon of some unhappy captive. Her mind reverted to
the journey from Fontainebleau; she saw the king riding beside her
carriage, telling her that he loved her, asking for her love in return,
requiring her to swear, and himself swearing too, that never should an
evening pass by, if ever a misunderstanding were to arise between them,
without a visit, a letter, a sign of some kind, being sent, to replace
the troubled anxiety of the evening by the calm repose of the night. It
was the king who had suggested that, who had imposed a promise upon her,
who had himself sworn it also. It was impossible, therefore, she
reasoned, that the king should fail in keeping the promise which he had
himself exacted from her, unless, indeed, the king were a despot who
enforced love as he enforced obedience; unless, too, the king were truly
indifferent, that the first obstacle in his way were sufficient to
arrest his further progress. The king, that kind protector, who by a
word, by a single word, could relieve her distress of mind, the king
even joined her persecutors. Oh! his anger could not possibly last. Now
that he was alone, he would be suffering all that she herself was a prey
to. But he was not tied hand and foot as she was; he could act, could
move about, could come to her, while she could do nothing but wait. And
the poor girl waited, and waited, with breathless anxiety, for she
could not believe it possible that the king would not come.

It was now about half-past ten. He would either come to her, or write to
her, or send some kind word by M. de Saint-Aignan. If he were to come,
oh! how she would fly to meet him; how she would thrust aside that
excess of delicacy which she now discovered was misunderstood; how
eagerly she would explain: "It is not I who do not love you, it is the
fault of others who will not allow me to love you." And then it must be
confessed that as she reflected upon it, and also the more she
reflec