Chapter 25 - Page 2

pulsation of her wrists, her neck, and temples, began to throb more and
more painfully. These pulsations, as they gradually increased, soon
changed into a species of brain fever, and in her temporary delirium she
saw the figures of her friends contending with her enemies, floating
before her vision. She heard, too, mingled together in her deafened
ears, words of menace and words of fond affection; she seemed raised out
of her 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 grim,
appalling texture of eternal night revealed to her distracted gaze. But
the horror of the dream which possessed her senses 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 to swear 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 with the calm repose of the night. It was the king who had
suggested that, who had imposed a promise on her, and who had sworn to it
himself. It was impossible, therefore, she reasoned, that the king
should fail in keeping the promise which he had himself exacted from her,
unless, indeed, Louis was a despot who enforced love as he enforced
obedience; unless, too, the king were so indifferent that the first
obstacle in his way was sufficient to arrest his further progress. The
king, that kind protector, who by a word, 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