Geneviève comprehended, from this sight alone, the reason of her own melancholy. She said to herself, "It is with flowers as with certain friendships which we nourish and cultivate with ardor till they bloom in the heart, and then, in a moment, a suspicion, a caprice, an unkindness strikes at the root of this friendship, and the heart that it had revived again contracts, languishes, and dies." The young woman experienced a sensation of anguish. She examined her inmost thoughts; the sentiments she had endeavored to combat, and which she had hoped to conquer, she feared now more than ever would only die with her; then she felt a moment's despair, for she knew the struggle would become more and more impossible. She meekly bowed her head, imprinted a kiss upon the withered flowers, and wept.
Her husband entered at this moment. He, on his side, was too much preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice the trying ordeal through which his young wife was passing, nor did he pay the least attention to the tell-tale redness of her eyelids.
It is true Geneviève rose quickly to meet him, and in so doing turned her face from the window, standing in the dim light.
"Well?" said she.
"Well, nothing new; impossible to approach her, impossible to convey any message to her, impossible even to see her."
"What!" cried Geneviève, "with all the noise there has been in Paris?"
"It is this very uproar which has made the guard redouble their vigilance, from the fear that some might avail themselves of the general excitement to make an attempt on the Temple; and the very moment when her Majesty was about to walk upon the platform, an order was given by Santerre that neither the queen, Madame Royale, nor Madame Elizabeth should go out to-day."
"The poor chevalier! he must be sadly disappointed."
"He was in despair when he saw the chance had thus escaped us, and turned so pale that I had to drag him away lest he should betray himself."
"But," asked Geneviève, timidly, "was there not then at the Temple any municipal of your acquaintance?"