“No one,” said he.
“Where did the scenes pass that you have described?”
“Oh, madame! I had a shock when I returned to you; for she stood just where you are at this moment.”
“Here!” cried the queen, leaving the place with disgust.
“Yes, madame; under the chestnut tree.”
“Then, sir, let us move, for they will most likely come here again.”
He followed the queen to a different place. She, silent and proud, waited for the proof of her innocence to appear. Midnight struck. The door did not open. Half an hour passed, during which the queen asked ten times if they had always been punctual.
Three-quarters struck—the queen stamped with impatience. “They will not come,” she cried; “these misfortunes only happen to me;” and she looked at Charny, ready to quarrel with him, if she saw any expression of triumph or irony: but he, as his suspicions began to return, grew so pale and looked so melancholy, that he was like the figure of a martyr.
At last she took his arm, and led him under the chestnut tree. “You say,” she murmured, “that it was here you saw her?”
“Yes, madame.”