"Yes; dusty and, I believe, bloody with hard riding."
"Please to await me a moment," said the Queen to Broglie and the others, as she hurried into her private apartments.
[CHAPTER XIX.]
THE QUEEN'S FAVORITE.
On entering her boudoir, the Queen beheld the writer of the missive.
Count George Oliver Charny was a tall man of thirty-five, with a strong countenance warning one of his determination. His bluish grey eyes, quick and piercing as the eagle's, his straight nose, and his marked chin, all gave his physiognomy a martial expression, enhanced by the dashing elegance with which he wore his uniform of Lieutenant in the Royal Lifeguards.
His hands were still quivering under the torn lace ruffles: his sword had been so bent as to fit the sheath badly.
He was pacing the room, a prey to a thousand disquieting thoughts.
"My Lord Charny," cried Marie Antoinette, going straight up to him. "You, here?"