Certainly, one who had lost a throne and liberty, and perhaps would lose her life, had lost enough for no one to chaffer about the degree of her despair, and not to seek behind her deep abasement if some keener sorrow still did not draw these tears from her eyes and sobs from her bosom.
Owing to the respect inspired by this supreme grief, she had been left alone at the first.
She heard the room door open, but as it might be that from the king's, she did not turn; though she heard steps approaching her pillow, she did not lift her head from it.
But suddenly she sprung up, as though a serpent had stung her.
A well-known voice had simply uttered the single word, "Madame."
"Andrea?" cried Marie Antoinette, rising on her elbow. "What do you want?"
"I want the answer God demanded of Cain when He said, 'What have you done with your brother'?"
"With this difference," returned the queen, "That Cain had killed his brother; whereas I—so gladly—would give not only my existence, but ten lives, to save his dear one."
Andrea staggered; a cold sweat burst out on her forehead, and her teeth chattered.
"Then he was killed?" she faltered, making a great effort.