"Oh, your Majesty, what a dreadful misfortune!"
The Queen took the bunch of flowers and kissed the girl.
"Sire," whispered Charny to the King meanwhile, "something good may be done here; if your Majesty will spare me for an hour, I will go out and inquire how the wind turns."
"Do so, but be prudent," was the reply: "I shall never console myself if harm befalls you. Alas, two deaths are enough in one family."
"Sire, my life is as much the King's as my brothers'."
In the presence of the monarch his stoicism could be worn but he felt his grief when by himself.
"Poor Isidore," he muttered, while pressing his hand to his breast to see if he still had in the pocket the papers of the dead handed him by Count Choiseul, which he had promised himself to read as he would the last will of his loved one.
Behind the girls came their parents, almost all nobles or members of the upper middle class; they came timidly and humbly to crave permission to offer their respect to their unfortunate sovereigns. They could hardly believe that they had seen the unfortunate Dampierre hewn to pieces under their eyes a while before.
Charny came back in half an hour. It was impossible for the keenest eye to read the effect of his reconnoitre on his countenance.
"All is for the best, Sire," replied he to the King's inquiry. "The National Guard offer to conduct your Majesty to-morrow to Montmedy."