"Died with you, René."
He stooped and kissed her eyes, holding her close in his arms.
[Chapter VII]
THE INTERVIEW
On reaching the appointed place, the Duchess fell upon a garden seat, seemingly very tired. Taking a lace handkerchief from the reticule which hung at her wrist, she wiped the perspiration from her forehead. She consulted the watch at her belt and found it lacked ten minutes of the time set. She sighed, resigning herself to wait.
At last she heard the approach of footsteps; some moments later a man with uncovered head stood before her. Marie Thérèse de Bourbon uttered no cry. She was stricken dumb. After so many years, she beheld standing before her against the crimson background of the sky, which looked like a nimbus of blood, the Past, the terrible, tragic Past. It surged again to overwhelm her, that Past, the sorrows of which seemed to have been calmed by time; the terrors of the prison; the flaring up of frail hopes destined to be dashed to earth; the incertitude of the fate of loved ones; ardent prayers to heaven to work miracles; entreaties; outrages; infinite despair: all these rose again out of that terrible Past and stood before her.
She could not speak; she could scarcely see; but she felt hot tears through her silk skirt and trembling arms clasp her knees while a heart-rending voice cried:
"Marie Thérèse! Marie Thérèse!"
"Rise," she said at last, almost inaudibly. "Be seated."