"I must obey, I must obey!" he kept saying. "Then I shall find rest. Indecision and torture will be over."
He computed the moments with burning anxiety.
"It must be tonight. When again shall I have the opportunity? Tomorrow I must return to Versailles."
He walked stealthily back and forth, between the garden and the theatre. The night advanced and the streets were growing deserted; the taverns were being emptied of their occupants; the great clock sounded two, then the half hour; the royal carriages drew up. The Carbonaro glided along the solitary street of Louvois and made his way amid a group of lackeys. His insignificant stature enabled him to remain there unmolested. He was supposed to be some hackney coachman or an assistant placed there for the purpose of guarding horses. Louis Pierre stood motionless close to the wall.
He had not long to wait. Prince Ferdinand descended the steps, accompanying his wife, who was leaving early, being fatigued from a ball which she had attended the previous night. The Prince intended remaining longer,—perchance to hover around some fair face. But, in order to forestall any jealous pangs, he whispered to her gallantly and affectionately, according to his winning nature:
"I shall be with you very soon."
The suspicious, ardent Italian wife and the impulsive, gallant husband were a happy devoted pair. Caroline had warned him, as they left the box, not to remain late.
"Don't wait for the sun to chase you home," she had said, half playfully, half seriously. "I must go now, myself, in order to—be careful of—our secret—the heir we are to give to France."
He reassured her tenderly, solicitously, pressing her arm to his side. On reaching the carriage, he spoke the words we have already reproduced and which are recorded in history as the last words of Ferdinand: "I shall be with you very soon."
She stepped lightly into the carriage and turned her head at the window to have a last look at her husband as he started towards the theatre. He was walking along the pavement of Rameau street, beneath the gay buntings. Louis Pierre stood among the lackeys and sentinels. When later, in the solitude of the dungeon, he lived again the tragic moments of his deed,—he could not understand how he accomplished with such admirable dexterity that which a half hour earlier seemed so difficult of execution. An invisible hand seemed to have guided him and sent his own hand unflinchingly to its task. That powerful man, surrounded by courtiers, friends and sentinels, who, drawn up on each side, presented arms; that man whose splendid physique was revealed through his elegant dress and who with one hand could have hurled to earth the puny creature inflicting death:—that man, Louis Pierre assured himself, had been delivered helpless and unsuspicious into his hands by Fate. He was no longer overpowered by the consciousness of his insignificance; no longer did he regard himself a despicable atom; within him was a species of lucid inebriation, a glorious wave of pride and confidence. His moment shone. The obscure plebeian had written his page of history.