"Hermionie! Hermionie! where are you?"
It was the Empress's voice across the garden calling her.
"The Empress," said the man. "Good night, my sweet; sleep soundly and dream of me; don't let your loving heart be troubled with anxious thoughts. All will be well with you."
He kissed her again, then sprang away into the darkness; and Hermionie hastened to the tower, where she found the Empress with St. Just standing by her side. It was on the verge of dawn, and they were gazing silently upon the view. Below them in the distance the Seine meandered, and to their left the bridge of St. Cloud could be just discerned.
The Empress was the first to speak.
"See, the clouds are breaking, the mists disperse, another day is dawning. We can just begin to see the green tops of the trees in the wood (the Bois de Boulogne); and yonder is Butte Montmartre, its summit crowned with those aged trees. Oh! how beautiful! And how fresh is everything in nature when the sun first wakes the world! See the first glimmer of his rays reflected far away on the dome of the Invalides. And now one can discern the shadowy forms of the houses of Paris emerging into view, as the mist floats slowly away. Ah! Paris, dear delightful, thoughtless, witty, restless, lively Paris, how I love you. But you are cruel too. Tell me my fate, you complex City. Will my Emperor return to me?"
She stretched her arms out appealingly to the slumbering city.
The birds were wakening into life and beginning to twitter amongst the shrubs; and some were already breaking into song. A lark was making melody in the sky above, carolling his earliest matins with joyous notes, trilling a welcome to the new-born day.
"Nature herself replies to your Majesty's behest," put in St. Just. "That bird forecasts your fate. Your life is to be one unending song."
He leaned forward and took her hand; then raised it to his lips.