And she was always exactly like the fair maiden of other years, with the same flower-like delicacy, the same tender tears, clear as smiles.

A species of intoxication came from her, the warm breath of which mounted to his face--the same shadow of a remembrance which made him at night throw himself on his devotional chair, sobbing so deeply that he disturbed the sacred silence of the Palace.

Until three o'clock in the morning of this same day he had contended with himself again, and this long history of love, this story of passion, would only revive and excite his incurable wound.

But behind his impassiveness nothing was seen, nothing betrayed his effort at self-control and his attempt to conquer the beating of his heart.

Were he to lose his life's blood, drop by drop, no one should see it flow, and he now simply became paler, was silent and immovable.
At last this great persistent silence made Angelique desperate, and she redoubled her prayers.
"I put myself in your hands, Monseigneur.