The Pere Anselme had been away when she arrived, at the deathbed of an old sister at Versailles, so she was utterly alone in her grim castle, with only the waves.
The once looked-for letters from Henry were a dreaded tie now.

She would have to answer them!--and as his grew more tender and loving, so hers unconsciously became more cold, with a note of bitterness in them sometimes of which she was unaware.
And Henry, in Paris with Moravia, wondered and grieved, and grew sick at heart as the days went on.

He had let his political ambitions slide, and lingered there as being nearer his adored one, instead of going home.
Now love was playing his sad pranks with all of them, and the Princess Torniloni was receiving her share.

The constant companionship of Henry had not made her feelings more calm.

She was really in love with him with all that was best and greatest in her sweet nature, and it was changing her every idea.