He was thinking of the happiness, that for a few brief hours had been his, until he discovered how basely she had deceived him, and for all the full-flavour of his present elation it seemed to him that in that other happiness which he now affected to despise by contrast, there had dwelt a greater, a more contenting sweetness.
Would she come to Paris?
He had asked himself that question every day of the twenty that were spent since his return.

And in the meantime the Vicomte d'Ombreval lay in the prison of the Luxembourg awaiting trial.
That he had not yet been arraigned he had to thank the efforts of La Boulaye.

The young Deputy had informed Robespierre that for reasons of his own he wished the ci-devant Vicomte, to be kept in prison some little time, and the Incorruptible, peering at him over his horn-rimmed spectacles, had shrugged his shoulders and answered: "But certainly, cher Caron, since it is your wish.

He will be safe in the Luxembourg." He had pressed his protege for a reason, but La Boulaye had evaded the question, promising to enlighten him later.
Since then Caron had waited, and now it was more than time that Mademoiselle made some sign.

Or was it that neither Ombreval's craven entreaties nor his own short message had affected her?
Was she wholly heartless and likely to prove as faithless to the Vicomte in his hour of need as she had proved to him?
With a toss of the head he dismissed her from his thoughts, and dipping his quill, he began to write.
From the street came the dull roll of beaten drums and the rhythmical fall of marching feet.