Eugénie watched, holding her breath. Slowly the light died; the marble withdrew into the dark; and Louis Seize was once more with the ghosts.
Eugénie's fancy pursued him. She thought of the night of the 20th of January, 1793, when Madame Royale, in the darkness of the Temple, heard her mother turning miserably on her bed, sleepless with grief and cold, waiting for that last rendezvous of seven o'clock which the King had promised her--waiting--waiting--till the great bell of Notre Dame told her that Louis had passed to another meeting, more urgent, more peremptory still.
'Oh, poor soul!--poor soul!' she said, aloud, pressing her hands on her eyes.
'What on earth do you mean!' said Mrs. Welby's voice beside her--startled--stiff--a little suspicious.
'I beg your pardon!--I was thinking of Marie Antoinette.'
'I'm so tired of Marie Antoinette!' said the invalid, raising a petulant hand, and letting it fall again, inert. 'All the silly memorials of her they sell here!--and the sentimental talk about her! Arthur, of course, now--with his picture--thinks of nothing else.'
'I don't know. People are bored with Marie Antoinette. I wish he'd taken another subject. And as to her beauty--how could she have been beautiful, with those staring eyes, and that lower lip! I say so to Arthur--and he raves--and quotes Horace Walpole--and all sorts of people. But one can see for one's self. People are much prettier now than they ever were then! We should think nothing of their beauties.'
And the delicate lips of this once lovely child, this flower withered before its time, made a cold gesture of contempt.
In Eugénie's eyes, as they rested upon her companion, there was a flash--was it of horror?
Was she jealous even of the dead women whom Arthur painted?--no less than of his living friends?
Eugénie came close to her, took the irresponsive hand in hers, tucked the shawls closer round the wasted limbs, bent over her, chatting and caressing. Then, as the sun began to drop quickly, Madame de Pastourelles rose, and went to the corner of the château, to see if the gentlemen were in sight. But in less than a minute Mrs. Welby called her back.
'I must go in now,' she said, fretfully. 'This place is really _too_ cold!'