f
the dreary Escorial. His eyes were fixed on vacancy, and seemed utterly
lifeless--no desire, no thought, no will lent them light or expression.
A profound disgust for and weariness of everything in this life had
relaxed his lower lip, which fell sullenly, in a morose, pouting way.
His hands, excessively thin and white, lay listlessly upon his knees,
like those of certain Egyptian idols. And yet, for all, there was
a truly royal majesty about this mournful figure, which personified
France, and in whose veins flowed sluggishly the generous blood of Henri
IV.

The young baron had always thought of the king as a sort of supernatural
being, exalted above all other men. Glorious and majestic in his person,
and resplendent in sumptuous raiment, enriched with gold and precious
stones; and now he saw only this sad, motionless figure, clad in
dismal black, and apparently unconscious of his surroundings, sunk in a
profound reverie that none would dare to intrude upon. He had dreamed
of a gracious, smiling sovereign, showering good gifts upon his loyal
subjects, and here was an apathetic, inanimate being, who seemed capable
of no thought for any one but himself. He was sadly disappointed,
shocked, amazed; and he felt, with a sinking heart, how hopeless was his
own case. For even should he be able to approach this mournful, listless
monarch, what sympathy could be expected from him? The future looked
darker than ever now to this brave young heart. Absorbed in these
sorrowful reflections he walked silently along beside his companion, who
suspected his taciturn mood, and did not intrude upon it, until, as the
hour of noon approached, he suggested that they should turn their steps
homeward, so as to be in time for the mid-day meal. When they reached
the hotel they were relieved to find that nothing particular had
happened during their absence. Isabelle, quietly seated at table with
the others when they entered, received the baron with her usual sweet
smile, and held out her little white hand to him. The comedians asked
many questions about his first experiences in Paris, and inquired
mischievously whether he had brought his cloak, his purse, and his
handkerchief home with him, to which de Sigognac joyfully answered
in the affirmative. In this friendly banter he soon forgot his sombre
thoughts, and asked himself whether he had not been the dupe of a
hypochondriac fancy, which could see nothing anywhere but plots and
conspiracies.