“Je t’ai vue au temps des lilas, Ton jeune cœur venait d’éclore, Et tu disais, ‘Je ne veux pas, Je ne veux pas qu’on m’aime encore !’ Qu’as-tu fait depuis mon départ? Qui part trop tôt revient top tard. . . .” —ALFRED DE MUSSET. The high roofs of the three pavilions of the Tuileries once more peered at Gilbert as for the second time that day he made his way towards the Cour du Carrousel. A huddle of buildings—hotels, barracks, livery-stables, dependencies of all kinds—screened the great court from the passers-by; and having threaded his way through these the Marquis, whose goal was not now the royal apartments, directed his steps to the extreme left-hand wing of the palace, the Pavillon de Flore. Here, on the ground floor, were the rooms of Madame de Lamballe, and above her dwelt the King’s sister, to whose apartments Château-Foix, presenting his card of entry to the sentinel, was presently admitted by the Escalier de la Reine. The room in which he waited for Lucienne was the same in which his cousin had brought her violets on a winter’s day six months ago. Now a pleasant sunlight filtered into it through the striped blinds, and it was full of the scent of roses. Among the pictures on the walls hung two portraits, both of women, and the Marquis guessed them to be those of Madame de Raigecourt and Madame de Bombelles, the Princess’ friends. This fact, and the presence of a little bronze crucifix standing on a table which bore a few books of devotion stamped with the arms of France, led him to suppose the room to belong to Madame Elisabeth herself. A half-finished piece of needlework lying on a chair somehow recalled Lucienne. All the shelter and refinement of the place, this very piece of embroidery, the roses and the sunlight, affected Gilbert with an odd sense of the contrast with his own uneasiness. They spelt security; yet its occupants must know—who better?—that the room had no such claim. It was but eleven days since the 20th of June. On that thought the Marquis found himself at the window. The great garden which it overlooked was deserted, as usual; yet, away on the other side, at right angles to the palace, he could see the terrace of the Feuillants swarming with people. Nothing, he knew, but a trivial bit of ribbon stretched between two chairs kept the crowd from overflowing into the garden of the Tuileries. But the ribbon was symbolic; moreover, it proclaimed those green alleys accursed—the “country of Coblentz,” the “black forest.” Nobody but the Royal Family, accursed too, and for whose sake they were banned, walked in them now.