At Lucienne’s last words Madame Elisabeth had raised her hand in silent protest, for she could not find words before what seemed to her one of pain’s mysteries—unhappy love, ashamed at its own articulate confession. Every trace of self, of private sorrow or of remembrance of personal danger had left the Princess, for hers was one of those rare natures which can really identify themselves with another’s grief. To all who suffered her love and her pity went out unasked, but for those of her own family, and for those who for special reasons claimed her affection, she was more than ready to be spent and offered. On Lucienne in particular she had lavished all the affection of her tender and generous heart. But at this moment the Princess felt instinctively that she was going to fail Lucienne, and the knowledge was very bitter to her. Lucienne was looking to her for understanding, and she could not give it. The suffering, as suffering, called out her sympathy, but its nature was incomprehensible. The saints see with clearness that what the world calls suffering is not always misery, and that what the world calls happiness is not always joy, and are separated by this knowledge from the society in which they live far more effectually than by convent walls. And since Madame Elisabeth de France was a saint, it was her ideals, and not the fact that she had never known the force of human passion, which made her feel that she could hardly stop to be sorry for the girl whom she loved as her own daughter. She saw Lucienne’s way so plainly. Yet because she was very human, she dared not take the girl again into her arms, lest the words which she must speak should die upon her lips. It was possibly the last time that she should see Lucienne—for she never had any illusion as to the extremity of the danger which threatened the Royal Family, although for her brother’s sake she kept up the appearance of a brave heart. Immeasurable love and pity shone in her face as she looked at the bowed head. At last she put out her hands and took Lucienne’s into her own. Lucienne remembered to her last day what the woman who was her best friend found to say to her in the crisis of her life. There was no word of blame, no word of duty, no hint that she feared for the future. “My child,” said the Princess very gently, “the pain will not always be as it is now, and in the future there will be things to comfort you—perhaps the love of children. And remember always that it is only to the highly favoured that there comes the possibility of so great a sacrifice as yours.” CHAPTER VIII FURTHER OBSTINACY OF A CONSPIRATOR “Je n’oublierai jamais ce regard qui devait s’éteindre sitôt.” —CHATEAUBRIAND (of Marie Antoinette).