I consulted a person in whom I had confidence. She encouraged me in the name of God. I took a little coffee at her house, and felt my head improved. I returned to the palace with slow steps, pensive and irresolute, dreading to reach the fatal spot, and hoping that I might not find those who summoned me there. I arrived before five o'clock. Nothing indicated the departure of the prisoners. I went sadly up the steps of the Sainte-Chapelle; I walked in and around the great hall, I sat down, I rose again, I spoke to no one. I concealed within me the sorrow which was preying upon me. From time to time I cast a sad glance toward the courtyard, to see if any preparations for the procession were being made. My continual thought was, 'In two hours, in one hour, they will be no more.' I cannot express how this idea, which has afflicted me all my life in the too frequent and distressing occasions in which it has been recalled, afflicted me at that time. With so dreadful a cause of waiting, never did an hour appear to me at once so long and so short as that which I passed from five o'clock to six, by reason of the various thoughts which agitated me, and which rapidly drove my mind from the illusions of a vain hope to fears unhappily only too real. Finally, by the noise which came to my ears, I judged that the prison doors were about to be opened. I went down and took a position near the gate, as for a fortnight it had no longer been possible to obtain entrance into the courtyard. The first cart was filled and came toward where I stood. It contained eight ladies who seemed in a very edifying frame of mind; they were unknown to me. The ninth and last, to whom I was very near, was the Maréchale de Noailles. The absence of her daughter-in-law and granddaughter gave me one last faint ray of hope. But alas! they immediately entered the second cart. Madame de Noailles was dressed in white, which she had not ceased wearing since the death of her father-in-law and mother-in-law, the Maréchal de Mouchy and his wife. She appeared about twenty-four years old at the most. Madame d'Ayen, a lady of forty years, was in a striped _déshabillé_ of blue and white. I saw them, though at a little distance. Six men also got into the fatal car and took their places near them. I remarked that the first two took their stand at a little distance from the others, showing them by this respectful attention that they desired to leave them more free. From this I drew good auguries. Scarcely had they taken their places when the daughter exhibited toward the mother an eager and tender interest, which was remarked by all the bystanders. I heard them saying near me, 'Do you see how agitated that young lady is, and how she talks to the other one?' I saw that they were looking for me. I seemed to hear all that they said. 'Mamma, he is not there.' 'Look again.' 'Nothing escapes me, I assure you, Mamma; he is not there.'