But nothing approached. Silence, that mortal enemy of restless hearts, and of ambitious minds, shrouded in the thickness of its gloom during the remainder of the night the future king of France, who lay there sheltered beneath his stolen crown. Towards the morning a shadow, rather than a body, glided into the royal chamber; Philippe expected his approach and neither expressed nor exhibited any surprise.

“Well, M. d’Herblay?”

“Well, sire, all is accomplished.”

“How?”

“Exactly as we expected.”

“Did he resist?”

“Terribly! tears and entreaties.”