She, also, was beginning to despair.

Their dreams were being completely shattered.

They stood silent, face to face, in the yellow drawing-room.
The day was drawing to a close, a murky winter day which imparted a muddy tint to the orange-coloured wall-paper with its large flower pattern; never had the room looked more faded, more mean, more shabby.
And at this hour they were alone; they no longer had a crowd of courtiers congratulating them, as on the previous evening.

A single day had sufficed to topple them over, at the very moment when they were singing victory.

If the situation did not change on the morrow their game would be lost.
Felicite who, when gazing on the previous evening at the ruins of the yellow drawing-room, had thought of the plains of Austerlitz, now recalled the accursed field of Waterloo as she observed how mournful and deserted the place was.