And the poor girl waited, and waited, with breathless anxiety, for she could not believe it possible that the king would not come.
It was now about half-past ten.

He would either come to her, or write to her, or send some kind word by M.de Saint-Aignan.

If he were to come, oh! how she would fly to meet him; how she would thrust aside that excess of delicacy which she now discovered was misunderstood; how eagerly she would explain: "It is not I who do not love you, it is the fault of others who will not allow me to love you." And then it must be confessed that as she reflected upon it, and also the more she reflected, Louis appeared to her to be less guilty.

In fact, he was ignorant of everything.

What must he have thought of the obstinacy with which she remained silent?
Impatient and irritable as the king was known to be, it was extraordinary that he had been able to preserve his temper so long.