eleven at night
The dismissed ones thirsted with a desire for vengeance , and took every opportunity to inflame the passions of their own particular set against the King , some of them openly declaring their readiness to side with the Revolutionary party , and help it to power . But over the seething volcano of discontent , the tide of fashion moved as usual , to all outward appearances tranquil , and absorbed in trivialities of the latest description ; and though many talked , few dreamed that the mind of the country , growing more compressed in thought , and inflammable in nature every day , was rapidly becoming like a huge magazine of gunpowder or dynamite , which at a spark would explode into that periodically recurring fire-of-cleansing called Revolution . Weighted with many thoughts , Sir Roger de Launay , whose taciturn and easy temperament disinclined him for argument and kept him aloof from discussion whenever he could avoid it , sat alone one evening in his own room which adjoined the King 's library , writing a few special letters for his Majesty which were of too friendly a nature to be dealt with in the curt official manner of the private secretary . Once or twice he had risen and drawn aside the dividing curtain between himself and the King 's apartment to see if his Royal master had entered ; but the room remained empty , though it was long past eleven at night . He looked every now and again at a small clock which ticked with a quick intrusive cheerfulness on his desk , -- then with a slight sigh resumed his work . Letter after letter was written and sealed , and he was getting to the end of his correspondence , when a tap at the door disturbed him , and his sister Teresa , the Queen 's lady-in-waiting , entered . `` Is the King within ? ''