When the child had been taken upstairs, and Gilbert had vanished in the same direction, the Marquis looked enquiringly at his wife. “He is a beautiful boy,” said she slowly. “And a very bright one,” returned M. de Château-Foix. “I assure you, he has proved an excellent travelling companion.” “And as a companion for Gilbert?” queried the Marquise. “He should do him all the good in the world,” responded her husband promptly. “Gilbert wants rousing; you know my views about him, Félicité. Louis is—let me see—just about two years younger than he. I don’t know what sort of an education he has had—probably a somewhat fragmentary one, since his father died, at least—but if it is at all possible for them to have lessons together, the stimulus may be of great gain to Gilbert. We must see what M. des Graves says.” The Marquise gave a little sigh. “It will all be so different,” she said regretfully. “Of course it will, my love,” said the Marquis cheerfully. “I hope it will also be better. It is not good for children to play alone.” And, taking his leave of his wife, he went to change his travelling clothes, while Madame de Château-Foix slowly made her way to the apartment of the new arrival. She found him, perfectly undisturbed by the grave and speculating gaze of Gilbert, chatting confidentially to the old nurse who was brushing out his curls. * * * * * * Between ten and eleven the next morning Madame de Château-Foix espied from the window the cassocked form of M. des Graves coming up the avenue, and she also saw her husband go to meet him, as he often did. From the time of their marriage the Marquis had been wont to speak with pride of a long-trusted friend, who was at once a priest and a man of the great world. His name, she knew, promised to be an illustrious one, and it was whispered that the Papal Court had more than once offered him preferment. But she had never met him until the influence which she had always vaguely felt became a reality. When Gilbert was a boy of six or seven this courtier-priest—for such she had always pictured him—accepted, to her amazement, the living of Chantemerle. For what reason Sébastien des Graves had been content to take upon himself the duties of an obscure village curé she could not guess, and her husband, whom she naturally suspected of knowing, preserved an impenetrable silence on the point. The Marquise suddenly unfastened the window and stepped out on to the flight of steps which led down to the garden. The two men saw her, and, leaving the gravel, made their way over the wet grass. A clear sky had followed on yesterday’s rain, and the birds were singing. “Good-morning, Father,” she said as they began to ascend the steps. “Your new pupil is already in the library with Gilbert awaiting you.”