“More than three-quarters of an hour, love, so you need not put on your cloak yet. Remember to take your smelling salts in your reticule, my dear. Some persons find them beneficial during the sea passage.—What is it, Henri?” “M. de Château-Foix’ valet, Madame,” said the man. “He has come with a message for Mademoiselle from his master, and begs that Madame will permit him to give it in person.” Madame Gaumont gave a sigh of relief. But, not knowing of what disconcerting news the messenger might be the bearer, she felt that she must interview him first herself. “I will come down immediately,” she said. “It is best that I should see him first, my dear child,” she added, casting a glance on Lucienne, into whose white cheeks had sprung a patch of red, and whose hands were grasping the arms of her chair. When she came back, panting a little from the ascent, Lucienne was walking nervously up and down the room. She tried to read Madame Gaumont’s face, and found it grave, for the good lady was not sure that she was about to do right. “There is nothing wrong, dear,” she said. “But Monsieur le Marquis has sent a better messenger than his valet.” “Louis—is it Louis?” gasped Lucienne. “His cousin—M. de Saint-Ermay, I think he said his name was,” went on Madame Gaumont, affecting not to notice the girl’s discomposure. “And so, my dear, as he comes straight from Monsieur le Marquis, I think you may go down and see him.—If I were a Frenchwoman I shouldn’t let her,” she thought to herself. “And M. de Château-Foix . . .?” faltered Lucienne. “I understand that he is following shortly. Go, my child—unless you would rather not.” Meanwhile Louis stood in the middle of the dismantled salon. It struck him as he waited that the room might be the bare boards of a stage, for the suddenness with which he had been precipitated there had given him something of the unreality of the player. Gilbert had told him how he had promised Lucienne that she should see them both before his departure, and they had been seated side by side in a fiacre on their way from the Hôtel des Etats-Généraux to the Rue Vieille-du-Temple, when the Marquis, who was even more silent than his wont, had pulled out his passport to examine it, and had uttered an exclamation of dismay. “There has been some mistake,” he said, in answer to his cousin’s query. “Here is a perfectly wrong description of you—it will never pass.” And thrusting his head out of the window he called to the driver to stop. “Go on and tell Lucienne that I will come as soon as I can,” he said hastily. “I must go back and rectify this.” And before Louis realised what had happened he was alone in the vehicle, driving on by himself to bid Lucienne farewell. The feeling of unreality did not wholly leave him when the door opened, and Lucienne came slowly in, ghostlike in her pallor, her quiet movements, and even in the way she looked at him, as over some indefinable barrier.