“Occupy your wits, then, with the question,” said Château-Foix, folding up the passport. “If you can hope to become yourself something other than the most hot-headed young fool in the universe, your reflections will not be wasted.” He gave Louis one of his rare smiles as he spoke. Lucienne’s letter met his fingers as he replaced the passport. God! what a cloud was rolled away in the last hour! To him, who was never troubled with excess of spirits, his heart seemed preposterously light—though all the while, deep down, throbbed a remorse which would not easily leave him. The sunshine and the blue sky—even the cheerful trot of the horses—were one with his rejoicing. They were safely out of Paris; Louis was rescued—was sitting here at his side, and once more it was good to have him there. The old feeling of affection came back with a force all the stronger for its temporary suspension, and he turned a little and put a hand on his cousin’s arm. “I wonder what I should have done if I could not have got you out of La Force!” he said. * * * * * * After Versailles Louis gradually ceased from converse, and, alleging that he was sleepy, settled himself in the corner of the chaise and closed his eyes. Gilbert, glancing once or twice at him, was struck with the way in which his face in repose had lost its life and gaiety, and attributed the extinction, with compassion, to regret for lost comrades and a ruined cause. For himself, he was composing in his mind an answer to Lucienne’s letter all the way from Saint Cyr to Trappes. The miles sped on uneventfully, but for the change of horses every two leagues. At Houdan, however, there was a long delay, caused by want of these animals, and it was dark when they got to Dreux. “I don’t know any of the inns,” said Gilbert. “Tell the postilion to go to a moderate-priced one; that will probably be safest.” Louis transmitted the order, and, remembering his part, got out when the chaise drew up in the courtyard of the Grand-Cerf and held the door open for his supposed master. But he forgot the baggage, and had to be sent back for it. “I feel very uneasy about you,” observed the Marquis, as Saint-Ermay deposited a valise on the floor of Gilbert’s room. “I know that you will never be able to keep up this servant role.” “Shall I not?” asked Louis, with a certain boyish enjoyment. “You will see, Monsieur le Marquis. I shall soon be asking for higher wages, especially if your valise gets any heavier. Are we going to have anything to eat?” “I shall have some supper served up here,” said Gilbert, looking worried. “But will it not seem strange if you have yours with me?” “Very,” said the Vicomte, who was evidently pining to play his part elsewhere. “I must have mine downstairs. Am I to engage myself a room?” “I would rather have you on a truckle-bed in here,” returned his kinsman apprehensively. “Ask them if they have one.”