“All right,” said Louis cheerfully. “I’ll say that you are subject to fits, or melancholia, or walk in your sleep. Au revoir!” He went out, and did not reappear for so long that the Marquis, after his supper, rang and asked for his valet, only to be told that he had gone out some time ago, and that there were some strolling players in the town, whose performance he was no doubt witnessing. When he at last came back Château-Foix fell upon him. “For God’s sake, Louis, don’t treat this affair as a jest. You ought never to have left the inn——” “And have people suggesting that we have a reason for lying low? That’s not my idea of prudent conduct,” retorted his cousin, unabashed. “I have been witnessing that noble play, _Le Patriotisme recompensé, ou l’Arrivée à Paris des Sauveurs de la Patrie_—in fact, I am not sure that after heartily applauding the artist who acted Drouet I did not join in the _Ça ira_. It will be an inconceivable protection to you, Gilbert, to have a valet of known Republican principles.” “I dare say it might, if there were the slightest chance of your remembering them,” said Gilbert gloomily. “Well, there’s no use arguing with you. Let’s get to bed, for we must start early to-morrow.” “I shall sleep across your door, like a feudal vassal,” announced the Vicomte, dragging at the little bed. “This affair fills me with the spirit of the faithful retainer. I am not sure that it doesn’t make me feel grey-haired—grown old in your service, Monsieur le Marquis. . . . For Heaven’s sake, don’t throw that pillow at me; just think if any one could see in. . . . But I said you were subject to fits.” “I forbid you to speak another word, then, Pierre,” said Château-Foix, laughing. “I am going to get into bed and sleep.”