M. Maillard pulled at his chin. “You will be very uncomfortable,” he said slowly. “No, I really could not allow you to go there. You must give me the pleasure of your company for the night.” Gilbert protested in vain, and in the end they followed M. Maillard through his shop, where a lank-haired young assistant was putting away bottles, to his domicile behind. “Perhaps,” whispered Louis hopefully in his cousin’s ear, “the old boy has some more nieces here.” But he had not, and Gilbert could not help smiling at the Vicomte’s face of dismay, when the latter, in his capacity of valet, was handed over to the sour-visaged housekeeper who was sole ruler of M. Maillard’s establishment. But whatever kind of evening Louis spent—and Gilbert did not see him again that night—Château-Foix was not unagreeably occupied with the converse of the good old apothecary. And never, as they discussed their well-cooked meal, or fingered the books in the little study, did it occur to Gilbert to wonder why the old man had been so anxious to keep him, even at this cost, from going to the Croix Blanche—where, at the same hour, the local Jacobin club was holding its bi-weekly meeting, and where the landlord, the greatest patriot in all Mortagne, was concluding a peroration demanding the head of every aristocrat in Normandy. Of these things Gilbert was comfortably ignorant, and woke in the morning to find his cousin standing over him with a steaming jug in his hand. “I have brought your shaving water,” said he, shaking the Marquis vigorously. “Kindly get up at once, and remove me from the roof which shelters that accursed woman in its kitchen, or I shall denounce you as an aristocrat!” Gilbert hit out at him with his free arm, and Louis retreated laughing. “You have nearly dislocated my shoulder,” complained his victim, rubbing it. “Stay and help me to dress, as your duty is. Was the lady, then, so terrible?” The Marquis’ toilet was nearly completed when a heavy but feminine tread was heard approaching. Saint-Ermay sprang up from the arm of the chair on which he was perched. “Horrors! it’s that old woman!” he exclaimed. “Here, sit down, and give me your hair-ribbon or something!” He seized the comb from his cousin’s hand and pushing him into a chair, began upon Gilbert’s black locks with rather malicious energy as, in response to the Marquis’s permission, the housekeeper bore in his coffee and rolls. The door had hardly shut behind her ere Château-Foix snatched at the comb. “Thank Heaven that I am not usually in your power like this!” he ejaculated. “I should certainly cut my hair à la Titus to escape your ministrations. No, thanks, I’ll tie it myself. Have you had breakfast?” Louis nodded. “Ages ago—with that charmer. Shall I give you yours?”