Perhaps the Marquis’ vigorous action had broken the thread of Saint-Ermay’s rambling thoughts, for he went off at once on another trail, and for about an hour wandered from one subject to another, now fancying himself at Chantemerle, now in Paris, now playing again a forgotten childish game, now winning or losing (and usually the latter) at less innocuous sports. There were other matters too; and where Gilbert recognised a name it was difficult to avoid acquiring information. But how was it that, for the first time in his life, he felt disposed to condone the excessive number of his volatile kinsman’s _affaires du cœur_, fragmentary testimony to which was here offered him? He knew why, but would not acknowledge the answer. The stream of reminiscences began at last to run dry, and Louis relapsed into a quieter mood, merely muttering in a low tone to himself at intervals. He had ceased to toss, so, hoping that there was some near prospect of his sleeping, Gilbert went and sat down by him, and, almost timidly, took his hand. He was lying quite still now, but his eyes were wide open and fixed on the opposite wall. Gilbert wished that they would shut. Suddenly, and in a voice singularly altered, Saint-Ermay uttered another name. “Lucienne . . . Lucienne . . .” he said softly. The word lingered on his lips and died away. Every vein in the Marquis’ body hammered at its walls, but he sat motionless and did not withdraw his hand. After all, Louis had every right to speak of her; indeed, the extraordinary thing was that he had not done so before. And the fact that he still sat there was proof enough that Gilbert de Chantemerle expected to hear nothing that he should not have heard. For a moment there was silence. All the little sounds of the farm mounted up with intense clearness. A hen was clucking loudly in the yard below. Louis gave a long sigh that was almost a groan, and the fingers of his left hand locked themselves tightly into his cousin’s. Then the voice began again. “Lucienne, Lucienne . . . my love . . . I can’t . . . I can’t . . . O my God, if things had been different! What do you say . . . he trusts us . . . yes, he must never know . . . never know . . . nev——” The Marquis wrenched his hand free of the burning fingers which clutched now about his wrist, and staggered to his feet. And as Louis, checked by the withdrawal of his hand, tried ineffectually to struggle up on to his elbow, and fell back with a gasp, Château-Foix recoiled still further, for he was literally afraid lest he should stoop and strike his cousin on the mouth, and the horror of the knowledge of his impulse floated recognisable, for a second of time, on the surface of the fathomless tide of hate and revulsion which swept over him. CHAPTER XXI AT THE SIGN OF THE GOOD SAMARITAN