Louis looked at her for a moment quizzically. “I don’t want to see him at all,” he said. “It will merely mean making arrangements for leaving you, and you cannot think that I desire to make those, can you, Madame? But consider, this cousin of mine has an adoring mother who is anxiously awaiting him at this very moment—not to speak of a whole tenantry to whom he is a sort of deity. You would not have me set my own poor happiness, which undoubtedly consists in remaining where I am, against maternal affection and feudal feeling!” Madame Geffroi sniffed. “Huh! And is there no one who expects _you_ back with anxiety, my young man?” Two patches of colour flared for an instant in Saint-Ermay’s pale cheeks as he responded: “Alas, no, Madame, nobody.—I am wrong; there is an old man who will be very glad to see me. But come now——” “As if you were fit to think of going away,” grumbled his jailor. “You shall see your cousin to-morrow.” Louis shook his head. “Like all your sex, you must be convinced, I see, by ocular demonstration. How can you say that I am not fit for anything?” He got up suddenly from the chair, and the shawl which adorned his shoulders slipped to the ground, revealing the fact that his left arm was not only supported in a sling but was bound to his side, a precaution of his nurse’s to prevent his using his shoulder. He advanced laughing on her, a slim boyish figure in shirt and breeches. “I swear I’ll kiss you if you don’t fetch my cousin!” said he. Madame Geffroi put up her hands with a squeal, and backed rapidly from the reach of the one effective arm. “You are a graceless young scamp!” she said from the door, but she was laughing too. “You shall have your cousin, then!”