For more than a fortnight the two had lived together, and it spoke well for the restraint of Madame de Château-Foix that not until the last two or three days had she allowed herself to betray how overwrought she was becoming. The unsettled state of the country was not in itself sufficient to account for the entire absence of a letter or message of any kind from Gilbert, and the news of the temporary popularity of the King since the events of the 20th of June, which had filtered through to the provinces, was more puzzling than reassuring. On one count at least—that of Lucienne—the Marquise quite realised the need of her son’s journey to Paris, but her anxiety caused her to feel that even for that necessity there must be blame somewhere, and who was so near at hand to bear this as M. des Graves? There was no fault to find with him, and sometimes she wished that there had been. Moreover, his personal safety was beginning to be a care to her. She watched him now as he went down the steps to the terrace. Supposing that he met some official from Chantonnay? There lay open on her table a copy of Saint François de Sales, which her duty caused her to study. _La Vie Dévote_ was a favorite book with M. des Graves, and one which he usually carried in his pocket—a fact well known in the household since the celebrated day, years ago, when Louis, having obtained possession of his copy, had cut out its contents and, neatly substituting for them _Manon Lescaut_, had restored the metamorphosed volume to the priest’s cassock. The Marquise turned the pages at random and read: “La conduite la plus parfaite est celle qui est pleine de tranquillité, de quiétude et de repos.” She did not proceed any further, but glanced at the clock and shut the book with something like a snap. It was as if M. des Graves himself had spoken, and there were some things which M. des Graves did not understand, one of them being, she suspected, the heart of a mother. Madame de Château-Foix was a good woman and a dutiful daughter of the Church, but her piety was cast in the mould of action rather than of contemplation. Some women would have passed the hours of suspense in prayer, but with her to pray was to work. She spent the afternoon in a tour of inspection of all the living-rooms in the château, and it was nearly six o’clock when she returned to her boudoir, having satisfied herself that Gilbert’s bed was thoroughly aired. This gave her a feeling of his imminent arrival.