“Because I am a druggist’s assistant,” murmured the Vicomte to his plate. “Did you say that you wanted the bread?” enquired the Curé across the table. Louis took a piece without explaining, but as he did so he lifted his eyes to the priest’s. Their meaning—which M. des Graves did not visibly acknowledge—was “You are beaten!” Gilbert pushed away his wine glass with a sigh. “It is a long story,” he said slowly, trying mentally to arrange it under headings. “Suppose you give us the outlines,” suggested the priest. “Tell me first,” put in Madame de Château-Foix quickly, “what has become of dear Lucienne. I am most anxious to know what you finally arranged about her. I wished so much afterwards that I had insisted upon accompanying you, for what with not hearing from you, and fancying that you might have been arrested——” “We are here at all events now, my dear mother,” said Gilbert, smiling down the table at her. “And Lucienne is, I hope, long ago in safety in Suffolk. I saw her leave Paris with that excellent woman, Madame Gaumont, of whom you may have heard.” “But when was that?” asked the Marquise, in rising bewilderment. “And what did you do before that—and why have you been so long in coming back?” “We did not have a very peaceable journey down here,” responded the Marquis in answer to the third and last query. “My dear Gilbert,” said his mother, with a suspicion of tartness, “I can see that with my own eyes. Do start at the beginning, and do not assume that we know everything!” “Dear aunt,” broke in Louis suddenly, “you are not aware of it, but you are putting too heavy a strain on Gilbert’s modesty. It is more fitting that I should relate the story. When he got to Paris Gilbert found that the suspicions which had brought him there were quite just; at first I did not think so, and stood out against his arguments, with the result that I spent a night in La Force.” “You _were_ arrested!” gasped the Marquise. “I was,” returned her nephew, “and it is owing to Gilbert that I am not still in that condition. Some of the other poor devils are. When I was released——” “One moment!” interrupted the Curé. “What do you mean by saying that it was owing to Gilbert?” Louis seemed, as it were, pulled up. “I mean . . . that he got me out.” “But how?” enquired his aunt, now grasping the point of discussion. The Vicomte was silent for a moment and glanced at his cousin. “Louis, fortunately, had an influential friend among the Girondins,” interposed the Marquis shortly. About this point the priest began to understand that he had better have left his question unasked. “It was through this person that I was able to procure an order of release. The difficulty of getting out of the city we solved——” “But I still can’t understand,” said the Marquise persistently. She turned to Louis. “This person must have been greatly in your debt to do you such a service.”