He turned away abruptly, and going out of the window disappeared along the balcony, revealing to the Vicomte’s notice, not by any means for the first time, that stern profile which was in such marked contrast to his full face. “I suppose I brought that on myself!” reflected the young man, with a half-rueful smile. “One can never depend on his sense of humour; he is largely endowed—for a priest—but it fails you when you least expect it.” And for a moment or two he contemplated, not very seriously, the picture called up by the Curé’s piece of information. “It would have been a very dirty floor to die on,” he thought, “and singularly unpleasant company.” He further pondered on the possible consequences to Gilbert, concluding dispassionately that it would have been extremely inconvenient for him. “He would never have left me till I had finished with this bleeding to death which seems to afford M. des Graves so much relish. Even then he is so deuced conscientious that if he got away he would probably have encumbered himself with my corpse—more awkward still.” The idea rather amused him, until from imaginary pictures his mind slipped on to real, and for the twentieth time since his return he knitted his brows over the question of what Gilbert had meant by his tone when he asked him if he wished to send a message to Lucienne, what precisely had passed between them at supper a few nights ago, and why his cousin had locked himself in with him the other morning. Did he, could he know anything? But there was in a sense nothing to know. . . . And since Louis was still easily tired, and it was always his habit to live in the present, he abandoned these problems, and lying there in the sunlight, half dozing, half watching the lazy clouds in the afternoon sky, thought of more recent events. That morning had witnessed Madame de Château-Foix’ departure under Gilbert’s escort. Louis imagined—but as he had been confined to his room he could not verify his surmise—that the Marquise had not proved too easy to uproot. But there was no arguing with Gilbert when he had definitely made up his mind. The only thing which really surprised the Vicomte was the very short space of time which had sufficed his cousin to carry out his intention. Lazily he ran over the details of the departure as he had witnessed them from his bedroom window; lazily he calculated the time that it would take the Marquis to get to Nantes, to see his mother off, and to return. Still more lazily he came to the conclusion that, without his cousin’s presence, there was a sort of holiday feeling in the air for which he could not wholly account. On that thought he fell comfortably asleep.