A couple of days later Louis did go round the garden on the Curé’s arm, and at the end of two more days ordered a horse to be saddled for himself. Enquiries, on its non-appearance at the stated hour, revealed the fact that M. des Graves, who had just heard of his design, had countermanded the order. Laughing, but not altogether free from vexation, the Vicomte made his way to the library. “Your Eminence,” he began mockingly, putting his head suddenly in at the door. He had the satisfaction of seeing the priest jump. “Now, my dear Louis,” said the latter quickly, getting up from his writing, “it is no good being angry with me. As long as Gilbert is away, you are absolute master here in everything except matters relating to your own health, of which you are no more fit to take care than a child. Come now, you know I’m right!” And he came up to the young man as he stood with his back against the door. “Eminence,” said Saint-Ermay with great gravity, repeating his new-found appellation, “I desire you to command me in all things. Is it invidious to the absent to say that I wish your reign could be extended? Make the most of the two days remaining to you, before the State comes back to dispossess the Church!” He slipped out again. But the priest remained for an instant looking at the just-closed door with troubled eyes. “He meant that, for all his jesting tone,” he thought to himself. “Why does he not wish Gilbert to come back the day after to-morrow?” True or feigned, Louis’ wish seemed to possess the power to fulfil itself, for the eighth day brought, not Gilbert himself, but a letter which astonished both the Curé, its recipient, and the Vicomte. The Marquis wrote that, having met in Nantes, apparently by chance, certain agents of the Marquis de la Rouërie’s, he was going off with them to Eastern Brittany to see that leader. He did not intend to stay long, but was unable to say precisely when he would return. He would write again. “It is so extremely unlike Gilbert,” said M. des Graves in puzzled tones to Louis, as they stood outside the library window in the twilight. “He says”—he referred again to the letter in his hand—“‘I do not think that my détour should delay me more than a week or ten days, and at that cost it seems to me well worth the making. I am very anxious to see La Rouërie again.’ La Rouërie must have made a great impression on him.” Louis did not answer for a moment, but began to pull the petals off a rose which he had just plucked from the balustrade against which he was leaning. “Well, I daresay that we can manage to get on without him for a little,” he said slowly, his eyes bent on the flower. “It all seems quiet enough in the village just now, and there is no sign of the Directory’s molesting you any further.” “I was not thinking of myself,” said the priest.