“I know that perfectly well,” retorted Louis coolly, “but I was.” He threw down his rose and lifted his eyes. “I know that I can’t be Gilbert to you, Father, but I’ll do whatever you wish, and between us we might manage to keep the place going till he comes back.” He looked at his companion with frank and almost wistful eyes, and in spite of his anxious thoughts the priest was greatly touched. “My dear Louis,” he said. . . . * * * * * * And, as if a bargain had been struck between them, the old man and the young settled down to an odd, peaceable, and even humdrum existence in the house whose master was away they knew not where, and which served one of them as a hiding-place. The long, fine August days fell into a sort of routine. Every morning at six o’clock M. des Graves said Mass in the little chapel; then he breakfasted and betook himself to his devotions and his correspondence in the library, which had come by now to be considered as his special sanctum. About ten or eleven o’clock Louis would invade this retreat, unless, indeed, he had been for an early ride in the cool of the morning, in which case he generally appeared an hour or two earlier. But as a rule he came down late, which was scarcely surprising, for he had nothing whatever to do with his time. After déjeuner—or dinner as it usually was—at midday the two walked in the garden, and probably had a conflict on the subject of the Curé’s going down to the village, which he was commonly determined to do, while the Vicomte set forth many prudent arguments—which sounded strangely in his mouth—on the unwisdom of the priest’s showing himself there. In the end M. des Graves would go, and Louis, fuming, or affecting despair, would accompany him. And while the priest visited the sick, the young man, waiting about in the village street, renewed old acquaintances of his boyhood—even of his childhood—and found how deep-rooted in the solemn-faced Vendean peasants was the respect and confidence accorded to their nobles. After a little while, being accepted as one of their own _seigneurs_, and accredited, from his constant companionship of the Curé, with a religious fervour which he certainly did not possess, Saint-Ermay found himself pretty well posted up in the temper of his cousin’s tenantry.