“Dear lad,” said the priest, “we must look facts in the face. Look around you at all these parishes—Cezais, La Jaudonnière, Chantonnay itself. Look where you will, their priests are gone. I will stay here till the last moment, for it is my duty, but when the hour comes, I must rise up and go wherever God pleases to send me. And if they come for me, I charge you, Louis, to give me up at once.” “I shall do nothing of the kind,” answered the young man resolutely. “There are nooks in this old place where no National Guard, however prying, would ever think of looking. I don’t suppose any one but Gilbert and myself knows of them; we found them when we were boys. And, parbleu,” he added, with a sudden smile, “since we are becoming so vastly prudent, why do you not go and get your passport at once? You know what you are risking by not doing so—either Guiana or ten years of prison.” “Because it is God’s will that I stay by my people as long as it is humanly possible,” said M. des Graves steadily. “Very well,” returned the Vicomte; “and it is equally in the designs of the Almighty that I do my utmost to prevent your being removed therefrom. But, mind you, no more excursions to the village! If you want to send your benediction to your parishioners I’ll take it to them; if they want ghostly counsel they must come to you here. . . .” M. des Graves saw very little of Louis that day, but about seven o’clock he strolled into the library. “Haven’t you got a fire?” he asked, as he flung himself into a chair; “the evenings are getting chilly. Well, everything is beautifully arranged. I have been to every single house in the village—I think I have interviewed every individual man, woman, and child. I am perfectly hoarse with talking, but I think they all understand now.” “Understand what?” asked the Curé, rather puzzled. “That you are gone to La Rochelle, with the intention of emigrating to England, instead of waiting for deportation elsewhere. That is what they will all say if any Blues or municipal authorities come to investigate your whereabouts. Then I have settled how many of your flock may attend Mass every morning—very few; they must take it in turns. Personally, I don’t think a single one ought to come, for nothing in the world will put the authorities sooner on the scent than hearing that the faithful are trooping up here early in the morning. But I knew that if I forbade it altogether I should have a conflict with you. Then nobody is to come to see you unless it is absolutely necessary; that, I think, is also clear.” “My dear Louis—” began the priest, not knowing whether he were more touched or amused by this unwonted activity.