“Jasmin,” said the Vicomte, looking at his retainer in the glass, “does this remind you of the last time you shaved me? If so, please don’t cut me as you did then!” For the old valet, who had at last succeeded in making his way from Paris, and had arrived the evening before, was now, with joy, tucking the towel round his master’s neck. “Oh, M. Louis, don’t speak of it!” he implored. “Well, I was even worse shaved in La Force, if that is any consolation to you,” returned Louis teasingly. “And now, just as you are going to begin, don’t you almost expect to hear a knock at the door?” “Mon Dieu, I hope not!” said Jasmin with fervour, and ere the words were out the shaving brush fell from his hand. “Mary Virgin!” he exclaimed, for some one had knocked at the bedroom door—the quick, decisive knock of a person who desired to enter at once. Louis burst out laughing, for, as a matter of fact, his keener ears had heard and recognised the step. “Come in, Father,” he cried. You have just given Jasmin a horrible fright.” But the sight of the priest’s face and of the open letter in his hand had its effect on the Vicomte also. He jumped up, wrenching away his towel. “Gilbert!” he exclaimed. “Not bad news?” “No, thank God, good—on the whole,” answered M. des Graves. “Read it.” “I take the earliest opportunity,” wrote the Marquis, “of letting you know that I am laid up in Brittany—at a place whose name I will not write lest my letter miscarry—with a broken leg. I am in good hands and well looked after, but some weeks must necessarily elapse before I can hope to travel. I regret this the more since I hear rumours of a rising in Deux-Sèvres, and am very anxious to learn that you are still free from molestation. You might, if you wished, write to me at the address of 6 Rue Haute-du-Château, Nantes; the letter would reach me in time. Meanwhile, though I am longing to be back, I must possess my soul in patience. I have seen ‘Monsieur Milet.’” Louis drew a long breath of relief. “Well, that’s satisfactory as far as it goes,” he said, returning the letter. “Gilbert seems to be seeing life in Brittany. I wonder how he broke his leg. Imagine Monsieur le Marquis de Château-Foix climbing out of a window; for I suppose he was escaping, or something of the kind.” “I believe,” said the Curé, smiling also, “that you wish you were ‘seeing life’ in Brittany too.” “Not at all,” returned the Vicomte. “As a temporary country gentleman I am reaping a perfectly fresh harvest of experience here.” He suddenly dropped his bantering tone, and gripped the priest’s hands for a moment. “If you will go down, Father, I will be with you in a few minutes. Jasmin!” For Jasmin had discreetly vanished. * * * * * *