One more surprise still Monsignor Cantagalli was to cause the young man before he departed. It was next morning, and Louis, after breakfasting in his room, had descended to the library. There was no one there, and it was not at once that he realised the presence of the two priests outside the open window, for he could not see them in the balcony. But suddenly he caught the words, “The Holy Father’s most express wish,” something in a very low voice from M. des Graves, and then the Monsignore’s clear, finished tones, with an additional ring of expostulation—“But, Eminence, surely—” And then they passed along the balcony out of hearing. The Vicomte stood stupefied. He felt literally as though he were standing on his head. That title, which not long ago he himself had used in jest! No, it was impossible. His hearing had played him a trick. Granted that the Italian was an envoy charged with some message from the Curia—though that in itself seemed improbable—what he must have said was “His Eminence,” referring to some Cardinal or other of whom he had previously been speaking. But what a queer sensation the misapprehension had caused him, the listener! He felt a delicacy, on this, of ever asking the priest why Monsignor Cantagalli had come to the château, and abstained from doing so. He had a secret; probably M. des Graves had his. And his own, with the arrival of another letter from Gilbert announcing his return in a week or two, began to press heavily on him again, so heavily that in the end, through no wish or knowledge of his own, it escaped his control. It had been a long, dull day, during which depression had made inroads on Louis’ mind so noticeable that by the evening M. des Graves had found himself, most unusually, conducting almost a monologue, and at last the young man, on the plea of being tired, had betaken himself early to bed. The priest sat on by the fire reading. At eleven o’clock he rose to look for the second volume of his book, was unable to find it on the library shelves, and recollected that the Marquis had been reading it before he went to Paris. It was probably still in his room, and after a moment’s hesitation he lighted a candle and set forth in search of it. The few servants had gone to bed, and the wide staircase was black, ghostly, and silent as he ascended. He was still immersed in what he had been reading, as he gently opened the door of the Marquis’ empty room and entered.