As for the Vicomte himself, he had always been accustomed to a certain occasional moodiness and lack of cordiality in his cousin, and that scene at the supper table in July was blurred by time, by his recognition of his own physical condition at the moment, and by the absence of hostility in the Marquis’ greeting when he came back in November. It was further obliterated by the shock and horror of the King’s execution, and by the very welcome, if fruitless, activity into which, with Gilbert, he had plunged. Ere February was out he had ridden some three score miles on various errands, had enjoyed two narrow escapes from arrest, and the sensation of a bullet through his hat. The personal danger, the excitement after the long months of inaction, was like wine to him, and even had there been any signs of approaching catastrophe, he might have failed to observe them. * * * * * * One evening at the end of February Gilbert found by his plate at supper-time a letter, dirty, worn, and looking either as if it had travelled far or had been a long time on the road. Letters were not now very frequent at Chantemerle, for though the Marquise and Lucienne wrote regularly, a good proportion of their communications never reached Vendée. This missive, however, was addressed not to the Marquis, but to Madame de Château-Foix, seeing which he pushed it aside. The three had that evening a not altogether agreeable topic of conversation, the two-days-old decree of the Directory of Fontenay requiring all fathers of _émigrés_ to take up their residence at the _chef-lieu_ and report themselves every morning to the authorities. “And if Gilbert is not the father of an _émigré_, he is the son of one,” observed Louis. “Where will you settle at Fontenay, mon cher? I will come and see you sometimes.” “It is no jesting matter, Louis,” said the priest. “Not only the fathers of _émigrés_ are summoned, but their relations and other persons who, as the decree puts it, are likely to trouble the public peace by their anti-revolutionary conduct or discourse. You may find yourself there.” “I wonder,” said the Marquis thoughtfully, scanning the letter by his plate, “if this letter to my mother can possibly have any connection with the decree—be a means of ascertaining whether she has emigrated or no? I do not know the writing. The postmark is Paris.” “In the circumstances,” suggested the Vicomte, “had you not better open it?” “I think I had,” said Château-Foix, and took it up. But Antoine coming in at that moment he laid it down again. “How did this letter come here, Antoine?” he asked as he helped himself to another dish. “By the post, Monsieur le Marquis.” “You did not hesitate about receiving it, or say that Madame la Marquise was not here, I hope?” “Certainly not, Monsieur le Marquis,” replied his retainer fervently, and as he left the room there were signs that he was hurt at the question.