“By the way, Gilbert,” remarked M. des Graves, “I suppose you know that there was rioting at La Caillère on Sunday, over the recruiting for the National Guard?” “Yes, I know,” answered Gilbert, taking up the letter again. “And Chevallier the commissioner was stoned, so I hear.” “There was,” observed Louis, “a much more amusing affair on Sunday at Fontenay, at the meeting of the Society of the Friends of Liberty and Equality. It seems that Laparra, the president of that precious club, has met with a great dressing-down from one Pranger, a professor who writes poetry and has called Laparra an artisan of discord. That was in print, but on Sunday——” And since Gilbert was reading his letter he continued his recital to the priest. “This can’t be meant for my mother,” said the Marquis suddenly, and apparently to himself. Then he folded up the letter and put it rather quickly into his pocket. “What were you saying about Laparra, Louis?” But to his cousin’s account of the feud which was rending society at the _chef-lieu_ he seemed to pay only a divided attention, and when the meal was ended he disappeared. M. des Graves looked after him. “I fear there was some cause for anxiety in that letter,” he said. “Are you coming with me to the library, Louis? That’s right.” And he smiled at the Vicomte, as the latter held open the door for him with his usual politeness. * * * * * * In his own room, standing by the two candles he had lighted on the mantel-piece, Gilbert was re-reading the letter addressed to Madame de Château-Foix. “I have never forgotten you in my prayers; and now that death is coming very near to us I wish to send you a line of farewell, though I fear that it will never reach you. I make no doubt that you are married now, and finding, perhaps, the happiness that comes from doing right. But my heart bled for you, my child, in September, for I cannot hope that he escaped the fate of the other prisoners. Yet he died, I like to think, a noble gentleman; let this be the reward of the sacrifice that you both made. God bless you and give you strength. Pray for me.—ELISABETH.” These words, when he had made acquaintance with them downstairs, had seemed to the Marquis simple nonsense; they had conveyed to him nothing whatever, except a conviction that they could not be meant for his mother—unless she maintained some very cryptic correspondence of which he was ignorant. Yet during the short remainder of the meal a desire had burnt in him to read them again; for, after all, they must mean something. Now he had his wish.