“Ah, do you think so?” he said. “I do not. But, at least, I have had the story from your own lips. Now we know where we stand, and we must put the question aside. For the present it is our duty to go on living here together; but, as it happens, I can offer you a commission to do for me to-day if you choose—to ride over to M. de Verteuil at Le Fougerais with a letter.” “Thank you,” said Louis, choking. “Dare you trust me?” “In this matter,” replied the Marquis, unmoved, and turning away, left him there. CHAPTER XXXIV SURGERY: THE PROBE “Your silence, full and near, Folded my agony; Till it seemed the ruined way to clear Luminously. “Words are all harsh to hear, A look too much may see, But your silence, beautiful, austere, Was God to me.” —LILIAN STREET. That the Marquis’ missive ever reached Le Fougerais was no small wonder, for his messenger rode thither like a madman. It happened that the priest met him in the hall when he returned next morning, spattered from head to foot with the plentiful mud of the bad roads, haggard and unsmiling—he who always had a smile for his good friend. “Where is Gilbert?” he enquired abruptly, without greeting of any kind. “In the library? Thank you.” He went in, leaving the door ajar, and M. des Graves heard him say in a voice quite unknown to him: “I have done your errand. I am ready to do any others with which you think you can trust me.” “Thank you,” said Gilbert; “I am much obliged to you. There will no doubt be others.” Louis came straight out and went up to his room, and his face, as he passed the priest, was the face of a man in hell. What did it mean? Surely only one thing. Gilbert had discovered the truth—had perhaps imagined more than the truth. That explosion which the priest had dreaded in November, and whose non-occurrence had so bewildered him, was come at last. But now he was better prepared to meet it. The Curé went, not to the library, but to his own room, and there, unlocking a drawer, he took out and re-read a long letter with an English postmark. Even as he touched it he experienced again the overwhelming feeling of relief which had enveloped him when first he read it, a week ago. Things were bad enough, but Louis was not, thank God, what he had been almost forced into believing him. As for Lucienne. . . . “Poor child! poor child!” he said once or twice. Then he put the letter away, and sat a long time thinking. His face was very stern. At supper that evening both the young men made pitiable and unconcerted attempts to behave as though nothing had happened. Gilbert’s were crowned with a certain success. Neither of them said a word to the other.