“This,” answered the priest. “The Gironde has long been hinting that the Court wishes for nothing less than the invasion of France by the Emperor, and that it communicates its desires by secret messages to Coblentz. But they have no proofs to show to the people. Very well, then, if they can persuade a certain number of young hotheads about the King to believe in their sincerity, they will have their names and signatures, most probably, as evidence, when the time for denunciation is ripe. That these ‘conspirators’ are unimportant does not matter a straw—they are Royalists. For all we know, a list of false names may be in circulation also, which would account for the appearance of yours.” “If this explanation be anything like the truth,” said Château-Foix, “then not only the King and the Court are imperilled, but Louis himself is in the gravest danger. I had better start for Paris to-night.” “I think you would be wise to do so,” said the priest quietly. “Young fool!” muttered the Marquis somewhat irritably. “How could he be so blinded? He has a good enough head on his shoulders as a rule. . . . And, Father, what about you? I cannot bear the thought of leaving home when matters are so critical.” “We are in God’s hands,” replied M. des Graves tranquilly. “When He permits it, but not before, the municipality will move. You cannot deny, Gilbert, that they have proved miraculously tolerant.” “Yes; because no pressure has yet been brought to bear on them from Fontenay,” returned Château-Foix. “Directly that happens, we shall see the worth of their tolerant spirit. I tell you frankly, Father, I fear the worst. And if you are turned out there will be a riot in the village, and we shall have the scenes of last year at Apremont and Saint-Christophe-du-Ligneron over again.” “Not if I can prevent it,” said the Curé firmly. “And, should I be ejected, I shall obey your wishes, and take up my residence in the Château.” It was not in his mind, any more than it was in his host’s, to consider the odium and danger in which such a course would involve the inhabitants of the Château, for the matter was not one of safety, but of duty. The Marquis looked at him. “I shall leave full instructions,” was all his comment. “It seems a sorry trick of fate,” he added, “to drag me away at this juncture. However, it is evidently a pressing matter. I can satisfy myself also as to Lucienne’s well-being.” His voice had grown softer, and he paused for a second. “Well, I had better tell my mother. I am sure that you are right about my going, but I do not go willingly.” The priest stood looking after him as he went towards the steps, and there shone on his face, for a moment, something of the love which he bore him. “You have had a long conference down there,” said the Marquise cheerfully, as Gilbert mounted the steps. “Am I to share the secret?”