“Certainly,” replied Château-Foix. “We were discussing Louis’ affairs. He has entered into some exceedingly rash political relations, and, though he is evidently not aware of it, is at this moment most seriously compromised by them.” He stood there looking down on her with a little frown, rather as if she were the offending entanglement. At Saint-Ermay’s name the smile left Madame de Château-Foix’ lips, and a certain tightness came about them. “Oh, Louis . . .” she murmured, and took her embroidery and a skein of silk off the table. “Well?” she asked, bending her head and selecting a needle from her case. “I am going to Paris to see him,” announced her son succinctly. There was a moment’s pause, ere Madame de Château-Foix slowly raised her head. “You do not really mean that, surely?” “Yes. Why not?” The Marquise made a gesture with her still beautiful hands. “What sort of a scrape is in this time?” she demanded. “Debts, or a woman?” “Neither,” said Gilbert. And, leaning against the stone balustrade, he gave her an outline of the situation, omitting all reference to Madame d’Espaze. At the end she took the embroidery and put it back on the table. Her colour was perceptibly heightened. “I have no patience with Louis—nor with you, for the matter of that,” she observed, and there was more than irritation in her voice. “But it has always been the same. Surely Louis is old enough to look after himself. Who made you his keeper?” “You yourself,” returned the Marquis, and there was the glimmer of a smile on his face. “Exactly eighteen years ago last March it was. Have you forgotten?” Madame de Château-Foix gave vent to a monosyllable that sounded like “Pshaw!” “My dear mother, you make yourself out a perfect Gorgon of hard-heartedness. Who would be the first to fly to Louis’ bedside if he were ill? Why, you, of course!” “That is very different,” replied the Marquise, unmoved. “Well, the difference lies in this, that Louis has never had a dangerous illness in his life, and that this affair is—dangerous.” “Other things,” said his mother, “are dangerous, too—for other people. It is dangerous for you to go away now, when we do not know from day to day what the Directory at Fontenay may do next, when the village is on the point of revolt against them, when——” Château-Foix got up from the balustrade. “Yes, I know all that,” he replied gravely, “and therefore nothing but an affair of life and death could persuade me to leave at this juncture. But I must go, and to-night.” “Well, I hope we shall not all live to regret it,” said Madame de Château-Foix. “It is perfectly scandalous that you should be dragged away like this. And does M. des Graves approve of your going, may I ask?”