“To Saint-Aubin-de-Baubigné, to rouse my father’s tenantry at La Durbellière, if I can.” He was silent for a moment, his eyes kindling. “I shall say to them, I think, what one of my ancestors said to his retainers in the time of the wars of the League: ‘If I go forward, follow me; if I draw back, kill me; if I die, avenge me!’” “If you look at them like that, Henri,” said Saint-Ermay, “there is not much doubt about their following you. Well, good luck! May we meet again!” They clasped hands, and La Rochejaquelein was gone, taking out of the room with him an extraordinary impression of youth and ardour. But though he well remembered that evening afterwards, Louis could not guess at the time that the newly-formed army of the centre, self-effacing as it was always to be, had that night given back to the future _grande armée_ its name of highest romance and its most brilliant sword. The Vicomte returned to the window-seat. The hamlet, usually so early abed, was not much disturbed even to-night by victory. Snatches of song came out of the darkness and a little laughter. And as he sat there with his bandaged head leaning against the casement, Louis’ thoughts went over the seas. But four days of fighting seemed to have set between him and Lucienne a gulf far wider than the Channel. When he had ridden homeward from the Etoile de Vendée, and when his stupefaction had a little cleared, one thought had possessed his mind, that now he could go to Lucienne at once. . . . Almost before he had had time to taste the full rapture of this idea the stone at the window had chased the vision. And what of Lucienne’s kisses now? Again honour held them apart; how could he turn his back on Gilbert now, withdraw from the opening struggle? But honour no longer forbade him to think of her, to write to her. He could not at times believe in the reality of his happiness. At odd moments he contemplated Gilbert with profound amazement, not unmixed with wistfulness. If only he would drop a little of his frigid bearing! Even so he was aware that their relations were not what they had been a day or two ago. Perhaps in time. . . . He had fallen into so deep a slumber that he never heard the door open, and woke only to the sound of his own name. In front of him stood the Marquis and M. des Graves, looking at him attentively. “Ah, you are back, Gilbert,” he observed sleepily. “Father! you here!” “I might say the same to you,” retorted the priest with mock sternness. “Why are you not in your bed?” Louis got up and took hold of his arm. Gilbert had turned away and was lighting another candle. No one would have guessed that he had been chafing the whole evening to return and see how his cousin fared. “I will not be scolded,” said the Vicomte. “What are you doing here, mon père?” “He is going to be with us henceforward as our chaplain,” said Gilbert. “Get into bed, Louis, at once.”