At that the Marquis came nearer and put both hands on his shoulders. “Louis,” he said with still greater gentleness, “be as sincere as you are generous. You know that you have a very great deal to forgive—and most of all perhaps this, that—putting aside, if you will, all that happened at Chantemerle—while we might have been fighting side by side like brothers, while you were wanting to thank me, to hold out a hand to me, I would not have it so, I shut you out. . . . Isn’t that true, Louis?” The younger man’s eyes fell. “Yes,” he said, very low, as if he were confessing to a fault of his own. “Well, then. . . . ?” The Vicomte lifted his head, and met the strange serene light in Gilbert’s eyes. His own keen gaze was misty. Without a word he flung himself into his cousin’s arms. . . . And when they knelt side by side at daybreak next morning there was, in all the host who saw them, or who knelt with them at the rude altar under the shadow of the forest of Mervent, but one man who knew to what perfect reconciliation the Sacrament which he gave them was the seal. But he was also the one man to whom the knowledge very greatly mattered. CHAPTER XLII PEACE AT THE LAST “It strikes me very forcibly,” observed Louis in a low voice, “that we shall be occupied, all the time you are away taking Luçon, in tidying up the horrible litter you have made here. Did you ever see such a room?” It was on the library at Chantemerle that the Vicomte passed these not undeserved strictures. The table was strewed with maps; in the middle stood two half-empty bottles of wine and some glasses, while at one end a tray bore the remains of a hasty meal. An ink-pot had been upset; the chairs were all awry, and one had fallen over. Henri de la Rochejaquelein, who, booted, spurred, and fully armed, stood with the Vicomte in front of the hearth, smiled as he drew on his gloves. “My dear Saint-Ermay,” he replied, “if you and M. de Château-Foix have no more to occupy you than to put his dwelling to rights again you will be fortunate.” His tones, too, were low, for there were others in the room. “Unfortunate, you mean,” retorted Louis with vivacity. “You know devilish well, M. l’Intrépide, that you would not be in my shoes for all the gold of—Necker. . . . I mustn’t swear, or our respective and respectable cousins will hear us.”