“No, ma mère,” interposed the Marquis quickly, “I must go alone. And as to bringing Lucienne back here——” Instead of finishing his sentence he looked at the Curé. The Marquise saw the glance and its answer. “You don’t mean to say that you are not going to bring her back?” she said in disappointed tones. Already she had the girl in bed, surrounded with remedies against shock. “In Heaven’s name, Gilbert, what will you do with the poor child if you do not bring her here?” “I shall take, or send her, for a little while to Suffolk,” replied her son. “I do not think it desirable to bring her into the midst of so much unrest and potential disturbance as we have here at present, and M. des Graves agrees with me.” “But _I_ am here!” exclaimed the Marquise, sitting up in her chair. “Yes, but some day I may have to send you away, too,” returned Gilbert very gravely. “However, we will not discuss that now. I hope the time may never come. If it should, you will go and take care of Lucienne for me till I claim her, will you not, ma mère?” He bent and kissed her hand affectionately. “I suppose I shall always do as you ask me, Gilbert,” answered Madame de Château-Foix, her unmistakable surprise at his last announcement softening a little. “But leave Chantemerle! . . . However, as you say, the time has not come for that. Now, will you tell Antoine what clothes to pack for you, or shall I?” CHAPTER IV PLAY AND POLITICS “Ces hommes étaient doués d’une étrange souplesse vitale: pour eux l’apprentissage avait été nul, et la tache fut terrible. Au cours de la tempête révolutionnaire, ils firent preuve d’un courage, d’une fierté, d’un stoicisme qu’on s’étonne de rencontrer chez des hommes qu’une existence frivole n’avait préparé qu’au plaisir et à la mollesse.” —G. LENOTRE, _Le Marquis de la Rouërie_. Eight o’clock had just struck from the great timepiece whose dial had the privilege of being upheld in the arms of two hooped and painted china shepherdesses. The dying daylight fought a losing fight with the host of candles in the large, well-furnished room. These stood on half a dozen tables, where they lit up the players’ faces and their gold, and from their silver sconces on the walls they chiefly joined issue with the few shafts of daylight slipping between the heavy window curtains. Behind those same curtains lay, shut out from view alone, the turmoil of the Rue Saint-Honoré. It must be confessed that, if this was loud, it was occasionally equalled by the noise within the room itself, when a group of talkers burst into laughter over an anecdote, or an unlucky player declared with vehemence, and amid expostulation, that he would stake no more.