“At any rate, he is with us in heart, whether he knows it or not,” muttered Saint-Ermay a trifle moodily. And having uttered this apologia for his erring kinsman, the young Royalist abruptly excused himself and crossed the room towards him. His friends looked after him. “Saint-Ermay is always _bon enfant_,” remarked D’Aubeville reflectively, “but I fancy he is not disposed to welcome his cousin’s visit with enthusiasm.” “But, parbleu, it must be trying to have a near relative with Jacobin views,” suggested the latest comer; “especially when one is so devoted a Royalist as Monsieur le Vicomte.” “Good heavens, man, M. de Château-Foix is not a Jacobin!” cried De Périgny, shocked. “He’s only one of those Liberal and constitutional people.” “I’ll tell you what it is,” said D’Aubeville with unusual emphasis. “_Le beau_ Saint-Ermay is losing his head over . . . a certain Royalist widow, now Girondin in her tastes and . . . alliances!” Octave de Périgny laughed. “_Le beau_ Saint-Ermay lose his head! Not in the figurative sense! He is only amusing himself with that lady, and Madame d’Espaze knows it. They both understand the game.” “H’m!” said D’Aubeville meditatively, “I have not been feeling so sure. I almost thought the butterfly was caught at last.” “Had you known Saint-Ermay as long as I have,” returned De Périgny, smiling, “you would have thought that so often that you would have learned to distrust your own opinion on the matter. Though even I believed that last winter——” “What? What?” cried his auditors in a breath. The Comte de Périgny hesitated. “Considering who is present,” he observed with a significant glance, “I should be indiscreet if I finished the sentence. And, at any rate, I was wrong, for it never came to anything.” “A good thing for all concerned,” observed D’Aubeville drily. CHAPTER V A MENTOR FROM THE PROVINCES “He was the finest gentleman of person and wit I think I ever saw; but could not be long serious, or mind business.” —_Memoirs of Sir John Reresby_. Meanwhile the Vicomte de Saint-Ermay, finding his cousin still occupied, had drawn aside the window curtains and was looking out, or pretending to do so, with latent impatience. At last the hand which he had been expecting was laid on his shoulder. “You can give me a few minutes?” enquired the voice of the Marquis. Saint-Ermay turned round. “Half an hour if you like,” he replied cheerfully.