“It is impossible,” said the Marquis calmly, “to join a plot of the very existence of which you are ignorant. Your letter was absolutely the first intimation that I received of it.” None, surely, but the most exalted natures are proof against the joy of producing a sensation. And a sensation Château-Foix had certainly produced, for his cousin sat staring blankly at him like a man stunned. Gilbert began to see his goal in view, for surely his proof of treachery was overwhelming. Unfortunately the Vicomte rallied very quickly from his consternation, profound though it had undoubtedly been. “There must be some mistake,” he said slowly, and with an unusual degree of stolidity. “I am certain I saw your name.” “Oh,” retorted the Marquis with a laugh, “I have no doubt that my name was there.” “What do you mean?” “I mean that the plot is not genuine. The Gironde is entrapping you.” The young Royalist gave a derisive laugh. “That is indeed jumping to conclusions, my dear cousin!” he exclaimed. “And, by the way, I feel sure that it is not your own idea. I seem to recognise in it the hand of M. des Graves.” “It matters very little whose idea it is,” retorted Gilbert, considerably nettled. “There stands the fact, and you must look it in the face. My name, you say, is on the list of adherents, and I know nothing of the affair.” “It was a mistake,” repeated Louis doggedly. “A mistake with a meaning, then.” Saint-Ermay faced round upon his cousin. “Do you seriously mean to tell me that, on the evidence of this wretched little slip, you expect me to believe the Gironde to be playing us false?” “I most certainly think that it should at least make you pause and reflect.” “Reflect!” echoed the Vicomte. “One might fancy from your tone, Gilbert, that reflection was the monopoly of the provinces. Give us credit here in Paris for having considered the matter for a moment or so before we entered upon it!” “To say nothing, then, of the ‘mistake’ about my name,” pursued the Marquis imperturbably, “what of Madame d’Espaze?” A fire leapt up in the Vicomte’s glance and became a challenge. “Well, what of her?” he demanded. “Ah, I suppose M. des Graves has educated your morals to the pitch of objecting to her because she is supposed to be Lecorrier’s mistress. But if I do not quarrel with her on that score, you need not.” Château-Foix made an impatient gesture of dissent, but the Vicomte, ignoring it, went on with a rather feverish gaiety: “If that is so, come with me to-night. I wager she will convert you from your altitudes.” At once the Marquis perceived this to be the issue on which he should win or lose. “Good heavens!” he ejaculated, “are you going there to-night, when you don’t know whether—— Louis, you can’t! Don’t you know that in ’84——” A mutinous expression came over the face of his young kinsman. “I don’t care what she did in ’84,” he rejoined, smiling sweetly, “and I _am_ going there to-night.”