“To acquaint him with what you told me last night, I suppose?” “Yes,” said the Marquis, steeling himself to meet an outburst of indignation. But none came. On the contrary Louis beat up his pillow and lay down again. “This is interesting,” he observed, settling himself comfortably on his side, with a hand under his cheek and his eyes fixed on his visitor. “How did he receive you? With his usual apathy?” The Marquis nodded. At his cousin’s question he seemed to hear again the tones of that resigned and hopeless voice. “I was not prepared for so much dejection,” he said. “His Majesty struck me as prepared for any circumstance, provided only that it were adverse. I imagine that he cannot conceive of any other now. When I told him—merely as a warning—of the inclusion of my name in your list, he professed no surprise; he said that he had always thought the alliance a vain hope and a dangerous—more dangerous than most. ‘They are always telling me of plans,’ he went on, ‘and yet Mirabeau failed, and De Moleville failed, and I have known now that since Varennes no plans will ever succeed for us.’ When I spoke of the present reaction in his favour, he replied that it was only a reprieve.” “Yes,” said Louis rather sadly, “he is always like that. What else?” The crisis had come. And to his own surprise Gilbert got up suddenly from his chair, and sitting down on the bed, put his hand impulsively over the Vicomte’s. “Louis, I will be absolutely frank with you. You shall call me an interfering fool, if you will. I asked the King for a positive command against the continuance of a scheme so dangerous.” Not a muscle of the face on the pillow moved, and the hand was not withdrawn from underneath his own. “And he gave it to me. He gave me absolute injunctions—for you, and for the others. He sent this as a warrant.” Château-Foix turned Louis’ passive hand palm uppermost and laid in it a heavy mourning ring. In the centre was a tiny braid of the palest hair, finer than silk. Louis moved at last. “Yes, I know that ring,” he said, looking at it attentively. “That hair is the late Dauphin’s.” He continued to look at the ring in silence, then, slipping it on his finger he sank back again on to his pillows and shut his eyes. A frown made its appearance between his clear eyebrows. The Marquis gazed at him anxiously and almost wistfully, got slowly off the bed, and the Persian cat, roused by the slight seismic commotion, stretched out a well-armed claw with an enormous yawn. Suddenly Louis opened his eyes and looked up straight at his visitor. “What was the real reason of your coming to Paris, Gilbert?” he asked abruptly. “To stop you,” returned Château-Foix. “I did not know about the 20th until I had made up my mind to come.” “To stop me—without real proof?” “Yes.” “The devil!” said Saint-Ermay. There was another pause.