“I would give my right hand to have one,” said the Marquis, with a certain passion. “But I have only convictions, and those you won’t listen to.” “If your convictions are right,” observed Louis reflectively, “it means that we are all Vergniaud’s dupes. That would be amusing. . . Perhaps . . . . perhaps . . . Convictions indeed! Deuce take me, but they must be strong to have brought you so far.” “Yes, they are strong,” said the Marquis. The Vicomte sat up in bed, hugging his knees. “Of course it is all guesswork. I wonder how I can most quickly get hold of D’Aubeville.” He paused and then broke out laughing. “I’lI tell them, but if you are right . . . we are gone too far for that to be of any use.” It was strange that the full realisation of where the speaker stood came only at that moment to Gilbert, with his laugh, quite unfeigned, and his glance of self-mockery, not so simple. Yet Château-Foix had thought of this through miles of travelling and a partially sleepless night, and it was the very anxiety which had wrecked his interview of the previous evening. His voice escaped his control. “Do you really mean what you are saying?” Louis looked away. He had read his cousin’s mind, and he hated emotion. “They have all our signatures,” he said in his cool voice. Gilbert also knew now how much he cared for his scapegrace playmate. The years, with their sundering of interests and sympathies, fled backwards. “Something must be done—something must be done,” he repeated almost mechanically, while Louis threw him a smile, and tossing back his hair, lay down again. “Thank you for coming,” he resumed cheerfully. “I wish I had been more—had listened better last night. But I will obey your warning—and the King’s wish. The best thing you can do meanwhile is to leave Paris as quickly as possible. You will see Lucienne, I suppose?” “I am going to see her now,” replied Gilbert, rising slowly. “And what will you do?” “I will get up at once,” returned the Vicomte, stifling a yawn, “and spread your enlivening suspicions. Where is that rascal Jasmin?” He stretched to the bell-rope and rang lustily. “I must see you again, Louis. Where can we meet? I am staying at the Hôtel des Etats Généraux, Rue des Petits-Pères.” The young Royalist considered. “I will write,” he said finally. “But surely you will go back to-morrow?” Château-Foix shook his head. “I shall not leave Paris while Lucienne is here—or you either,” he added to himself. “Au revoir.” “Poor Gilbert,” said the Vicomte de Saint-Ermay as the door closed. “I never knew he cared so much. Jasmin, you are slower than a tortoise! Where are my clothes?” CHAPTER VII LUCIENNE LAUGHS AND CRIES