They entered the palace by the great staircase in the Pavillon de l’Horloge, and had therefore to traverse the deserted state apartments before they could reach Madame Elisabeth’s quarters. The Salle des Suisses was empty, but in the Salle de l’Œil de Bœuf, in the embrasure of a window, two young men were talking. One of them saluted Louis with a smile as he passed, and the action drew the Marquis’s attention to him—a youth of twenty or so, tall, slight, and fair, with straight and regular features. “Who was that?” he asked as soon as they were out of earshot. “He looked more like an Englishman than a Frenchman.” “It was the Comte Henri de la Rochejaquelein,” replied Louis. “We were in the King’s Constitutional Guard together. The other was his cousin, the Marquis de Lescure. I should have thought you would have known him, for he is almost a neighbour of yours—at least he lives somewhere near Bressuire. La Rochejaquelein is not much further off for the matter of that—but he is an Angevin.” “I think I have heard the name,” said Gilbert. “M. de Lescure is like myself,” continued Louis, “under orders from his Majesty not to emigrate. As a matter of fact, he did once get as far as Tournay, but came back.” “Are they, too, involved in your plot?” Louis shook his head. “Lescure is too much of a saint to go to Madame d’Espaze’s salon, and has recently married a young wife into the bargain. And as for Henri, I tried to get him to join, but he would not.” The block in the Rue de Richelieu had apparently proved fatal to the Marquis’s plan of escorting Lucienne to her new quarters. Just outside the Galerie de Diane the cousins met a waiting-woman of the Princess’s, who told Louis in response to his query that Mademoiselle d’Aucourt had left a few minutes ago. Madame Gaumont herself had come to fetch her charge. The two men turned back into the Galerie de Diane. “I am sorry,” said Gilbert. “Never mind; we will go and pay our respects to Madame Gaumont to-morrow. Let me see: to-day is Monday, the 2nd; they start on Thursday.” “Yes,” assented the Vicomte in a colourless tone. They were both walking slowly with their eyes on the floor. “She ought to have gone long ago.” “It would have been better.” “However, it is no use regretting that. The past few months have altered her, Louis,” said the Marquis, in a burst of confidence very rare with him. Saint-Ermay lifted his head and looked at his cousin, whose eyes were still downcast, with a gaze a little startled, and his lips tightened. All at once his eyes wavered, a swift change passed over his face, and he caught at Gilbert's arm. “Hush,” he said in a low voice, “the Queen!”