Gilbert went out of the house feeling like a man who has unexpectedly come to the edge of a high cliff. Before him was nothingness. He almost felt that Louis’ arrest was less terrible than the absolute ignorance as to his whereabouts. True, he had spoken to Jasmin—more hopefully than conviction really warranted—about procuring his master’s release—but how was he to do it, even if he knew whither he had been taken? And not to know that was stupefying. Poor Louis, going light-hearted into the darkness with no last message for any one—save a pet! No, it was incredible that he should never see him again; his release only needed an unswerving determination and perseverance, and, once released, he would instantly get him out of Paris, and they would go back to Poitou together. Was not that the very aim of his coming to Paris? One's own kin are safe, of course, from the graver catastrophes, and who could fancy Louis other than fortunate? He had been so all his life. The thought of leaving Paris brought to the Marquis, who was almost at his own hotel, the remembrance of another who was also to quit it for safety. He looked at his watch. He had promised to see Lucienne to-day; he was indeed to tell her whether or no Louis would escort her to England. Saint-Ermay’s refusal was now more providential than inexplicable, and he need not tell her that his cousin could not take her, but simply that it had been arranged otherwise. He need not, in fact, alarm and grieve her by letting her know at all of his arrest. Moreover, it was yet early, barely noon; much might be done before he went to see her; he might even carry her news of a peril past. But in his heart of hearts he did not think he could accomplish anything so quickly.