"I am making for you, Monsieur," he said, "a memorandum of what the general tells me I may expect of you. I regret that it is not ready, but M. d'Hervilly somewhat sprang this upon me. My lieutenant, Le Goffic, will show you your quarters. That is all for the present." He sat down again at the table, and pulling his papers towards him bent over them. St. Four stopped fidgetting with the woodwork and turned round. But he did not go. On the contrary, he came a little nearer, and spoke, not without dignity. "La Vireville, you were generous once. I acknowledge it. You gave me my life. . . . Is it any solace to you to know that I have often wished you had not made me that gift? I am not surprised that you would not take my hand. But is it possible that some day . . . for the sake of the cause, and because, as you know, I have suffered too . . . horribly . . . you might be able to forgive me, Fortuné?" "I am not aware, Monsieur," returned La Vireville without looking up, "that I have authorised you to use my Christian name. There is, however, no objection to your calling me Augustin, as my men do. You will find Le Goffic outside." And St. Four, making a hopeless gesture, turned and went out without a word. La Vireville looked after him a moment, dipped his pen in the ink, and resumed his writing. (3) That evening, as he was eating his solitary meal by the light of a candle stuck in a bottle, René de Flavigny suddenly appeared in the doorway of the shed. "Come in, my friend," cried the Chouan cheerfully. "Are you proposing to share my modest repast?" "No," replied the Marquis, entering. "I only came to ask you if this extraordinary report is true, and that the general has given you M. de St. Four, of all men, as an aide-de-camp?" "Yes, it is quite true," replied La Vireville composedly. "I have seen M. d'Hervilly and I have seen St. Four--quite a peaceable interview, the latter, on my honour. Have some of this cheese, Marquis!" "But--but it is intolerable!" stammered de Flavigny, sinking into the other chair. "What--the cheese? Not at all; it is English. Try it!" René looked at him, but could gather nothing. The single candle by his friend's elbow, ineffectual at its best in that dark place, flickered woefully in the strong draught. The Marquis had left the door of the shed ajar, and through it came, on the wind that smelt of seaweed, the sound that day and night was ever in their ears--the eternal recurrent plunge and retreat of the tide--and the glint of stars. He got up, shut it, and came back. "Fortuné, what are you going to do with him?" "Set him in the forefront of the battle, of course!" This statement was to de Flavigny not susceptible of belief, though the speaker's smile in the now steadied candlelight was enough to give it credibility.