"Yes. The good air and quiet will brace my nerves, untuned by racket, and that explosion of presumptuous wickedness that sacrificed so many lives." "The storming of the Bastile?" returned the marechal. "Pshaw! By and bye we will terribly avenge de Launay and his intrepid garrison. What on earth will you do in the country? In a week you'll be petrified with ennui." "Not at Lorge. Its grimness suits my humour. The children are less strong than I would have them. Freedom in pure air will bring back the roses to their cheeks, and in them you know I am engrossed. My children, oh! my children! What should I have become without them." The involuntary bitter cry, so eloquent of pain, and so speedily suppressed, clove the bosom of the marechal. "She will not tell me or have confidence," he groaned inwardly, "and yet her suffering is great. She must have her way in this as in other things, and God be with her in her travail." With the delicate tact of a gentleman he let pass the cry unnoticed, and simply said, "What do you wish, my dearest?" "Lorge," she replied, "no less. What a rapacious greedy soul I must be to rob you of the home of your ancestors!" "It shall be yours," the marechal replied, delighted to be able to do something. "I understand that for some reason you desire to take possession and hold the place without interference? Is that so? At my death, it will be yours with all the rest. Meanwhile, I lend it, to do with as you will." It was an odd fancy. What could be the meaning of the freak? Presently he enquired, "What will your husband do?" "It was his idea," was the eager rejoinder. "He wishes it, and I am--oh--so very glad! I long to get him away from Paris and its evil influences. Do you know, father?" Gabrielle continued in a grave whisper, "that there are secret meetings he attends, to come home at dawn in a fever. And there are forbidding men who come to see him, whom he evidently does not want to see; such coarse and common men. I don't know what it all is, but it has something to do with that mystical groping after the unattainable which is so weariful, and can only end in madness. To a Christian, such impious presumption is horrible!" "Then I hold the clue?" cried the old man, much relieved. "It is the prophet who is in your way? You would wean Clovis from Mesmer, turn him from Cagliostro, and carry him to Mass on Sundays?" The idea was so comically innocent, that de Breze wheezed with delight. "Sweet pet!" he said, tapping his daughter's cheek archly, "you are earnest if not clever."