There was a pause, unbroken by Gabrielle, who glanced at her foster-sister with a wan and wearied look that was full of pathos. Presently she raised the fingers of the waiting maid to her face, and stroked her cheek with them. "What is this grand effort of the intellect?" she asked, cheerily. "I know it is something well intentioned." "I have written a letter in madame's name and sent it off by special courier." "Not to the marquis?" cried Gabrielle, the colour flushing over her face and neck. Poor soul! The marquis! Much good would it be to write to him, unless to request him to order a coffin. "No," Toinon said, quietly. "It cuts me to the heart to see madame so solitary, and during a convalescence too, a time when we always brood and consider the least pleasant subjects. I have written to the Maréchale de Brèze, stating that you have been ill, but are out of danger, and would be glad of a visit from your mother." Gabrielle remained thoughtful, still stroking Toinon's fingers. Why not? The maréchale owed a visit, and the absence of her husband on business would account for the seclusion of his wife. Moreover, it would be a splendid thing to lure the old dame from dangerous Paris, where Mother Guillotine was commencing to display a Catholic taste in the way of food. Yes; from all points of view it was an admirable idea to induce Madame de Brèze to visit Lorge. Why! it was a thousand years at least since she had set eyes upon the darlings! Her own and only grandchildren! How shockingly reprehensible. How she would joy in marking each trait of genius, and how proud their mother would be to show how cultured were their minds! The maréchale's mind was considerably less stored than her daughter's, but she would appreciate with greater awe the progress of their climb up Parnassus. Did they not write each other poems and moral essays, after the manner of the Scuderi, and of the encyclopædist ladies!--such prodigiously clever verses, and such heavenly prose sermons! The more she considered it the more enchanted was she that Toinon should have taken this move upon herself. Had it been left to her, she would have doubted, have written a dozen letters only to tear them up, weighing in that tender and over-scrupulous conscience of hers whether it was right or wrong to drag an old lady to the wilds of Touraine at such a troublous moment. She would have considered whether it was not her duty to have unselfishly exhorted the ancient dame never to stir out of her modest abode; never even to open her window, lest by the act she should be drawn into the maw of Mother Guillotine. The more she thought over it the more delighted was she with the idea, and, opening her arms, clasped Toinon to her breast. "My dear, my dear," she murmured, fondly, "what should I do without you? Let the dear mother come. Together we will make her welcome." CHAPTER XXIII. A PASSAGE OF ARMS.