Everywhere, therefore, I found it known. Known by people who had stood for days at cross-roads, waiting for they knew not what; known by scowling men on village bridges, who talked in low voices and eyed the towers of the Château; known by stewards and agents, men of the stamp of Gargouf, who smiled incredulously, or talked, like Madame St. Alais, of the King, and how good he was, and how many he would hang for it. Known, last of all, by Father Benôit, the man I would consult. He met me at the gate of the Château, opposite the place where the _carcan_ had stood. It was too dark to see his face, but I knew the fall of his _soutane_ and the shape of his hat. I sent on Gil and André, and he walked beside me up the avenue, with his hand on the withers of my horse. "Well, M. le Vicomte, it has come at last," he said. "You have heard?" "Buton told me." "What? Is he here?" I said in surprise. "I saw him at Cahors less than three hours ago." "Such news gives a man wings," Father Benôit answered with energy. "I say again, it has come. It has come, M. le Vicomte." "Something," I said prudently. "Everything," he answered confidently. "The mob took the Bastille, but who headed them? The soldiers; the Garde Française. Well, M. le Vicomte, if the army cannot be trusted, there is an end of abuses, an end of exemptions, of extortions, of bread famines, of Foulons and Berthiers, of grinding the faces of the poor, of----" The Curé's list was not half exhausted when I cut it short. "But if the army is with the mob, where will things stop?" I said wearily. "We must see to that," he answered. "Come and sup with me," I said, "I have something to tell you, and more to ask you." He assented gladly. "For there will be no sleep for me to-night," he said, his eye sparkling. "This is great news, glorious news, M. le Vicomte. Your father would have heard it with joy." "And M. de Launay?" I said as I dismounted. "There can be no change without suffering," he answered stoutly, though his face fell a little. "His fathers sinned, and he has paid the penalty. But God rest his soul! I have heard that he was a good man." "And died in his duty," I said rather tartly. "Amen," Father Benôit answered. Yet it was not until we were sat down in the Chestnut Parlour (which the servants called the English Room), and, with candles between us, were busy with our cheese and fruit, that I appreciated to the full the impression which the news had made on the Curé. Then, as he talked, as he told and listened, his long limbs and lean form trembled with excitement; his thin face worked. "It is the end," he said. "You may depend upon it, M. le Vicomte, it is the end. Your father told me many times that in money lay the secret of power. Money, he used to say, pays the army, the army secures all. A while ago the money failed. Now the army fails. There is nothing left." "The King?" I said, unconsciously quoting Madame la Marquise.