“Monsieur le Comte!” he exclaimed, astonishment and delight lighting his dim eyes, for he had known Jean since he was a child. “Yes, I in flesh and blood, Bobeche! And is the Vicomte in?” “Monsieur le Vicomte has gone to the expiation, and sups after with Monsieur de Sancerre.” “I might have expected something like this,” muttered Marcilly to himself, then, raising his voice, “Monsieur de Vibrac and I will wait, Bobeche.” “Assuredly, monsieur. The house is yours, as you know. Ah! But the return of monsieur will gladden madame’s eyes. She was here but yesterday. But messieurs are travel-stained and weary, and that _coquin_ of a steward and every soul in the place has gone sight-seeing, except Jacques, monsieur’s valet, who is as old as myself and these three Switzers. Jacques, _mon ami_, here are monsieur le comte and his friend, who have travelled far. Attend then quickly to the gentlemen.” “One moment,” I said. “Had you not better send to warn Cipierre of our arrival?” “Ah! I woolgather. Of course!” and taking out a pocket-book, and tearing a leaf therefrom, Jean scribbled a few lines, and, folding it carefully, handed it to one of the Swiss. “For monsieur le vicomte,” I said, in his tongue, for I had served in the Trans-Alpine Infantry. “It is urgent, and here is a crown to quicken your footsteps.” The man saluted, pocketed the money, and withdrew. We then consigned ourselves to the hospitable care of Jacques, and an hour later Jean and myself met in the great hall, refreshed by our bath and change of toilet, and looking like different men. Jacques offered us wine, but, though we sipped a little, we were both of us beginning to feel that we had come to the edge of the precipice, and put down our cups practically full. “Madame de Marcilly was here yesterday, I understand?” said Marcilly to Jacques. “Monsieur, with Mademoiselle de Beauce.” “Thanks! That will do,” and then Jean walked to the window and stared out across the square in the direction of the palace, while I stood at the fireplace, my foot on a dog’s head of the fender, and our hearts were both with the same woman. He came back to me at last, and flung himself in a chair, still looking before him with a gray sadness in his eyes, as he said low to himself: “Poor Marie!” In my confidence I felt I was victor over myself; but the words rasped me somehow, and I moved impatiently from my position. “You are getting the blues, Jean. ’Tis this city of horrors into which we have come. Rouse yourself, man! We are on the threshold now.” “Yes, on the threshold--of what?” he asked, but still as if speaking to himself. “We are on the threshold, and the door will open soon--but where will it lead? We are giving our lands, our wealth, our lives, all that we hold dear, for a dream--and life is dear to me, Gaspard, not so much for its own sake, but for the sake of her who loves me.”