"A hiding-place?" muttered the Prince petulantly. "I loathe the very idea of lurking behind dusty panels like a sick fox."
The Bishop did not venture on a reply. He went up to the fine mantelpiece at the opposite end of the room, and his hand wandered over the elaborate carving which adorned the high wainscoting. He pressed with one finger on a portion of the carving, and at once some of the woodwork moved silently upon unseen hinges, and disclosed a cavity large enough for a man to pass through.
"It would only be an hour or so at a time, your Highness," he said with respectful apology; "in case a posse of police makes a descent upon the house."
He explained to his august visitor the mechanism of the secret panel. M. le Comte d'Artois, weary after a long sea journey, fretful and irritable, kept up a constant stream of mutterings sotto voce:
"You and the party wished me to come. I never thought that it would be safe, and if I have to remain in hiding in this rat hole, I might just as well be sitting comfortably in England."
Monseigneur, however, never departed for a moment from his attitude of almost reverential deference. With his own hands he ministered to every bodily comfort of the exalted personage who had found refuge under his roof and only left him when he saw the prince comfortably stretched out upon the bed, and was fully assured that he understood the working of the secret panel.
Then after a deep obeisance he finally bowed himself out of the room. Slowly he descended the dimly lighted stairs which led to his study on the floor below. The pallor of his face appeared more marked than before. A vague feeling of anxiety, not unmixed with disappointment, caused a deep frown to settle between his brows.
The situation, though tense always, had become well-nigh desperate now. With M. le Comte d'Artois under his roof and his movements known to a spy of the Impérial police, every hour, every minute, had become fraught with deadly danger, not only to him but to every one of his adherents.
Hundreds of men and women around the neighbourhood at this hour were preparing to meet the Prince—the brother of their uncrowned King—for whose sake they were willing to risk their lives. One false move, one act of cowardice or carelessness, and the death of a Bourbon prince would once more sully the honour of France, whilst countless adherents of the Royal cause would again fall victims to their hot-headed loyalty.
And as the Bishop re-entered his study he gave a short bitter sigh, for memory had swiftly conjured up the vision of that unheroic figure which slept contentedly in the room above, and on whose energy and courage depended the lives of those who still believed in him, and who saw in him only the ideal of a monarchy, the traditions of old France and of the glorious days that were gone.