Louis seemed, as it were, pulled up. “I mean . . . that he got me out.”
“But how?” enquired his aunt, now grasping the point of discussion.
The Vicomte was silent for a moment and glanced at his cousin.
“Louis, fortunately, had an influential friend among the Girondins,” interposed the Marquis shortly. About this point the priest began to understand that he had better have left his question unasked. “It was through this person that I was able to procure an order of release. The difficulty of getting out of the city we solved——”
“But I still can’t understand,” said the Marquise persistently. She turned to Louis. “This person must have been greatly in your debt to do you such a service.”
“Not that I am aware of,” returned the young man. “Indeed, the whole affair is a mystery to me. Gilbert must have been very persuasive.” Here, looking across the table, Louis found the priest’s eyes fixed upon him. “Were you aware of his powers in that direction, Father?” he asked mischievously.
“Perhaps I am, my son. Go on with your story,” said the Curé, with the suspicion of a smile.
Thus urged, Louis gave a vivid account of their exit from Paris, the Marquise hanging on his words with evident joy at having secured, if only for a time, a circumstantial narrative. The recital, full of colour and vivacity, came down to their arrival at the inn at Pézé-le-Robert, where it suddenly stopped.
“Yes?” said Madame de Château-Foix, her eyes shining like a girl’s.
“Oh, then,” said Louis carelessly, “we had an unfortunate little affair, which was the real cause of our delay in getting here. As usual it began in my carelessness—and ended in a knife. An inquisitive citizen picked up one of those handkerchiefs which you embroidered for me on my last birthday, my aunt, and grudged the poor druggist’s assistant his finery. If Gilbert had not dragged me out and carried me about forty miles to the nearest habitation——”