“No—here, for the present. Madame allows the villagers to attend—as many, that is, as the chapel will accommodate.”
Gilbert stared into the fire. “And what will be the next move of these scoundrels? If only we were not so helpless—if only we were organised in some way!”
“Organised!” exclaimed M. des Graves in surprise. “Organised as what?”
Gilbert made no immediate reply, but continued to sit, with his elbows on his knees, staring into the heart of the fire. “I met a remarkable person on my travels,” he said, without removing his gaze, “a man whom I never thought to see in the flesh, still less to like—the Marquis de la Rouërie.”
“You met La Rouërie!”
“Yes, near Laval. He was in hiding. He offered to help me to organise Vendée as he has organised Brittany.”
“And what did you say?” asked his companion, with the deepest interest.
“That it could not be done. I am persuaded that it cannot. But I wish it could.” He sighed. “And then, if it could, I am not sure that it would be the right course to take.”
The priest, with compressed lips, contemplated Gilbert as though he found in him a study of absorbing interest. But before he could make any pronouncement the door opened, and the Marquise was visible on the threshold, with a candle in her hand.
“I wish that one of you would come and look at Louis,” she said with a troubled air. “I am afraid that he is in a good deal of pain, and his shoulder is by no means in a satisfactory state. I am not at all easy about him.”