And one day the idea came to him of visiting his own. Having a capable steward, no interest whatever in improving his property, and a tolerable horror of the country, his appearances among them, since he came of age, could easily be counted on one hand. He had even—without the slightest intention of doing so—talked of getting rid of his embarrassed estate, because he knew that the suggestion annoyed Gilbert, and bred in the Marquise the sort of horror that amused him to witness. Now, after talking of this great project every day for a week, he at last set off for Poitiers, intending to be away about ten days. . . . He came back in three. The chance of visiting his property was gone for ever, for it had been declared confiscate to the nation some three weeks before. Louis found that his steward had fled, that he himself was supposed to have emigrated, that he could not even gain admission, and that the attempt to establish his identity had led to consequences so threatening as to give even his reckless temper pause. So, furiously angry, and yet not incapable of recognising the ironical justice of what had happened to him, he returned to his mornings in the village, his afternoons with rod or gun, his evenings of chess, talk, books, and early bed. After a day or two he threw off his resentment, announced a remote intention of taking steps to recover his stolen property when things were quieter, and congratulated himself that at least he was saved the expense of keeping it up. There was also the ineffaceable consolation that the mortgagees were probably as hard hit as he was himself.
More than a fortnight had passed in this renewed seclusion when there came a rude shock to its peace. One hot afternoon, after the usual contest, M. des Graves set out to visit, at some distance, a farmer injured by a fall from a hayrick; Louis and a spaniel accompanied him. The priest entered the building, leaving his companions outside, for, like most farms in Vendée, the place had but one large living and sleeping room. In a little while the farmer’s wife, learning that the young seigneur was outside, went to offer him some refreshment after his long walk. She came in again very hastily, and in a low voice besought the Curé to go out to Monsieur le Vicomte, for something was wrong.
The priest went anxiously forth, and found Louis sitting on the bench by the door with his head in his hands. Between his feet, on the trampled bracken of the courtyard, lay a newspaper. A dreadful fear tore at the priest’s heart.
“Louis! what is it?” he exclaimed, stooping over him and laying a hand on his bowed shoulder.
The face which the young man raised to him did not allay the fear.
“Is it Gilbert?”
The Vicomte shook his head, and then found speech. “It is the King,” he said hoarsely. “The Tuileries are sacked, the Swiss massacred . . . the Royal Family are under the protection of the Assembly . . . the protection of the Assembly! My God!”
M. des Graves was too stunned to offer comment.
“Think of it—the Queen trailing through the streets . . . through a mob!” He ground his teeth together. “God! why did I leave Paris! I might have died there with the rest—as I meant to . . .” He choked suddenly, and his head went down into his hands again.
M. des Graves sat down beside him, and put his arm about his shoulders. “My dear lad,” he said tenderly, “you had no choice—you had no choice! And we want you here, Louis. I want you, Gilbert wants you . . .”