Louis was tickled. “I think we might manage to do with a little less of the blessing in Vendée,” he observed. “But of course it is a good locality. Do you yearn to be a martyr, Monsignore? Personally I should prefer something a little more sensational than to die of overwalking myself.”
A veritable fire flashed in the priest’s eyes as he turned them on the flippant young man. Yet it was not the flame of indignation nor of reproof but of something else.
“It would be presumption, Monsieur,” was all he said; yet, as Louis remarked afterwards to M. des Graves, “he threw back his head as if he were already at the stake snuffing up the smoke.” The Vicomte added: “If the Monsignore makes a really determined effort to get martyred I think he has every chance of succeeding.” For Louis had not been greatly drawn to the visitor; and another cause of offence, though one which he naturally refrained from mentioning, was his suspicion that M. des Graves had taken advantage of the rare advent of a priest to be shriven, and for some reason the critic did not consider the newcomer worthy to confess a saint like M. des Graves.
One more surprise still Monsignor Cantagalli was to cause the young man before he departed. It was next morning, and Louis, after breakfasting in his room, had descended to the library. There was no one there, and it was not at once that he realised the presence of the two priests outside the open window, for he could not see them in the balcony. But suddenly he caught the words, “The Holy Father’s most express wish,” something in a very low voice from M. des Graves, and then the Monsignore’s clear, finished tones, with an additional ring of expostulation—“But, Eminence, surely—” And then they passed along the balcony out of hearing.
The Vicomte stood stupefied. He felt literally as though he were standing on his head. That title, which not long ago he himself had used in jest! No, it was impossible. His hearing had played him a trick. Granted that the Italian was an envoy charged with some message from the Curia—though that in itself seemed improbable—what he must have said was “His Eminence,” referring to some Cardinal or other of whom he had previously been speaking. But what a queer sensation the misapprehension had caused him, the listener!
He felt a delicacy, on this, of ever asking the priest why Monsignor Cantagalli had come to the château, and abstained from doing so. He had a secret; probably M. des Graves had his. And his own, with the arrival of another letter from Gilbert announcing his return in a week or two, began to press heavily on him again, so heavily that in the end, through no wish or knowledge of his own, it escaped his control.
It had been a long, dull day, during which depression had made inroads on Louis’ mind so noticeable that by the evening M. des Graves had found himself, most unusually, conducting almost a monologue, and at last the young man, on the plea of being tired, had betaken himself early to bed. The priest sat on by the fire reading. At eleven o’clock he rose to look for the second volume of his book, was unable to find it on the library shelves, and recollected that the Marquis had been reading it before he went to Paris. It was probably still in his room, and after a moment’s hesitation he lighted a candle and set forth in search of it. The few servants had gone to bed, and the wide staircase was black, ghostly, and silent as he ascended. He was still immersed in what he had been reading, as he gently opened the door of the Marquis’ empty room and entered.
But the room was not empty! There was a burnt-down fire on the hearth, a couple of candles on the table, and a coat and waistcoat flung upon a chair. For a moment M. des Graves was staggered, until he suddenly remembered having heard that the Vicomte was a temporary occupant of Gilbert’s apartment. Vexed at his intrusion he turned to go, hoping that he had not disturbed the sleeper, and speculating as to the incendiary possibilities of the two guttering candles. “I have a very good mind to blow them out,” he said to himself. “Louis will tell me that I am becoming an old maid, but it is really very careless of him. As he has not heard me he is obviously asleep and cannot need them.”
Having resolved on this precaution the priest advanced softly round the screen which cut off from his view the bed and a portion of the table. He did not get very far.
Louis was not in bed, nor was he asleep. He was sitting half dressed at the table, his face hidden in his arms, in an attitude whose significance there was no mistaking. . . . And as M. des Graves stood petrified he saw the young man’s shoulders move and his right hand tighten convulsively at the same instant round some unseen object which it held. The priest could not avoid knowing what it was, for between the fingers flowed the broad blue ribbon which commonly suspended on the wall the little miniature of Lucienne d’Aucourt.