The younger man looked puzzled. “Naturally I see that Louis is under some misapprehension,” he said slowly, “since I have never, as he imagines, given in my adhesion to this scheme of which he speaks. Indeed, how could I, when his letter gives me the first hint of its existence?”
They had reached the end of the terrace.
“Will you read me the letter again?” asked the priest. “Or read, at least, the part relating to the plot, if so it is to be called.”
His companion complied at once, turning to the first page of the fine, closely-written missive.
“‘. . . I am extremely glad, my dear Gilbert, that you have allowed your name at least to be used in our plans, whether or no you mean to take any personal action. Any adhesion from Vendée will be of immense service to us. Between ourselves I am a little at a loss to think how you can have heard of our designs, but that is neither here nor there, since I have the important fact on good authority. I had meant soon to write to ask your opinion on the point, for, Liberal though you are . . . or were? . . . you cannot fail to see the possibilities of a strong Royalist-Girondin alliance, with possible assistance from the émigrés. The King is as passive as ever (it is a quality in which he excels), and we have not as yet communicated with Coblentz. I could, however, give you a goodly list of names on our side, were it not wiser to refrain. It seems strange, does it not, that the offer of alliance should have come from the enemy’s camp?’”
The reader paused.
“Et dona ferentes,” said M. des Graves softly. “But I fear me Louis has long ago forgotten the Virgil we did together. May I also have the passage relating to Madame d’Espaze?”
“It is further on, I think.
“‘I am sure that you must know how there was never yet a successful conspiracy without a woman in it. We too have a divinity who holds the threads of our destinies, and (we hope) those of France. When I tell you that she is as charming a hostess as she is a plotter, you will guess that her salon is always well attended. Indeed, it is the possession of that same salon which makes Madame d’Espaze so useful. And if rumour has coupled her name somewhat too closely with that of Lecorrier, the Girondin, M. des Graves will tell you that calumny generally dogs the footsteps of the good, as from my own experience I know that it tracks those of the fair. The other day, for instance. . . .’
“The rest, as you know, is not pertinent,” concluded the Marquis drily.