He was more mystified than ever. He had re-entered the room that evening—he had paused at the door with a prayer on his lips—strung up to a most uncomfortable pitch of expectation, prepared to see he knew not what menacing interview going forward within. Instead of that he had beheld Louis, his depression banished, sitting laughing on the arm of his cousin’s chair, in amiable converse with the kinsman whom he had (perhaps) deeply wronged, and who (perhaps) knew it. It was more than M. des Graves could fathom. Must he accuse Louis of being, besides a traitor, the most consummate of hypocrites? No; the most finished acting in the world could not simulate so well. He was pleased to see the Marquis back; his spirits were genuine. And Gilbert . . . what of his past bearing? M. des Graves knew the Marquis’ power of concealing his feelings, his reserve, his mastery of himself; but he did not credit him with adding to these gifts that of pretending to an emotion which he did not feel. Therefore the ease which he displayed in Louis’ presence must be real. What had happened to him? Did he know nothing, after all? Or—blessed supposition—was there nothing to know?
Of one thing, however, the priest went to bed that night convinced. Though he could not yet define or measure it, Gilbert had suffered some moral transformation during his absence. Next day, however, its nature was made clearer to him, in the course of a long conversation—a talk more intimate indeed than they often enjoyed—wherein Château-Foix frankly admitted some change in himself. Contact with facts had at last shattered the Liberal ideals which he had so carefully cherished. La Rouërie’s influence possibly counted for something in the process of iconoclasm. At any rate, M. des Graves was struck with the attraction which the Breton had exercised upon him; for in this interview, perhaps because Louis was not present, Gilbert was much more prodigal of details about their intercourse.
And it was scarcely a surprise to M. des Graves to find that Gilbert had brought back from Brittany, besides the increased zeal and energy for which he could not altogether account, a perfectly formulated desire of emulating, in some measure at least, the work which La Rouërie had done in that province. For several days the two discussed this possibility in all its bearings, before Gilbert, once so opposed to the mere idea, would yield to the priest’s conviction that to set on foot throughout Vendée a Royalist organisation analogous to that of Brittany was not yet desirable and would only court disaster.
Moreover, Château-Foix had changed in other ways—or so it seemed. A day or two after his return a recrudescence of the search for hidden priests had led both Gilbert and M. des Graves to the conclusion that prudence demanded the suppression, during the day, of any sign that the little chapel at the château was still used for worship. It had therefore been dismantled one morning after Mass, and later in the day the Curé took Gilbert to look at it.
Everything was gone—the houselling-cloth from the rails, the peasants’ little votive candles from the shrine of the Madonna, the holy water from the stoup at the door; and the altar itself, stripped of everything, even of its crucifix, stood deserted and lightless against the bare wall.
“Jerusalem is indeed made an heap of stones,” said M. des Graves sadly, looking at the empty tabernacle. “This is the first day for half a century at least that you have been without the presence of the Blessed Sacrament here.”
The Marquis said nothing, but when they got outside he began suddenly: “I saw a thing in Brittany which struck me very much. When I was at Mauron there was a riot in the church, in which several lives were lost. In the midst of the turmoil a man, a young man—I learnt afterwards that he was a noble—sprang up the altar steps and stood with drawn sword in front of the tabernacle. It was a fearfully conspicuous position, and he was shot down by a soldier from the end of the church. The instant that he fell a peasant took his place, snatching the sword from his hand. I think it was the finest thing I have ever seen.”
“I agree with you,” said the priest, his face shining. “Yet your own countrymen might show you a devotion as lofty. Do you remember the sublime retort of the dying peasant in the troubles at Saint Christophe eighteen months ago, when the soldier shouted to him, ‘Rends-toi!’ ‘Rends-moi mon Dieu!’”
“Yes, I heard of it,” said the Marquis, and fell silent.
M. des Graves went to his room. He had by now given up trying to penetrate the mystery of Gilbert’s relations with Louis. It was evident that in Château-Foix’ mind there was no room at once for the resentment which the priest had feared and the new interests and enthusiasms whose presence he welcomed with ever-increasing surprise. The Marquis seemed a different man—a man who was at last perhaps in a fair way to be able to use his own dormant qualities.