The three had that evening a not altogether agreeable topic of conversation, the two-days-old decree of the Directory of Fontenay requiring all fathers of émigrés to take up their residence at the chef-lieu and report themselves every morning to the authorities.
“And if Gilbert is not the father of an émigré, he is the son of one,” observed Louis. “Where will you settle at Fontenay, mon cher? I will come and see you sometimes.”
“It is no jesting matter, Louis,” said the priest. “Not only the fathers of émigrés are summoned, but their relations and other persons who, as the decree puts it, are likely to trouble the public peace by their anti-revolutionary conduct or discourse. You may find yourself there.”
“I wonder,” said the Marquis thoughtfully, scanning the letter by his plate, “if this letter to my mother can possibly have any connection with the decree—be a means of ascertaining whether she has emigrated or no? I do not know the writing. The postmark is Paris.”
“In the circumstances,” suggested the Vicomte, “had you not better open it?”
“I think I had,” said Château-Foix, and took it up. But Antoine coming in at that moment he laid it down again.
“How did this letter come here, Antoine?” he asked as he helped himself to another dish.
“By the post, Monsieur le Marquis.”
“You did not hesitate about receiving it, or say that Madame la Marquise was not here, I hope?”
“Certainly not, Monsieur le Marquis,” replied his retainer fervently, and as he left the room there were signs that he was hurt at the question.