“Prends ton fusil, Grégoire,
Prends ta gourde pour boire,
Prends ta Vierge d’ivoire . . .
Nos Messieurs sont partis
Pour chasser la perdrix.”
—Monsieur d’Charette.
(Chant Vendéen).
Once again M. des Graves sat in the library, and he sat in silence—save for a very cheerful and crackling fire. But he was not alone. By the side of his chair, an elbow on the arm of it, Louis had assumed a rather favourite position on the floor. It was over, the telling of his incredible news, incoherently as it had been done, and now he had no more to say, cast up by that flood of emotion and amazement on to a shore of silence. But at last he shifted his position a little and asked, for the second time: “You are sure that you do not disapprove, Father? You are sure that I may take her?”
“Yes, Louis,” came the answer, grave and low; “you may take her.”
“I don’t deserve it,” said the young man to himself, and fell to pulling at the bearskin rug on which he lay. Presently he broke the silence again. “It was horrible for him—horrible. And I cannot try to thank him; he would hate it.”
The priest’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair. It was difficult to articulate in the throes of a joy so piercing as to be pain. Perhaps if he could betake himself for a little to the prayer which surged up from his inmost soul it would ease the almost intolerable emotion. And perhaps he could then show to Louis his sympathy with his happiness. He said gently: “He will be able to take your thanks some day,” and with that got out of his chair.