The Vicomte returned to the window-seat. The hamlet, usually so early abed, was not much disturbed even to-night by victory. Snatches of song came out of the darkness and a little laughter. And as he sat there with his bandaged head leaning against the casement, Louis’ thoughts went over the seas. But four days of fighting seemed to have set between him and Lucienne a gulf far wider than the Channel. When he had ridden homeward from the Etoile de Vendée, and when his stupefaction had a little cleared, one thought had possessed his mind, that now he could go to Lucienne at once. . . . Almost before he had had time to taste the full rapture of this idea the stone at the window had chased the vision. And what of Lucienne’s kisses now? Again honour held them apart; how could he turn his back on Gilbert now, withdraw from the opening struggle? But honour no longer forbade him to think of her, to write to her. He could not at times believe in the reality of his happiness. At odd moments he contemplated Gilbert with profound amazement, not unmixed with wistfulness. If only he would drop a little of his frigid bearing! Even so he was aware that their relations were not what they had been a day or two ago. Perhaps in time. . . .
He had fallen into so deep a slumber that he never heard the door open, and woke only to the sound of his own name. In front of him stood the Marquis and M. des Graves, looking at him attentively.
“Ah, you are back, Gilbert,” he observed sleepily. “Father! you here!”
“I might say the same to you,” retorted the priest with mock sternness. “Why are you not in your bed?”
Louis got up and took hold of his arm. Gilbert had turned away and was lighting another candle. No one would have guessed that he had been chafing the whole evening to return and see how his cousin fared.
“I will not be scolded,” said the Vicomte. “What are you doing here, mon père?”
“He is going to be with us henceforward as our chaplain,” said Gilbert. “Get into bed, Louis, at once.”
“I am going,” said M. des Graves, smiling at the pleasure in Louis’ eyes. “I have no influence with this disobedient boy.”
The individual in question went arm-in-arm with him to the door, and out to the top of the stairs. Once outside the room the priest took his hand. “Louis, I hope you have not forgotten to thank God for your preservation. Good-night, my child.”
“I have not yet thanked Gilbert,” said Louis to himself. “I do not care—I shall do it. I suppose he does not exactly regret his action.”