At the door of Gilbert’s quarters, when he got there, stood a sentry, probably self-stationed, since for no duty had the Vendean peasant a stronger distaste. It was Toussaint Lelièvre, the young man who, since Louis had saved his life at Chantonnay, followed him about like a dog. There was, therefore, no need to ask if the Vicomte were within.
Louis was ensconced in the deep window-seat, with his sword upon his knees, polishing the weapon with energy. The golden afterglow behind him, falling upon his bent head and pure profile, gave him something the air of a Sir Galahad engaged in a similar task on the eve of conflict. He looked up as the door opened. “I was just snatching a moment for this job before going out to the pickets,” he said cheerfully. “However, I think this is quite clean enough to do justice to a Blue.” He got up, threw the rag in his hand on to the seat, and held out his shining blade upright at arm’s length, looking more like a Galahad than ever. Only the stainless knight never had so mischievous a sparkle in his eyes, nor such a tone of relish in his voice. “Yes, that will do,” he continued, running an appraising glance up and down the steel. “They like to see it bright; it encourages them to come on if they can see it about a mile in front of them.” In this Louis was referring not to the enemy but to their own men. It was by now well known that the Vendeans would not follow unless their leaders were ready to expose themselves in the rashest of manners—a fact which the Vicomte himself had found very useful to him when brought to book for exploits of surpassing imprudence. “Shall I give yours a rub? . . . Why, what have you done with it?”
“It is lying on the altar in the church,” said the Marquis quietly. He had crossed the room, and stood a little in shadow, between the table and the hearth. “Louis, I want to say something to you.”
It was the new expression on his face, as much as the extraordinary change in his tone, which made the Vicomte stand instantly motionless, while the sword in his hand gradually sank until its point touched the floor.
“It can be said in a very few words,” pursued Gilbert, “and I dare say that you can guess what it is. I want with all my heart to ask your forgiveness for the past—for my lack of generosity to you, for——”
“Oh, stop!” cried Louis, in distress. The sword went clattering from his hand. “Gilbert . . . You! ungenerous. . . .”
“Yes, I,” said the Marquis, coming a little nearer. And he went on with the same gentle gravity: “Even when I made—when I resigned my right to you . . . well, you must have known what hell was in my heart. Let me make that surrender anew to you, Louis, fully and freely, and let us be as we might always have been. . . . Do you forgive me?” He held out his hand.
And it was thus that Gilbert, the proud and taciturn, had found speech! What had happened? Louis had lost it. And the manner of Gilbert’s avowal, easy, effortless, yet so transparently sincere, seemed to inspire him with a kind of awe.
“I have not anything to forgive,” he stammered, drawing back from the outstretched hand. “How could I, after——”