“Yes, I know,” assented Louis, sighing. “That is why it is so hard. I suppose one must always feel like that—as if one could have prevented a disaster had one been there.”
“You must remember, Louis, that it was God’s will.”
The young man suddenly stirred—he was a good deal stronger now—and flashed on the priest, out of eyes full of tears, a look of piercing enquiry. “Is that enough for you, Father?”
And in the priest’s eyes, as he bowed his head without speaking, was an echo of that look with which he had faced Louis over his dying cousin.
“Well, it isn’t enough for me!” said the Vicomte, catching a sob between his teeth. He began again after a moment. “Did he have much pain—before I saw him?”
“No, very little, I think.”
“He . . . had it before, in another way?”
“Yes,” said M. des Graves, looking at him very tenderly. “Louis, my dear child, I know what you are thinking of. There is no need to distress yourself. What Gilbert gave up, for you or for right’s sake, put it as you will, was only a symbol. It was only a part, perhaps a small part, of the work that had to be done in him. And he was a thousand-fold repaid even here. Perhaps you have forgotten what I once said to you about your own renunciation, that sacrifice is only exchange.”
“No, I have not forgotten.”
“It is true—and Gilbert learnt it before he died. That is enough for us to know.”