Louis gazed at him long and wistfully. “Yes, he looked happy,” he said to himself.
“To the selfless something of the Beatific Vision is perhaps given in this world,” said the priest. “I think Gilbert had a measure of it before he died.”
They were both silent.
“God knows,” said Louis suddenly, “what I shall say in England, if ever I get there. . . . But you will be there to help me, Father.”
“Are you tired, Louis?” asked the priest suddenly.
“Not at all,” answered Louis, surprised at his tone. “Why?”
For a second M. des Graves hesitated. “I may as well tell you now . . . I shall take you to England, Louis, when we get away, which, if God wills, we shall do as soon as you are fit to travel to the coast—it is all arranged. But I shall not be able to accompany you to Suffolk.”
“Not come with me to Suffolk!” repeated the Vicomte, highly amazed.
“No,” answered M. des Graves quietly. “I must find at Portsmouth, or London, a ship to take me to Hamburg, or some other German port, if indeed I cannot find a vessel sailing direct to Italy. I am going to Rome, Louis, and with as little delay as possible.”
“To Rome, Father! A pilgrimage?”