“You can give me a few minutes?” enquired the voice of the Marquis.
Saint-Ermay turned round. “Half an hour if you like,” he replied cheerfully.
As they stood together for a moment a spectator could scarcely have divined their kinship, save perhaps in that they had something of the same bearing. Saint-Ermay was of slighter and more graceful make than his cousin, nor was he so tall. The Chantemerle had for generations been noted for their fine figures and their carriage, and though Gilbert had grown up to better looks than his boyhood had promised, he possessed his full share of the constant racial heritage without any portion of the beauty which his (and Louis’) great-grandmother had brought into the family. The Vicomte had both.
“We cannot possibly talk privately here,” observed Château-Foix rather doubtfully.
“Not here, perhaps, but in that corner we could.” And slipping his arm through his companion’s, Louis drew him towards a sofa standing in a small recess in the least populated quarter of the room. “You have come about Lucienne, of course,” he began at once. Having known Mademoiselle d’Aucourt from a child he never used any more formal designation in speaking of her to one of the family. “She is quite safe, and well, I believe. But perhaps you have seen her? You got my letter of the 20th, I suppose?”
“Of the 19th,” corrected Gilbert. “Did you write on the 20th? Then it must have missed me. I learnt about that day’s events from the papers. But I am satisfied about Lucienne, thank God. No, I have not yet seen her, but the Princess was so good as to grant me an interview this evening, and she told me of the plans which she had made, with your assistance.”
“I hope that they are what you would have wished,” said the young man anxiously. “You see, the Princess was so distressed about her, and it takes so long for a letter to reach Chantemerle . . . and so she did me the honour to take me into her counsels, failing you—or rather till you could be got at. Of course one naturally thought of England, and then it occurred to me that your uncle Ashley would probably be only too pleased to take temporary charge of your . . . future wife.”
“Exactly the plan that had occurred to me,” said his cousin. “You acted extremely properly, and I am very much obliged to you. It is out of the question to take Lucienne to Vendée just now. On the other hand, it is preposterous that she should have been exposed to such a scene as must have taken place on the 20th. I can only pardon myself by reflecting that, in the provinces, one is so far from realising what is happening in Paris.”
“And in Paris, on the contrary, one grows accustomed to such things,” returned Saint-Ermay, “though the events of the 20th were, I admit, a new departure. But no doubt I ought to have made stronger representations to you about her remaining here.”
“I am not blaming you in the least, Louis,” interposed the Marquis quickly. “I have been too much influenced by her great reluctance to quit Madame Elisabeth. That, and the knowledge that you were near her has made me hesitate too long. But now——”