Louis nodded. “She is an Englishwoman herself, I understand, and the widow of Gaumont, the banker, once dear to the Third Estate. If the Princess trusts her I think we—that is you—may do so too. But the difficulty is that Lucienne is so extremely reluctant to leave her mistress.”
“I know,” returned the Marquis slowly. “But from what the Princess told me this afternoon I fancy she has made Lucienne see the necessity of it. And now, Louis, what about yourself?”
“I?” asked his cousin. “What about me? I am not going to leave the King, if that is what you mean.” His tone was calm and even languid as, crossing his silk-clad legs, he studied the effects produced by the light on the diamonds of his right shoe-buckle. “Though he will do nothing to help himself, it is still possible to do something for him.”
“To try to do something—and to perish in the trying,” corrected Gilbert.
The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders. “Qu’importe?” he said lightly. “Personally, I do not much care. But this is gloomy talk, when we are set at last on such a hopeful track. For now it is do or die—the last throw—as you know.”
“Yes, but I want to hear more about your plans.”
Louis raised his eyebrows. “But surely, Gilbert, you are well enough posted up in them?”
“Not so thoroughly, perhaps, as you imagine,” replied the Marquis with an enigmatical smile. The situation had its humours, grim though they were. “You forget, too, that some time has elapsed since you wrote.”
“True,” conceded Louis. “Well, things have advanced since then, as you can guess. To put it briefly, the events of the 20th have disgusted the Gironde.”
“Indeed?” said Gilbert.