He broke off, rather startled, for the old man had sprung up. “Holy Virgin! I had forgotten for the moment. Heaven send we have not disturbed him! Pardon me, Monseigneur.” He went on tip-toe to the far side of the room, and Gilbert followed him, suddenly uncertain as to his sanity. And in a deep chair by the window, on one of Louis’ handsomest coats, slumbered the object of this solicitude, the beautiful Persian cat which Château-Foix had seen on his bed.
“He has been so restless since Monsieur Louis went,” explained Jasmin, coming softly away. “At last I brought him this coat to lie on. Poor Lucidor! it has soothed him. But”—he looked back—“I see that he has not touched his cream; how vexed Monsieur le Vicomte would be! I was to be sure that he had it at his usual time.”
“Were those my cousin's last instructions?” asked Gilbert sarcastically.
“Yes, Monseigneur,” responded the old servant, quite oblivious of the sneer.
The Marquis muttered under his breath something uncomplimentary to his kinsman. Such levity was incomprehensible to him.
“Are you sure there was nothing else?” he demanded impatiently. “No message for me—even though I am not a cat?”
Jasmin looked at him with a sort of reproachful astonishment. “Monsieur le Marquis, how could there be? We were not alone for a single moment. Do you think Monsieur le Vicomte would wish to implicate you? Indeed,” he finished nervously, “he would not think it safe for you to be here now, in case they return.”
“You need not alarm yourself, my good Jasmin,” returned Château-Foix. “I shall not stay, if you can give me no more information.” He walked musingly to the door. “By the way, would not the name of the prison have been in the warrant?”
“If it had been, Monsieur le Vicomte would not have asked it,” replied Jasmin, shaking his head. “He did ask it—so that I might hear, I suppose—but they would not tell him.”
Gilbert went out of the house feeling like a man who has unexpectedly come to the edge of a high cliff. Before him was nothingness. He almost felt that Louis’ arrest was less terrible than the absolute ignorance as to his whereabouts. True, he had spoken to Jasmin—more hopefully than conviction really warranted—about procuring his master’s release—but how was he to do it, even if he knew whither he had been taken? And not to know that was stupefying. Poor Louis, going light-hearted into the darkness with no last message for any one—save a pet! No, it was incredible that he should never see him again; his release only needed an unswerving determination and perseverance, and, once released, he would instantly get him out of Paris, and they would go back to Poitou together. Was not that the very aim of his coming to Paris? One's own kin are safe, of course, from the graver catastrophes, and who could fancy Louis other than fortunate? He had been so all his life.