The Chevalier de Maisonfleur and his daughter were alone when Saint-Ermay’s turnkey threw open the door of the Chambre des Victoires. The old man laid aside his book, the girl her knitting, with alacrity at his entrance.
“A very pleasant surprise, Monsieur le Vicomte,” exclaimed the former as he welcomed him. “It is not yet nine o’clock. We are unduly favoured.”
“It is I who am favoured,” returned Louis. “I had no conception of how long a solitary morning and afternoon could be.”
A shadow swept over the Chevalier’s face. “So, too, are four years, with only an old man for company,” he said, sighing. His daughter’s cheek, half concealed by a pale curl as she bent hastily to pick up her ball of wool, flushed scarlet for a moment. Louis looked away in an embarrassed pity; there was nothing to say, and he was glad when M. de Maisonfleur, resuming his usual cheerful, courteous self, set out in pursuit of other topics. Five minutes later M. des Essars came in.
“Have you heard,” said the newcomer, shaking hands with Louis, “that—so my jailor tells me—Vergniaud made a great speech yesterday morning, full of denunciations, and especially of the so-called chevaliers du poignard?”
“I had not,” said his late adversary. “If it be true, however, it no doubt accounts for my having the pleasure of your renewed acquaintance.”
“I feared it might,” returned the other gravely. “I hoped, however, that you might be here for something less—less——”
“Less damning than loyalty,” finished Louis gaily. “Well, you know, Des Essars, if you have got to be in prison, it doesn’t make much odds what you are there for.” Privately he thought, however, that it did. “Do you know if there were many arrests?”
“About thirty, the jailor said. He knew no names.”
Louis bit his lip. “Thirty! Nearly all of us! Damned fools we were—I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle——”