“Surely, Monsieur,” broke in the Chevalier with a certain lofty sympathy, “you do not consider yourselves fools for taking the side that every gentleman would take—if he were free?”
“No, not for that,” returned the young man, “but for trusting the Gironde, who tricked us into believing their protestations of friendship, and then betrayed us.”
Anger and disillusionment lent a new tone to his voice, for he knew now that he was still cherishing hopes of the schemes which for days he had known to be doomed. Suddenly it occurred to him that Des Essars, from the way in which he was looking at him, knew something more. Apologising to the father and daughter, he drew him over to the other side of the room.
“Tell me the rest,” he said peremptorily. “You know something else, I can see.”
“My dear Vicomte, there is nothing to tell. Besides, I know nothing—it is all hearsay.”
“Let me have the hearsay, then. Your jailor had heard something more. You know quite well what I mean.”
Des Essars looked him in the eyes, and turned away his own. “He said that they were voting in the Assembly for a long rope and a short shrift,” he replied unwillingly. “But for God's sake remember——”
Louis stopped him. “It is exactly what I wanted to know, and what I expected to hear. I am infinitely obliged to you, and I regret the Luxembourg more than ever.” He shook hands, smiling. “Shall we go back to Mademoiselle?”
The girl and her father had been watching the little colloquy with something like alarm, and the knitting had rolled to the ground again. Louis stooped and picked it up.
“M. des Essars has been relieving my mind about small matter,” he said lightly, drawing up a chair. “Mademoiselle, I wish you would teach me to knit. I am sure it is soothing to the temper.”