"You are a philosopher, my son."
"If so be that your philosopher waits while other men work, I am that same person."
The Abbé smiled.
"I like your teaching, friend," said he.
"Oh, I am a faithful pupil of Holy Church, my father."
"Would that we had more of them in these evil times," said the Abbé, raising his eyes solemnly to heaven, but instantly casting them down again.
"You have breakfasted, my son?" he asked, a moment later.
"In the matter of a snack I have done fairly well, monsieur; but should you be led to inquire if my girths are drawn tight, so to speak, I would even answer you, nay!"
The Abbé's eyes twinkled.
"Yesterday was a fast," said he; "to-day is a feast. You shall drink a cup of wine at my own board."
Pepin was on his legs in a moment. Five minutes later the same legs were dangling beneath the Abbé's groaning table.
"God send a saint every day of the year!" said Pepin, filling his mouth with slices from the breast of a well-boiled capon.
"Amen to that!" cried the Abbé, drinking a glass of luscious red wine.
"And a fat capon for sinners to fast upon."
"Let me fill your glass," said the Abbé, with oily condescension.
"You are too good, my father."
"I am the servant of the servants of God," murmured the Abbé, while his hand which held the decanter shook beyond concealment. "You have been with Monsieur de Guyon long, my friend?"
"I was with his father at Minden, monsieur. Dieu! I had three at once upon my sword!"
Pepin lied very discreetly. The truth was that de Guyon had picked him up the previous day at the Barrière d'Enfer, but the memory of Minden allowed him to pose as an old family retainer. The Abbé, however, knew nothing of this, and, assuming that he was talking to a confidential servant, he opened his heart freely.
"You are accompanying your master to the palace?"
Pepin had not the faintest notion whither de Guyon was carrying him, so he said, and there were tears in his eyes.
"I follow him to the world's end, mon père."
"You know why he has come here?"
Pepin did not know, but he was far too wise to betray his ignorance. With his tongue in his cheek, he made a grimace at the Abbé.
"Ah," said the priest, with a sly laugh, "you are a cunning fellow."
"I am as God made me, holy father."
"I always said," continued the Abbé, as if to himself, "that madame would hear of us."
"It's known in all Paris," said Pepin, clutching at a straw.
The Abbé appeared not to notice the remark.
"Your master has many friends at Court?" he asked suddenly.
"Their names would fill a book," said Pepin.
"And he has come straight to us from the king?"
"From the king!" cried Pepin, observing on a sudden the opportunity to appear knowing; "ha, ha, that's a fine story. From the king! What an idea!"
The Abbé looked at him searchingly.
"Fill your glass," said he.
Pepin did so.
"If you will tell me the name of the person whose messenger your master is, I will give you ten gold pieces," said the Abbé.
"Ten gold pieces," murmured Pepin, making another grimace; "oh, but I am a faithful servant, monsieur."
"Then twenty pieces," urged the Abbé.
He counted the money out upon the table—but covered it with his hand.
"One moment, my friend," said he; "when did your master last have audience of his Majesty?"
"Audience of his Majesty! Ha, ha, you joke, Monsieur l'Abbé!"
The priest began to put the money into the bag again.
"We do not understand each other yet," said he.
"Nay," said Pepin, "we understand each other perfectly. My master last had audience of his Majesty nine months ago, when he was sub- lieutenant at the Louvre."
"You lie," said the Abbé coolly, replacing all the money in the bag; "nine months ago your master was in Corsica. And he spoke with the king at Versailles five days ago."
"Ah! what tricks my memory plays with me," said Pepin, taken unawares; "but about those ten pieces, monsieur?"
"You see how well they go in this bag," remarked the Abbé, at the same time withdrawing the decanter from the other's reach; "we will talk of them again, my son, when your memory is in no mood for tricks. Meanwhile, I have to say my office."
Pepin scratched his head. He saw that he had made a mess of things.
"Parbleu! that was a good breakfast," cried he but the Abbé already had his breviary in his hand.
"Bon jour, monsieur!" said Pepin, lurching out.
"Impostor!" murmured the Abbé, kneeling at his faldstool.
"What Burgundy!" exclaimed Pepin, staggering to the stables to sleep.
The Abbé's devotions were interspersed with strange thoughts that morning. His eyes would wander from the pages of his breviary; his busy brain employed itself with anything but worship. The coming of de Guyon had upset him strangely. It had even suggested to him the possibility that Gabrielle de Vernet might marry again. And how would he fare with a master at the château? He said to himself that he might fare badly; might in an extreme case be driven out to some mean care of souls in some mean hamlet. "Far better," whispered the devil in his ear, "that she should go to Versailles, and leave you in possession of the Château aux Loups. She may become as the others, but you, at any rate, have tried to keep her to the faith. And she is a pure woman."
"Vade retro Satanas," murmured the Abbé piously; and then he fell to reading the words:—"Brethren, be sober and watch."
CHAPTER VI
IN THE BOWER OF VIOLETS.
Gabrielle de Vernet was a perfect horsewoman. De Guyon said to himself twenty times as he rode with her on the morning after his coming to the château that she would surely break her neck. Somehow, he found that he was more anxious for her safety than for his own. She looked so girlish with her golden-brown hair coiled loosely on her neck, and her tiny hands controlling a great horse that might have carried a commander. And no difficulty of the road was too great for her nerve or her daring. He shuddered again and again when she rode blindly through the labyrinthine way of copse thicket, or galloped wildly where the sward was soft and the way was open.
There were moments when he said that she must certainly be killed. And he himself was no mountebank in the saddle.
Even to a man accustomed to the gaudy pictures of life at Court, the scene was no unworthy one. The green coats and feathered hats of the woodlanders, the changing beauties of the forest; the baying of the hounds, the winding blast of horns, the thud of hoofs upon the rich green turf braced his mind to exhilaration in the sport. And when to this there was added that fascination which the company of Gabrielle de Vernet already cast upon him, his heart went out to the spirit of