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DeGuyon rode away from the Château aux Loups at dawn on the morning of the Saturday. It was not until High Mass was done on the Sunday that Gabrielle de Vernet had news of him. At that hour, Pepin the guide came galloping into the courtyard of the château, crying loudly to have audience of its mistress, and of the venerable Abbé who counselled her.

"Mass or no mass," said he to the stableman, "I have a word for them which will not wait, even though I cry it from the pulpit. And hark ye, friend, had'st thou a stoop of wine I would love thee the better. Body of Bacchus, I could drink a river."

The words had scarce left his lips when the door of the chapel was thrown open, and the deep trumpet-like notes of the great organ filled the courtyard. One by one, the men and women of Gabrielle de Vernet's household passed out to the park, there to greet their neighbours, or to form members of the little groups which discussed this sudden coming of the guide. A few of the older servants waited for their mistress at the door of the church; but she remained some minutes engaged in silent prayer; and when at length she appeared among them, the Abbé Gondy was at her side—a Sabbath smile of generous benevolence upon his face, a great hunger for the coming dinner to be read in his watery eyes.

"Bon jour, Monsieur Pepin," said the Abbé cheerily when he observed the still-mounted guide, "we did not look for you to-day."

"Nor I for myself, Monsieur l'Abbé," said Pepin, coming down clumsily from his horse; "but what is must be—and that's logic any day. I have letters for you, my father and for my lady here."

The countess had said no word as yet, but her face had lost the smile it wore when she had quitted the chapel, and she answered the buffoon with a very stately but chilling inclination of her pretty head.

"You left Monsieur de Guyon well?" asked the Abbé, looking wearily at the sealed packet which had come between him and his dinner.

"Corbleu! you jest, monsieur—I left him in a dungeon, as yonder letter will tell."

Gabrielle uttered a little cry, but smothered it on her lips; the Abbé raised his hands to heaven and rolled his eyes as though a sharp pain had cut him.

"God keep us all from harm," said he, "what a thing to hear!"

"Aye, a sorry tale to come chattering to any house with," added Pepin apologetically, "and like to be sorrier before the week's out. By the toe of Peter, my poor lieutenant may hear Mass in the Bastille next Sunday."

The girl's heart was beating very fast while she listened to the news; tears strove for mastery with her, but were conquered. She was not one to wear her heart upon her sleeve; and it was with complete self-possession that she spoke to the guide.

"I thank you for your service in this matter," said she, "it was good of you to hasten here. You must now think of dinner and of rest."

"While we find a way of helping our poor friend," murmured the priest.

Leaving Pepin and the Abbé in the court, Gabrielle entered her room, and opened her letter with trembling fingers. When she had read it, she fell upon her knees before the little altar in her oratory, and the tears which she had erstwhile controlled forced themselves through her fingers. She began to reproach herself that she had permitted de Guyon to leave her; she seemed to feel again his burning kisses, but now they stung her lips; she prayed with wild, unchosen words that he might come to her again; she recalled that moment in the park when she lay in his arms it stood out as the sweetest moment of her life. In spirit she had given herself wholly to the man since that night in the glen. Why, then, she asked bitterly, had she suffered him to go?

Meanwhile the Abbé had taken Pepin to his apartments, and when they were alone, had begun to plague him with a hundred questions.

"You gave the king the packet?" he asked in a low voice.

"Am I then a knave?" pleaded Pepin.

"And his Majesty said——?"

"Ah, it was good to hear. He said, 'If that is the face of the little Huguenot, I will ride a hundred leagues to find her.'"

"Merciful God!" cried the Abbé, "he will come here to fetch her."

"It is very possible, my father. That will be a good day for you."

"How—for me?"

"Why, did not I mention it?"

"You said nothing—that's what I complain of, you are a dull fellow."

"Patience, Monsieur l'Abbé," said Pepin, anxious to plan out his tale, "let us first talk about those ten pieces."

"To the devil—that is, you are a greedy rascal."

The Abbé counted the money out upon the table, and then continued impatiently

"Well—and what now?"

"A cup of the wine of Burgundy, my father."

The Abbé stamped his foot savagely, but sent for the wine.

"Now," said he, with sarcastic deliberation, "if you do not speak plainly, Monsieur Pepin, I will lay my cudgel on your back."

"The saints forbid that a holy priest should so forget himself. Would you crack the cup to save the wine, monsieur? Parbleu, what folly!"

"Then answer me as I wish."

"I am all attention."

"His Majesty referred to his humble servant?"

"Certainly—I have his words in my mind now. 'I shall know how to deal with my friend, the Abbé,' he said; what more would you want?"

"But that—Holy Virgin, that may mean anything. He would say the same if he sent me to the Bastille."

"Possibly."

"And he added nothing to it?"

"The devil a word."

The Abbé groaned, sinking back in his chair. Pepin continued to quaff huge draughts of the luscious wine, and to plume himself upon the lies he was telling. "Ho, ho," thought he, "the Abbé would cudgel his servant, would he? But we shall see."

"Monsieur Pepin," said the Abbé after a pause, "I am like to come to trouble with the king, I fear. There has been some bungling here. I shall set out for the château this very night, with you for my guide. A word from me will make all straight."

"Aye, that it will."

"You are prepared to accompany me?"

"My fee is ten crowns, holy father."

The Abbé sighed.

"Very well, then," said he, "I will order the horses for sunset."