And while this was happening in the Tuileries, the two women at the Hotel Plougastel still waited for the return of Rougane, though now with ever-lessening hope.  And Rougane did not return.  The affair did not appear so simple to the father as to the son.  Rougane the elder was rightly afraid to lend himself to such a piece of deception.

He went with his son to inform M. de Kercadiou of what had happened, and told him frankly of the thing his son suggested, but which he dared not do.

M. de Kercadiou sought to move him by intercessions and even by the offer of bribes.  But Rougane remained firm.

“Monsieur,” he said, “if it were discovered against me, as it inevitably would be, I should hang for it.  Apart from that, and in spite of my anxiety to do all in my power to serve you, it would be a breach of trust such as I could not contemplate.  You must not ask me, monsieur.”

“But what do you conceive is going to happen?” asked the half-demented gentleman.

“It is war,” said Rougane, who was well informed, as we have seen.  “War between the people and the Court.  I am desolated that my warning should have come too late.  But, when all is said, I do not think that you need really alarm yourself.  War will not be made on women.”  M. de Kercadiou clung for comfort to that assurance after the mayor and his son had departed.  But at the back of his mind there remained the knowledge of the traffic in which M. de Plougastel was engaged.  What if the revolutionaries were equally well informed?  And most probably they were.  The women-folk political offenders had been known aforetime to suffer for the sins of their men.  Anything was possible in a popular upheaval, and Aline would be exposed jointly with Mme. de Plougastel.

Late that night, as he sat gloomily in his brother’s library, the pipe in which he had sought solace extinguished between his fingers, there came a sharp knocking at the door.

To the old seneschal of Gavrillac who went to open there stood revealed upon the threshold a slim young man in a dark olive surcoat, the skirts of which reached down to his calves.  He wore boots, buckskins, and a small-sword, and round his waist there was a tricolour sash, in his hat a tricolour cockade, which gave him an official look extremely sinister to the eyes of that old retainer of feudalism, who shared to the full his master’s present fears.

“Monsieur desires?” he asked, between respect and mistrust.

And then a crisp voice startled him.

“Why, Benoit!  Name of a name!  Have you completely forgotten me?”

With a shaking hand the old man raised the lantern he carried so as to throw its light more fully upon that lean, wide-mouthed countenance.

“M.  Andre!” he cried.  “M.  Andre!” And then he looked at the sash and the cockade, and hesitated, apparently at a loss.

But Andre-Louis stepped past him into the wide vestibule, with its tessellated floor of black-and-white marble.