"Marie had one of her bad attacks of rheumatism, Madame la Marquise, and Berthe the kitchen girl had a poisoned finger. The doctor has been seeing to them."
"Tell him to go up to Monsieur l'Abbé at once," François commanded.
When Paul had gone, he turned to Lord Devinne.
"This is very unfortunate," he said. "I do hope it won't be a long affair. I don't mind the abbé being here, say, a day or two, but you didn't say anything about his being a sick man."
"I didn't know that he was," the Englishman observed.
"Your wonderful chief should have told you," the other retorted with obvious ill-humour. "It won't be over-safe either for maman or for the rest of us to be harbouring a man who is under the ban of this murdering government. Believe me, milord, I —— "
He was interrupted by the opening of the door and the entrance of Simon Pradel. Madame la Marquise gave him a gracious nod, and Cécile a kindly glance. François, on the other hand, did not take the trouble to greet him.
"It is upstairs you have got to go," he said curtly; "a friend of ours who was here at supper was suddenly taken ill."
Simon took no notice of the insolence of the young man's tone. He only frowned slightly, took his professional tablet and pencil from his pocket and asked:
"What is the name of your friend, Monsieur le Marquis?"
"His name has nothing to do with you," the other retorted tartly.
"I am afraid it has, Monsieur le Marquis. I am bound by law to report to the local Section every case I attend within this area."
Madame la Marquise sighed and turned her head away; the word "Section" or "law" invariably upset her. But François suffered contradiction badly, especially on the part of this fellow Pradel whom he knew to hold democratic if not revolutionary views.
"You can go and report to the devil," he said with growing exasperation. He was still in a fume over the affair of the abbé's inconvenient sickness, and now, what he considered presumption on the part of this purveyor of pills and purges, turned his annoyance into fury.
"Either," he went on, not attempting to control his temper, "either you go and attend to my guest upstairs or you clear out of my house in double quick time."
There was not much meekness in Simon Pradel either. The arrogance of these aristocrats exasperated him just as much as his own attitude exasperated them. His face went very white, and he was on the point of making a retort which probably would have had unpleasant consequences for everyone concerned when he caught a glance, an appealing glance, levelled at him out of Cécile's beautiful eyes.
"Our friend is old, Monsieur le Docteur," she said gently, "and very ill. I am sure he will tell you his name himself, for he has no reason to hide it."
The glance and the words froze the sharp retort on Pradel's lips. He succeeded in keeping his rising temper under control and without another word, and just a slight inclination of the head he went out of the room. François on the other hand made no attempt to swallow his wrath: he turned on his sister and said acidly:
"You were a fool, Cécile. What that fellow wanted was a sound thrashing: your amiability will only encourage him in his insolence. All his like ought to have tasted the whip-lash long ago. If they had, we shouldn't be in the plight we are in to-day. Don't you agree with me, maman?" he concluded, appealing to his stately mother.
But Madame la Marquise who was very much upset by the incident had already sailed out of the room.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
An Outrage
It was at daybreak the following morning that Simon Pradel left the château. He had spent the whole night at the bedside of the Abbé Edgeworth, fighting a stubborn fight against a tired heart, which threatened any moment to cease beating. The old priest was hardly conscious during all those hours, only swallowing mechanically at intervals the cordials and restoratives which the doctor forced between his lips. Just before six he rallied a little. His first request was for a priest to hear his confession.
"You are no longer in danger now," Pradel said to him gently.
But the abbé insisted.
"I must see a priest," he said; "It is three days since I made confession."
"You have nothing on your conscience, I am sure, Monsieur 'Abbé, and I am afraid of too much mental effort for you."
"Concern at being deprived of a brother's ministrations will be worse for me than any effort," the old man declared with serene obstinacy.
There was nothing for it but to humour the sick man. Pradel immediately thought of Augustin Levet and decided to go and fetch him. He collected his impedimenta, left instructions with the woman who was in charge of the invalid, and made his way, with much relief, out of this inhospitable château. The morning was clear and cold, the sun just rising above the woods of Charenton, flooded the valley with its pale, wintry light. In the park one or two labourers were at work, and in the stableyard away to the left Pradel saw three men, one of whom, a groom, was holding a horse by the bridle with another, presumably Lord Devinne, was about to mount; the third had his back turned towards the avenue and Pradel couldn't see who it was. He was walking quickly now in the direction of the gate, and suddenly became aware of a woman's figure walking in the same direction as himself, some distance ahead of him. For the moment he came to a halt, and stood stockstill, hardly crediting his own eyes. It was not often that such a piece of good fortune came his way. The joy of meeting Mademoiselle Cécile, alone, of speaking with her unobserved, had only occurred twice during these last twelve months when first he had learned to love her.
Pradel was no fool. He knew well enough that his love was absolutely hopeless: that is to say he had known it until recently when the greatest social upheaval the world had ever seen, turned the whole fabric of society topsy-turvy. He would hardly have been human if he had not since then begun, not exactly to hope, but to wonder. Opposition on the part of these arrogant patricians who constituted Mademoiselle Cécile's family would probably continue, but there was no knowing what the next few months, even weeks, might bring in the way of drawing these aristocrats out of their fortresses of pride, and leaving them more completely at the mercy of the much despised middle class.
Pradel, of course, didn't think of all this at the moment when he saw Cécile de la Rodière walking alone in the park. He only marvelled at his own good fortune and hastened to overtake her. She was wrapped in an ample cloak from neck to ankles, but its hood had fallen away from her head and that same wintry sun that glistened on the river, touched the loose curls above her ears and made them shine like tiny streaks of gold.
All down the length of the avenue there were stone seats at intervals; the last of these was not very far from the entrance gate. Cécile came to a halt beside it, looked all round her almost, Pradel thought, as if she was expecting someone, and then sat down. At sound of the young man's footsteps she turned, and seeing him she rose, obviously a little confused. He came near, took off his hat, bowed low and said smiling:
"Up betimes, mademoiselle?"
"The sunrise looked
