To this attitude there were, of course, many and often pathetic exceptions. There were men and women, high-born, bred in every conceivable luxury, and now reduced to comparative poverty, who could always be called upon to assist those who were poorer than themselves. Cécile de la Rodière was one of them, so was the old Marquise to a certain extent, though in a more detached and aloof way. There were some even who had real understanding for the conditions that had brought about the present social upheaval, but these belonged for the most part to the younger generation: the old found it wellnigh impossible to accommodate themselves to the new order of things, which had made them subservient to those whom they had been bought up to regard as inferior products of God's creative scheme.

Madame la Marquise scarcely ever went out of doors and never beyond the park gates. She had a horror of meeting people who in the past would have curtsied or bowed low as she went past, and now merely nodded-nodded!-in a surly kind of way, or, if they spoke at all, would perhaps say: "Good day, Citizeness." Citizeness! ! At least that is what she thought would occur if she set foot outside the house. So she remained most of the day in her boudoir doing crochet-work, or else turning out drawers full of beautiful laces and garments which she patted with loving hands, and put away again in soft paper with sachets of lavender. She invariably wore black, dresses from past days which she happened to have, some with hooped and quilted skirts, others with sacques, the rich silk of which had survived the wear and tear of years. She no longer wore powder on her hair, because she had used up the last box about a year ago, and when she desired Marie to buy her some more, Marie said that the commodity could no longer be bought. Madame did not ask why; she guessed, and thereafter wore elaborate caps of old lace which she fashioned herself, and which entirely covered her hair.

Thanks to the goodwill of Paul and Marie some semblance of order had been brought into the devastated part of the château: broken window-panes were replaced and torn carpets and curtains put out of sight. In the stables most of the horses and valuable dogs were sold or destroyed: Monsieur le Marquis only kept a couple of sporting dogs and two or three horses for his own use. Then, as the winter grew severe and fuel and food became scarce and dear, three pairs of willing hands were recruited from Choisy to supplement the exiguous staff of the once luxurious household. These willing hands, two outdoor men to help in the garden and stables and a girl in the house were now called aides-ménage, the appellation servant or groom being thought derogatory to the dignity of free-born citizens of France. Even then, special permission for employing these aides had to be obtained from the government: and this was only granted in consideration of the fact that Paul and Marie Leroux were old and infirm, and that it was they and not the ci-devants who required help.

This, then was the house to which the Abbé Edgeworth was conducted in the evening of that horrible day when he had seen his anointed King perish on the guillotine like a common criminal. Ever since that early hour in the morning when he had been called in to administer the sacraments to the man who had once been Louis XVI, King of France, he had lived in a constant state of nerve-strain, and as the afternoon and evening wore on he felt that strain more and more acutely. Towards seven o'clock two men who looked more like cut-throats than any voluntary revolutionary guards the abbé had ever seen had conducted him to La Rodière. Before he started out with them old Levet had assured him that everything was being done to ensure his safety: the same powerful and generous friend who had rescued him from the hands of a howling mob had further engineered the final means for his escape out of France.

The old priest accepted this explanation in perfect faith and trust. He assured his kind host that he was not the least bit afraid. He had gone through such a terrible experience that nothing could occur now to frighten him. Nor did anything untoward happen on the way. He got very tired stumping up the rugged track which was a short cut to the château. The monumental gates, no longer closed against intruders, were wide open. The abbé and his escort passed through unchallenged and walked up the stately avenue. The front door of the mansion was opened to them by Paul, who stood by deferentially in his threadbare but immaculately brushed suit of black, whilst the old priest stepped over the threshold.

Tired though he was the abbé did not fail to turn immediately in order to express his gratitude to the two enigmatic ruffians who had guided his footsteps so carefully, but they had gone. Their footsteps in the clumsy sabots echoed down the long avenue for a time but they themselves had already disappeared in the gloom. Later on an attempt was made to overtake them, but perhaps the attempt was too desultory to lead to any result: anyway, no trace was found of these pseudo-revolutionaries about whom the abbé knew as little as anybody.

But this is by the way. The priest who by now was on the verge of exhaustion both mentally and physically, sank into an armchair which Paul offered him, and here he waited patiently with eyes closed and lips murmuring a feeble prayer while his arrival was being announced to Monsieur le Marquis.

A few moments later a young man came running down the stairs with arms outstretched, shouting a welcome even before he had caught sight of the priest.

François de la Rodière was the only son of the late Marquis. He had inherited the title and estates four years ago on the death of his father; he was a well-set-up, athletic-looking youth, who might have been called handsome but for an arrogant, not to say cruel, expression round his thin-lipped mouth, and a distinctly receding chin. He was dressed with utmost elegance, in the mode that had prevailed before the present regime of equality had made tattered breeches, threadbare coats and soiled linen, the fashion.

The abbé rose at once to greet him.

"We were expecting you, Monsieur l'Abbé," the young man said cheerily. "My mother and sister are upstairs. I hope you are not too tired."

The abbé was certainly tired, but he contrived to smile and to ask with some surprise:

"You were expecting me? But how could you know . . .?"

"It is all a long story, Father," François de la Rodière replied thoughtfully; "we are all of us under its spell for the moment. But never mind about that now. We'll tell you all about it when you have had supper and a rest."

The welcome which Madame la Marquise extended to the priest was no less cordial than that of her son. The Abbé Edgeworth, by virtue of his holy office, and because he had been privileged to attend the royal martyr during the last hours of his life, stood on an altogether different plane in the eyes of Madame than the rest of the despicable bourgeoisie. Thus Mademoiselle Cécile, her daughter, was ceremoniously presented to Monsieur l'Abbé, and so was the young English gentleman, my lord Devinne, a friend of the family, who had ridden over from Paris that afternoon, bringing news of the terrible doings there. He had, it seems, also brought tidings of the Abbé Edgeworth's early arrival at La Rodière.

It was while the family and their guest were seated round the supper-table that Mademoiselle Cécile related to the priest the mysterious occurrence which had puzzled them all since morning.

"It was all so wonderful!" she explained, "and I cannot tell you, Father, how excited I am, because the first intimation we had that you were coming was addressed to me."

"To you, Mademoiselle?"