"No, nothing interests me; but one grows weary of wine-bibbers and roisterers, of spendthrifts and sponges."

"Monsieur is old and can not appreciate the natural exuberance of youth."

The marquis fumbled at his lips.

"Surely, Monsieur," went on the Chevalier, the devil of banter in his tones, "surely you are not going to preach me a sermon after having taught me life from your own book?"

"Monsieur, attend to me. You have disappointed me in a hundred ways."

"What! have I not proved an apt scholar? Have I not succeeded in being written in Rochelle as a drunkard and a gamester? Perhaps I have not concerned myself sufficiently with women? Ah well, Monsieur, I am young yet; there is still time to make me totally hateful, not only to others, but to myself."

All these replies, which passed above and below the marquis's guard, pierced the quick; and the marquis, whose impulse had been good, but whose approach to the vital point of discussion was without tact, began to lose patience; and a cold anger awoke in his eyes.

"Monsieur le Comte," he said, rising, "I have summoned you here to discuss not the past, but the future." He was quite as tall as his son, but gaunt and with loosely hanging clothes.

"The future?" said the Chevalier. "Best assured, Monsieur, that you shall have no hand in mine."

"Be not too certain of that," replied the marquis, his lips parting in that chilling smile with which he had formerly greeted opponents on the field of honor. "And, after all, you might have the politeness to remember that I am, whatever else, still your father."

The Chevalier bowed ironically. Had he been less drunk he would have read the warning which lay in his father's eyes, now brilliant with the spirit of conflict. But he rushed on to his doom, as it was written he should. Paris was in his mind, Paris and mademoiselle, whose letter lay warm against his heart. He turned to his mother's portrait, and again bowed, sweeping the floor with the plume of his hat.

"Madame, yours was a fortunate escape. Would that I had gone with you on the journey. Have you a spirit? Well, then, observe me; note the bister about my eyes, the swollen lips, the shaking hand. 'Twas a lesson I learned some years ago from Monsieur le Marquis, your husband, my father. You, Madame, died at my birth, therefore I have known no mother. Am I a drunkard, a wine-bibber, a roisterer by night? Say then, who taught me? Before I became of age my foolish heart was filled with love which must spend itself upon something. I offered this love, filial and respectful, to Monsieur le Marquis. Madame, the bottle was more responsive to this outburst of generous youth than Monsieur le Marquis, to whom I was a living plaything, a clay which he molded as a pastime—too readily, alas! And now, behold! he speaks of respect. It would be droll if it were not sad. True, he gave me gold; but he also taught me how to use this devil-key which unlocks the pathways of the world, wine-cellars and women's hearts. Respect? Has he ever taken me by the hand as natural fathers take their sons, and asked me to be his comrade? Has he ever taught me to rise to heights, to scorn the petty forms and molds of life? Have I not been as the captive eagle, drawn down at every flight? And for this . . . respect? Oh, Madame, scarcely! And often I thought of the happiness of beholding my father depending on me in his old age!"

"You thought that, Monsieur?" interrupted the marquis, his eyes losing some of their metallic hardness. "You thought that?" What irony lay in the taste of this knowledge!

"Monsieur," said the Chevalier with drunken asperity, "permit me to say that you are interrupting a fine apostrophe! . . . And as a culmination, he would have me wed the daughter of your mortal enemy, his mistress! It is some mad dream, Madame; we shall soon awake."

"Even immediately," replied the marquis calmly. The Chevalier had snuffed more than candles this night. He had snuffed also the belated paternal spark of affection which had suddenly kindled in his father's breast. "Your apostrophe, as you are pleased to term the maudlin talk of a drunken fool, is being addressed to my wife."

"Well?" insolently.

"Your mother, while worthy and beautiful, was not sufficiently noble to merit Rubens's brush. It is to be regretted, but I never had a portrait of your mother."

The roisterers burst into song again . . . .

"When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe With a Bacchante's love for a Bacchic brew!"

How this rollicking song penetrated the ominous silence which had suddenly filled the salon! The Chevalier grew rigid.

"What did I understand you to say, Monsieur?" with an unnatural quietness which somewhat confused the marquis.

"I said that I never had a portrait of your mother. Is that explicit enough? Yonder Rubens was my wife." The marquis spoke lightly. The tone hid well the hot wrath which for the moment obliterated his sense of truth and justice, two qualities the importance of which he had never till now forgotten. He watched the effect of this terrible thrust, and with monstrous satisfaction he saw the shiver which took his son in its chilling grasp and sent him staggering back. "Then you return to Paris to-morrow? . . . to be the Chevalier du Cevennes till the end? Ah well!" How often man over-reaches himself in the gratification of an ignoble revenge! "We all have our pastimes," went on the marquis, deepening the abyss into which he was finally to fall. "You were mine. I had intended to send you about some years ago; but I was lonely, and there was something in your spirit which amused me. You tickled my fancy. But now, I am weary; the pastime palls; you no longer amuse."

The Chevalier stood in the midst of chaos. He was experiencing that frightful plunge of Icarus, from the clouds to the sea. He was falling, falling. When one falls from a great height, when waters roll thunderously over one's head, strange and significant fragments of life pass and repass the vision. And at this moment there flashed across the Chevalier's brain, indistinctly it is true, the young Jesuit's words, spoken at the Silver Candlestick in Paris. . . . "An object of scorn, contumely, and forgetfulness; to dream what might and should have been; to be proved guilty of a crime we did not commit; to be laughed at!" Spots of red blurred his sight; his nails sank into his palms; his breath came painfully; there was a straining at the roots of his hair.

"Monsieur," he cried hoarsely, "take care! Are you not telling me some dreadful lie?"

"It would be . . . . scarcely worth while." The marquis controlled his agitation by gently patting the gold knob on his stick. His gaze wandered, seeking to rest upon some object other than his son. The first blinding heat of passion had subsided, and in the following haze he saw that he had committed a wrong which a thousand truths might not wholly efface. And yet he remained silent, obdurate: so little a thing as a word or the lack of it has changed the destinies of empires and of men.

A species of madness seized the Chevalier. With a fierce gesture he drew his sword. For a moment the marquis thought that he was about to be impaled upon it; but he gave no sign of fear. Presently the sword deviated from its horizontal line, declined gradually till the point touched the floor. The Chevalier leaned upon it, swaying slightly. His eyes burned like opals.

"No, Monsieur, no! I will let you live, to die of old age, alone, in silence, surrounded by those hideous phantoms which the approach of death creates from ill-spent lives. Since you have taught me that there is no God, I shall not waste a curse upon you for this wrong. Think not that the lust to kill is gone; no, no; but I had rather let you live to die in bed. So! I have been your pastime? I have now ceased to amuse you? . . . . as my mother, whoever she may be, ceased to amuse?" His sardonian laugh chilled the marquis in the marrow. "And I have spent your gold, thinking it lawfully mine? . . . lorded over your broad lands, believing myself to be heir to them? . . . been Monsieur le Comte this and Monsieur le Comte that? How the gods must have laughed as I walked forth among the great, arrogant in my pride of birth and riches! Poor fool! Surely, Monsieur, it must be as you say: Heaven and hell are of our own contriving. Poor fool! And I have held my head so high, faced the world so fearlessly and contemptuously! . . . to find that I am this, this! My God, Monsieur, but you have stirred within me all the hate, the lust to kill, the gall of envy and despair! But live," his madness increasing; "live to die in bed, no kin beside you, not even the administering hand of a friendly priest to alleviate the horror of your death-bed! God! do men go mad this way?"

The marquis was trembling violently. Words thronged to his lips, only to be crushed back by the irony of fate. For a little he would have flung himself at his son's feet. He had lied, lied, lied! What could he say? His tongue lay hot against the palate, paralyzed. His brain was confused, dazzled, incoherent.

"And now for these sponging fools who call themselves my friends!" The Chevalier staggered off toward the dining-hall, from whence still came the rollicking song. . . . It was all so incongruous; it was all so like a mad dream.

"What are you going to do?" cried the marquis, a vague terror lending him speech. "I have lied . . ."

"What! have you turned coward, too? What am I going to do? Patience, Monsieur, and you will see." The Chevalier flung apart the doors. His roistering friends greeted his appearance with delight. "A toast, Messieurs!" he cried, flourishing his sword.

Only the Vicomte d'Halluys and Victor saw that something unusual had taken place.

"Your friend," whispered the vicomte, "appears to be touched with a passing madness. Look at his eyes."

"What has happened?" murmured Victor, setting down his glass.

"Bah! Monsieur le Marquis has stopped the Chevalier's allowance;" and the vicomte sighed regretfully. From where he sat he could see the grim, motionless figure of the marquis, standing with his back to the fire.

"Fill up the goblets, Messieurs; to the brim!" The Chevalier stumbled among the fallen bottles. He reached the head of the table. Feverishly he poured out a glass of wine, spilling part of it. With a laugh he flung the bottle to the floor. "Listen!" with a sweeping glance which took in every face. "To Monsieur le Marquis, my noble father! Up, up!" waving his rapier. Yes, madness was in his eyes; it bubbled and frothed in his veins, burned and cracked his lips. "It is droll! Up, you beggars! . . . up, all of you! You, Vicomte; you, Saumaise! Drink to the marquis, the noble marquis, the pious marquis, who gives to the Church! Drink it, you beggars; drink it, I say!" The sword-blade rang on the table.

"To the marquis!" cried the drunkards in chorus. They saw nothing; all was dead within, save appetite.

"Ah, that is well! Listen. All this about you will one day be mine? Ah! I shall be called Monsieur le Marquis; I shall possess famous chateaux and magnificent hotels? Fools! 'twas all a lie! I who was am not. I vanish from the scene like a play-actor. Drink it, you beggars! Drink it, you wine-bibbers! Drink it, you gamesters, you hunters of women! Drink to me, the marquis's . . . bastard!"

Twelve glasses hung in mid air; twelve faces were transfixed with horror and incredulity; twelve pairs of eyes stared stupidly at the mad toast-master. In the salon the marquis listened with eyes distended, with jaw fallen, lips sunken inward and of a color as sickly as blue chalk. . . . A maudlin sob caught one roisterer by the throat, and the tableau was broken by the falling of his glass to the table, where it lay shattered in foaming wine.

"Paul," cried Victor; "my God, Paul, are you mad?"

"I know you not." Then with a sudden wave of disgust, the Chevalier cried: "Now, one and all of you, out of my sight! Away with you! You look too hardily at the brand of pleasure on my brow. Out, you beggars, sponges and cheats! Out, I say! Back to the devil who spawned you!" He drove them forth with the flat of his sword. He saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing save that he was mad, possessed of a capital frenzy, the victim of some frightful dream; save that he saw through blood, that the lust to kill, to rend, and to destroy was on him. The flat of his sword fell rudely but impartially.

Like a pack of demoralized sheep the roisterers crowded and pressed into the hall. The vicomte turned angrily and attempted to draw his sword.

"Fool!" cried Victor, seizing the vicomte's hand; "can you not see that he is mad? He would kill you!"

"Curse it, he is striking me with his sword!"

"He is mad!"

"Well, well, Master Poet; I can wait. What a night!"

It had ceased snowing; the world lay dimly white. The roisterers flocked down the steps to the street. One fell into a drift and lay there sobbing.

"What now?" asked the vicomte.

"I am sorry," said the inebriate.

"The devil! The Chevalier has a friend here," laughed the vicomte, assisting the roisterer to his feet. "Come along, Saumaise."

"I shall wait."

"As you please;" and the vicomte continued on.

Victor watched them till they dwindled into the semblance of so many ravens. He rubbed his fevered face with snow, and waited.

Meantime the Chevalier returned to the table. "Drink, you beggars; drink, I say!" The sword swept the table, crashing among the bottles and glasses and candlesticks, "Take the news to Paris, fools! Spell it largely! It will amuse the court. Drink, drink, drink!" Wine bubbled and ran about the table; candles sputtered and died; still the sword rose and fell. Then came silence, broken only by heavy breathing and the ticking of the clock in the salon. The Chevalier sat crouched in his chair, his arm and sword resting on the table where they had at length fallen.

The marquis recovered from his stupor. He hurried toward the dining-hall, fumbling his lips, mumbling incoherent sentences. He came to a stand on the threshold.

"Blundering fool," he cried passionately, "what have you said and done?"

At the sound of his father's voice, the Chevalier's rage returned; but it was a cold rage, actionless.

"What have I done? I have written it large, Monsieur, that I am only your poor bastard. How Paris will laugh!" He gazed around, dimly noting the havoc. He rose, the sword still in his grasp. "What! the marquis so many times a father, to die without legal issue?"

The marquis raised his cane to strike, so great was his passion and chagrin; but palsy seized his arm.

"Drunken fool!" he roared; "be bastard, then; play drunken fool to the end!"

"Who was my mother?"

"Find that out yourself, drunkard! Never from me shall you know!"

"It is just as well." The Chevalier took from his pocket his purse. He cast it contemptuously at his father's feet.

"The last of the gold you gave me. Now, Monsieur, listen. I shall never again cross the threshold of any house of yours; never again shall I look upon your face, nor hear with patience your name spoken. In spite of all you have done, I shall yet become a man. Somewhere I shall begin anew. I shall find a level, and from that I shall rise. And I shall become what you will never become, respected." He picked up his cloak and hat. He looked steadily into his father's eyes, then swung on his heels, passed through the salon, thence to the street.

"Paul?" said Victor.

"Is that you, Victor?" quietly.

"Yes, Paul." Victor gently replaced the Chevalier's sword into its scabbard, and locking his arm in his friend's, the two walked in silence toward the Corne d'Abondance.

And the marquis? Ah, God—the God he did not believe in!—only God could analyse his thoughts.

"Fool!" he cried, seeing himself alone and the gift of prescience foretelling that he was to be henceforth and forever alone,—"senile fool! Dotard!" He beat about with his cane even as the Chevalier had beaten about with his sword. "Double fool! to lose him for the sake of a lie, a damnable lie, and the lack of courage to own to it!" A Venetian mirror caught his attention. He stood before it, and seeing his reflection he beat the glass into a thousand fragments.

Jehan appeared, white and trembling, carrying his master's candlestick.

"Ah!" cried the marquis. "'Tis you. Jehan, call your master a fool."

"I, Monsieur?" Jehan retreated.

"Aye; or I promise to beat your worthless body within an inch of death. Call me a fool, whose wrath, over-leaped his prudence and sense of truth and honor. Call me a fool."

"Oh!"

"Quickly!" The cane rose.

"God forgive me this disrespect! . . . Monsieur, you are a fool!"

"A senile, doting fool."

"A senile, doting fool!" repeated Jehan, weeping.

"That is well. My candle. Listen to me." The marquis moved toward the staircase. "Monsieur le Comte has left this house for good and all, so he says. Should he return to-morrow . . ."

Jehan listened attentively, as attentively as his dazed mind would permit.

"Should he come back within a month . . ." The marquis had by this time reached the first landing.

"Yes, Monsieur."

"If he ever comes back . . ."

"I am listening."

"Let him in."

And the marquis vanished beyond the landing, leaving the astonished lackey staring at the vanishing point. He saw the ruin and desolation in the dining-hall, from which arose the odor of stale wine and smoke.

"Mother of Jesus! What has happened?"



CHAPTER IX

THE FIFTY PISTOLES OF MONSIEUR LE VICOMTE

The roisterers went their devious ways, sobered and subdued. So deep was their distraction that the watch passed unmolested. Usually a rout was rounded out and finished by robbing the watch of their staffs and lanterns; by singing in front of the hotel of the mayor or the episcopal palace; by yielding to any extravagant whim suggested by mischief. But to-night mischief itself was quiet and uninventive. Had there been a violent death among them, the roisterers would have accepted the event with drunken philosophy. The catastrophe of this night, however, was beyond their imagination: they were still-voiced and horrified. The Chevalier du Cevennes, that prince of good fellows . . . was a nobody, a son of the left hand! Those who owed the Chevalier money or gratitude now recollected with no small satisfaction that they had not paid their indebtedness. Truly adversity is the crucible in which the quality of friendship is tried.

On the way to the Corne d'Abondance the self-made victim of this night's madness and his friend exchanged no words. There was nothing to be said. But there was death in the Chevalier's heart; his chin was sunken in his collar, and he bore heavily on Victor's arm; from time to time he hiccoughed. Victor bit his lips to repress the sighs which urged against them.

"Where do you wish to go, Paul?" he asked, when they arrived under the green lantern and tarnished cherubs of the tavern.

"Have I still a place to go?" the Chevalier asked. "Ah well, lead on, wherever you will; I am in your keeping."

So together they entered the tavern.

"Maitre," said Victor to le Borgne, "is the private assembly in use?"

"No, Monsieur; you wish to use it?"

"Yes; and see that no one disturbs us."

In passing through the common assembly, Victor saw Du Puys and Bouchard in conversation with the Jesuits. Brother Jacques glanced carelessly in the Chevalier's direction, frowned at some thought, and turned his head away. The Iroquois had fallen asleep in a chair close to the fire. In a far corner Victor discovered the form of the Vicomte d'Halluys; he was apparently sleeping on his arms, which were extended across the table.

"Why do I dislike that man?" Victor asked in thought. "There is something in his banter which strikes me as coming from a man consumed either by hate or envy." He pushed the Chevalier into the private assembly, followed and closed the door.

"Ah!" The Chevalier sank into a chair. "Three hours ago I was laughing and drinking in this room. Devil take me, but time flies!"

"God knows, Paul," said Victor, brokenly, "what you have done this night. You are mad, mad! What are you going to do? You have publicly branded yourself as the illegitimate son of the marquis."

"It is true," simply.

"True or false, you have published it without cause or reason. Good God! and they will laugh at you; and I will kill all who laugh in my presence. What madness!" Victor flung his hat on the table, strode the length of the room, beating his hands and rumpling his hair.

"How you go on, Victor!" said the Chevalier with half a smile. "And you love me still?"

"And will, to the latest breath in my body. I know of no other man I love so wholly as I love you."

"I would lose two marquisates rather than be without this knowledge."

"But oh! what have you done? To-morrow . . . What will you do to-morrow?"

"To-morrow? A bottle of wine, lad; and wherefore to-morrow? To-morrow? There will always be a tomorrow. The world began on one and will end on one. So give me wine, bubbling with lies, false promises, phantom happiness, mockery and despair. Each bottle is but lies; and yet how well each bottle tells them! Wine, Victor; do you hear me? I must never come sober again; in drunkenness, there lies oblivion. What! shall I come sober . . . to feel, to care? . . . to hear them laugh? No, no! See!" brushing his forehead, beaded with moisture; "I am sweating gall, lad. God!" striking the table with his fist; "could you but look within and see the lust to kill, the damnation and despair! Woe to him whom I hear laugh! And yet . . . he will be within his rights. Whenever men tire of torturing animals, nature gives them a cripple or a bastard to play with. And look! I am calm, my hand no longer shakes."

Victor leaned against the chimney, haggard of face, silent of tongue.

The Chevalier took out a letter and held it close to the candle-light. He sighed. Victor saw that he was not looking at the letter, but through it and beyond. Some time passed.

"And, Victor, I was going back to Paris to-morrow, to life and to love. Within this scented envelope a woman has written the equivalent of 'I love you!' as only a loving woman can write it. How quickly the candle would eat it! But shall I destroy it? No. Rather let me keep it to remind myself what was and what might have been. Far away from here I shall read it again and again, till it crumbles in my hand and scatters into dust." He hid the letter in his doublet and drew forth a miniature. Like a ruddy ember it lay in his hand. "Paris! O prince of cities, there lies upon your stones the broken cup which held my youth!" The yellow of the candle and the red of the fire gave a singularly rich tone to his face, from which the dullness of intoxication was suddenly gone.

"Paul, you are breaking my heart," cried Victor, choking. His poet's soul, and only such as his, could comprehend how full was the Chevalier's cup of misery.

"Only women's hearts break, lad, and then in verse. Shall I weep? No. Let me laugh; for, my faith, it is laughable. I brought it on myself. Fate led me to the precipice, and I myself jumped over. Yesterday I had pride, I was heir to splendid estates, with forty thousand livres the year to spend. To-night . . . Let me see; the vicomte owes me fifty pistoles. It will be a start in life . . . And much have I snuffed besides candles to-night! By all means, let me laugh."

This irony overcame Victor, who sat down, covered his face, and wept noiselessly.

"You weep? And I . . . I am denied the joy of cursing."

"But what made you speak? In God's name, what possessed you to publish this misfortune?"

"On my word, Victor, I do not know. Wine, perhaps; perhaps anger, madness, or what you will. I know only this: I could not help myself. Poor fool! Yes, I was mad. But he roused within me all the disgust of life, and it struck me blind. But regret is the cruelest of mental poisons; and there is enough in my cup without that. And that poor marquis; I believe I must have caused him some annoyance and chagrin."

"But what will you do?"

"What shall I do? Paris shall see me no more, nor France. I shall go . . . Yes; thanks, Brother Jacques, thanks! I shall go to that France across the sea and become . . . a grand seigneur, owning a hut in the wilderness. Monsieur le Chevalier, lately a fop at court will become a habitant of the forests, will wear furs, and seek his food by the aid of a musket. It will be a merry life, Victor; no dicing, no tennis, no women, no wine." The Chevalier rested his chin in his hands, staring at the candle. "On Thursday next there will be a mask ball at the Palais Royal; but the Chevalier du Cevennes will not be with his company. He will be on the way to New France, with many another broken soldier, to measure his sword against fortune's. And from the camp-fires, lad, I shall conjure up women's faces, and choose among the most patient . . . my mother's. Vanity!" suddenly. "But for vanity I had not been here. Look, Victor; it was not wine, it was not madness. It was vanity in the shape of a grey cloak, a grey cloak. Will you call Major du Puys?"

"Paul, you can not mean it?"

"Frankly, can I remain in France? Have I not already put France behind me?"

"And what's to become of me?" asked the poet.

"You? Why, you will shortly find Madame de Brissac, marry her, and become a fine country gentleman. And when Mazarin becomes forgetful or dies, you will return to Paris, your head secure upon your shoulders. As for me, New France, and a fresh quill, and I will be a man yet," smiling. "And I give you the contents of my rooms at the Candlestick."

"What! live among these ghosts of happy times? I could not!"

"Well, I will give them to Mignon, then. There is one who will miss me. Will you call the major, or shall I?"

"I will call him, since you are determined."

"I shall take the grey cloak, too, lad. I will wear that token of vanity into rags. Faith, I have not looked at it once since I loaned it to you."

"And the unknown?"

"When we come to the end of a book, my poet, we lay it down. What woman's love could surmount this birth of mine, these empty pockets? I have still some reason; that bids me close the book. Yonder, from what I have learned, they are in need of men's arms and brains, not ancestry, noble birth. And there is some good blood in this arm, however it may have come into the world." The Chevalier extended it across the table and the veins swelled upon the wrist and hand. "Seek the major, lad."

When the major entered the Chevalier stood up. "Monsieur," he said, "pardon me for interrupting you, but is it true that to-morrow you sail for Quebec?"

"The weather permitting," answered Du Puys, vaguely wondering why the Chevalier wished to see him. His shrewd glance traveled from the Chevalier to Victor, and he saw that they had been drinking.

"Thanks," said the Chevalier. "You are recruiting?"

"Yes, Monsieur. I have succeeded indifferently well."

"Is there room in your company for another recruit?"

"You have a friend who wishes to seek his fortune?" smiling grimly.

"I am speaking for myself. I wish to visit that country. Will you accept my sword and services?"

"You, Monsieur?" dumfounded. "You, a common trooper in Quebec? You are jesting!"

"Not at all. I shall never return to Paris."

"Monsieur le Comte . . ." began Du Puys.

The Chevalier raised his hand. "Not Monsieur le Comte; simply Monsieur le Chevalier du Cevennes; Cevennes for the sake of brevity."

"Monsieur, then, pardon a frank soldier. The life at Quebec is not at all suited to one who has been accustomed to the ease and luxury of court. There is all the difference in the world between De Guitaut's company in Paris and Du Puy's ragged band in Quebec. Certainly, a man as rich as yourself . . ."

"I have not a denier in my pockets," said the Chevalier, with a short laugh.

"Not at present, perhaps," replied Du Puys. "But one does not lose forty thousand livres in a night, and that, I understand, is your revenue."

"I lost them to-night," quietly.

"Forty thousand livres?" gasped the soldier. "You have lost a fortune, then?" annoyed.

"Yes; and more than that, I have lost the source from which they came, these forty thousand livres. I see that you are mystified. Perhaps you will learn in the morning how I came to lose this fortune. Will you accept my sword?"

"Monsieur," answered Du Puys, "you are in wine. Come to me in the morning; you will have changed your mind."

"And if not?"

"Then I shall give you a place in the company. But, word of honor, I do not understand . . ."

"It is not necessary that you should. The question is, is my past record as a soldier sufficient?"

"Your courage is well known, Monsieur."

"That is all. Good night, Major. I shall sign your papers at nine to-morrow."

Du Puys returned to his party. They asked questions mutely.

"Father," he said to Chaumonot, "here is a coil. Monsieur le Chevalier du Cevennes, son of the Marquis de Perigny, wishes to sign for Quebec."

The Vicomte d'Halluys lifted his head from his arms. But none took notice of him.

"What!" cried Brother Jacques. "That fop? . . . in Quebec?"

"It is as I have the honor of telling you," said Du Puys. "There is something going on. We shall soon learn what it is."

The Vicomte d'Halluys rose and came over to the table. "Do I understand you to say that the Chevalier is to sign for Quebec?" His tone possessed a disagreeable quality. He was always insolent in the presence of churchmen.

"Yes, Monsieur," said Du Puys. "You were with him to-night. Perhaps you can explain the Chevalier's extraordinary conduct? He tells me that he has lost forty thousand livres to-night."

"He has, indeed, lost them." The vicomte seemed far away in thought.

"Forty thousand livres?" murmured Brother Jacques. He also forgot those around him. Forty thousand livres, and he had never called one hundred his own!

"Monsieur," repeated the major, "can you account for the Chevalier's strange behavior?"

"I can," said the vicomte, "but I refuse. There are looser tongues than mine. I will say this: the Chevalier will never enter his father's house again, either here, in Paris, or in Perigny. There is hot blood in that family; it clashed to-night; that is all. Be good to the Chevalier, Messieurs; let him go to Quebec, for he can not remain in France."

"Has he committed a crime?" asked Du Puys anxiously.

"No, Major," carelessly, "but it seems that some one else has."

"And the Chevalier is shielding him?" asked Brother Jacques.

The vicomte gazed down at the young Jesuit, and smiled contemptuously. "Is he shielding some one, you ask? I do not say so. But keep your Jesuit ears open; you will hear something to-morrow." Noting with satisfaction the color on Brother Jacques's cheeks, the vicomte turned to Captain Bouchard. "I have determined to take a cabin to Quebec, Monsieur. I have some land near Montreal which I wish to investigate."

"You, Monsieur?" said the sailor. "The only cabin-room left is next to mine, and expensive."

"I will pay you in advance. I must go to Quebec. I can not wait."

"Very well, Monsieur."

The vicomte went to the door of the private assembly and knocked boldly. Victor answered the summons.

"D'Halluys?" cried Victor, stepping back.

"Yes, Monsieur. Pardon the intrusion, but I have something to say to Monsieur le Chevalier."

He bared his head, looked serenely into Victor's doubting eyes, and turned to the Chevalier, whose face was without any sign of welcome or displeasure. "Monsieur," the vicomte began, "it is very embarrassing—Patience, Monsieur de Saumaise!" for Victor had laid his hand upon his sword; "my errand is purely pacific. It is very embarrassing, then, to approach a man so deeply in trouble as yourself. I know not what madness seized you to-night. I am not here to offer you sympathy; sympathy is cheap consolation. I am here to say that no man shall in my presence speak lightly of your misfortune. Let me be frank with you. I have often envied your success in Paris; and there were times when this envy was not unmixed with hate. But a catastrophe like that to-night wipes out such petty things as envy and hate."

"Take care, Monsieur," said Victor haughtily. He believed that he caught an undercurrent of raillery.

"Why, Monsieur, what have I said?" looking from one to the other.

"Proceed, Vicomte," said the Chevalier, motioning Victor to be quiet. He was curious to learn what the vicomte had to say.

"To continue, then: you are a man of extraordinary courage, and I have always admired you even while I envied you. To-night I lost to you some fifty pistoles. Give me the happiness of crossing out this trifling debt," and the vicomte counted out fifty golden pistoles which he laid on the table. There was no particle of offense in his actions.

"To prove to you my entire good will, I will place my life into your keeping, Monsieur le Chevalier. Doubtless Saumaise has told you that at present Paris is uninhabitable both to himself and to me. The shadows of the Bastille and the block cast their gloom upon us. We have conspired against the head of the state, which is Mazarin. There is a certain paper, which, if seen by the cardinal, will cause the signing of our death warrants. Monsieur de Saumaise, have you any idea who stole your cloak?"

"It was not my cloak, Monsieur," said Victor, with a frown; "it was loaned to me by Monsieur le Chevalier."

"Yours?" cried the vicomte, turning to the Chevalier.

"Yes." The Chevalier thoughtfully fingered the golden coin. One slipped through his fingers and went jangling along the stone of the floor.

"I was wondering where I had seen it before. Hang me, but this is all pretty well muddled up. There was a traitor somewhere, or a coward. What think you, Saumaise; does not this look like Gaston of Orleans?"

Victor started. "I never thought of him!"

"Ah! If Gaston has that paper, France is small, Monsieur," said the vicomte, addressing the Chevalier, "I learn that you are bound for Quebec. Come, Saumaise; here is our opportunity. Let the three of us point westward."

Victor remained silent. As oil rises to the surface of water, so rose his distrust. He could not shut out the vision of that half-smile of the hour gone.

"Monsieur," said the Chevalier, looking up, "this is like you. You have something of the Bayard in your veins. It takes a man of courage to address me, after what has happened. I am become a pariah; he who touches my hand loses caste."

"Bah! Honestly, now, Chevalier, is it not the man rather than the escutcheon? A trooper is my friend if he has courage; I would not let a coward black my boots, not if he were a king."

"If ever I have offended you, pray forgive me."

"Offended me? Well, yes," easily. "There was Madame de Flavigny of Normandy; but that was three years ago. Such affairs begin and end quickly. My self-love was somewhat knocked about; that was all. If the weather permits, the Saint Laurent will sail at one o'clock. Till then, Messieurs," and bowing gravely the vicomte retired.

Both Victor and the Chevalier stared, at the door through which the vicomte vanished. Victor frowned; the Chevalier smiled.

"Curse his insolence!" cried the poet, slapping his sword.

"Lad, what an evil mind you have!" said the Chevalier in surprise.

"There is something below all this. Did he pay you those pistoles he lost to you in December?"

"To the last coin."

"Have you played with him since?"

"Yes, and won. Last night he won back the amount he lost to me; and with these fifty pistoles our accounts are square. What have you against the vicomte? I have always found him a man. And of all those who called themselves my friends, has not he alone stood forth?"

"There is some motive," still persisted the poet.

"Time will discover it."

"Oh, the devil, Paul! he loves Madame de Brissac; and my gorge rises at the sight of him."

"What! is all Paris in love with Madame de Brissac? You have explained your antipathy. Every man has a right to love."

"I know it."

"I wonder how it happens that I have never seen this daughter of the Montbazons?"

"You have your own affair."

"Past tense, my lad, past tense. Now, I wish to be alone. I have some thinking to do which requires complete isolation. Go to bed and sleep, and do not worry about me. Come at seven; I shall be awake." The Chevalier stood and held forth his arms. They embraced. Once alone the outcast blew out the candle, folded his arms on the table, and hid his face in them. After that it was very still in the private assembly, save for the occasional moaning in the chimney.



CHAPTER X

THE DILIGENCE FROM ROUEN AND THE MASQUERADING LADIES

The diligence from Rouen rolled and careened along the road to Rochelle. Eddies of snow, wind-formed, whirled hither and thither, or danced around the vehicle like spirits possessed of infinite mischief. Here and there a sickly tree stretched forth its barren arms blackly against the almost endless reaches of white. Sometimes the horses struggled through drifts which nearly reached their bellies; again, they staggered through hidden marsh pools. The postilion, wrapped in a blanket, cursed deeply and with ardor. He swung his whip not so much to urge the horses as to keep the blood moving in his body. Devil take women who forced him to follow the king's highway in such weather! Ten miles back they had passed a most promising inn. Stop? Not they! Rochelle, Rochelle, and nothing but Rochelle!

"How lonely!" A woman had pushed aside the curtain and was peering into the night. There was no light save that which came from the pallor of the storm, dim and misty. "It has stopped snowing. But how strange the air smells!"

"It is the sea . . . We are nearing the city. It is abominably cold."

"The sea, the sea!" The voice was rich and young, but heavy with weariness. "And we are nearing Rochelle? Good! My confidence begins to return. You must hide me well, Anne."

"Mazarin shall never find you. You will remain in the city till I take leave of earthly affairs."

"A convent, Anne? Oh, if you will. But why Canada? You are mad to think of it. You are but eighteen. You have not even known what love is yet."

"Have you?"

There was a laugh. It was light-hearted. It was a sign that the sadness and weariness which weighed upon the voice were ephemeral.

"That is no answer."

"Anne, have I had occasion to fall in love with any man when I know man so well? You make me laugh! Not one of them is worthy a sigh. To make fools of them; what a pastime!"

"Take care that one does not make a fool of you, Gabrielle."

"Ah, he would be worth loving!"

"But what are you going to do with the property?"

"Mazarin has already posted the seals upon it."

"Confiscated?"

"About to be. That is why I fled to Rouen. My mother warned me that the cardinal had found certain documents which proved that a conspiracy was forming at the hotel. Monsieur's name was the only one he could find. His Eminence thought that by making a prisoner of me he might force me to disclose the names of those most intimate with monsieur. He is searching France for me, Anne; and you know how well he searches when he sets about it. Will he find me? I think not. His arm can not reach very far into Spain. How lucky it was that I should meet you in Rouen! I was wondering where in the world I should go. And I shall live peacefully in that little red chateau of yours. Oh! if you knew what it is to be free! The odious life I have lived! He used to bring his actress into the dining-hall. Pah! the paint was so thick on her face that she might have been a negress for all you could tell what her color was. And he left her a house near the forest park and seven thousand livres beside. Free!" She drew in deep breaths of briny air.

"Gabrielle, you are a mystery to me. Four years out of convent, and not a lover; I mean one upon whom you might bestow love. And that handsome Vicomte d'Halluys?"

"Pouf! I would not throw him yesterday's rose."

"And Monsieur de Saumaise?"

"Well, yes; he is a gallant fellow. And I fear that I have brought trouble into his household. But love him? As we love our brothers. The pulse never bounds, the color never comes and goes, the tongue is never motionless nor the voice silenced in the presence of a brother. My love for Victor is friendship without envy, distrust, or self-interest. He came upon my sadness and shadow as a rainbow comes on the heels of a storm. But love him with the heart's love, the love which a woman gives to one man and only once?"

"Poor Victor!" said Anne.

"Oh, do not worry about Victor. He is a poet. One of their prerogatives is to fall in love every third moon. But the poor boy! Anne, I have endangered his head, and quite innocently, too. I knew not what was going on till too late."

"And you put your name to that paper!"

"What would you? Monsieur le Comte would have broken my wrist, and there are black and blue spots on my arm yet."

"Tell me about that grey cloak."

"There is nothing to tell, save that Victor did not wear it. And something told me from the beginning that he was innocent."

"And the Chevalier du Cevennes could not have worn it because he was in Fontainebleau that dreadful night."

"The Chevalier du Cevennes is living in Rochelle?" asked Gabrielle.

"Yes. Was it not gallant of him to accept punishment in Victor's stead?"

"What else could he do, being a gentleman?"

"Why does your voice grow cold at the mention of his name?" asked Anne.

"It is your imagination, dear. My philosophy has healed the wounded vanity. Point out the Chevalier to me, I should like to see the man who declined an alliance with the house of Montbazon."

"I thought that you possessed a miniature of him?"

"It contained only the face of a boy; I want to see the man. Besides, I do not exactly know what has become of the picture, which was badly painted."

"I will point him out. Was the Comte d'Herouville among the conspirators?"

"Yes. How I hate that man!"

"Keep out of his path, Gabrielle. He would stop at nothing. There is madness in that man's veins."

"I do not fear him. Many a day will pass ere I see him again, or poor Victor, for that matter. I wonder where he has gone?"

"I would I could fathom that heart of yours."

"It is very light and free just now."

"Am I your confidante in all things?"

"I believe so."

"The year I lived with you at the hotel taught me that you are like sand; a great many strange things going on below."

"What a compliment! But give up trying to fathom me, Anne. I love you better when you laugh. Must you be a nun, you who were once so gay?"

"I am weary."

"Of what? You ask me if I am your confidante in all things; Anne, are you mine?"

No answer.

"So. Well, I shall not question you." The speaker drew her companion closer and retucked the robes; and silence fell upon the two, silence broken only by the wind, the flapping leather curtains, and the muffled howling of the postilion.

It was twelve o'clock when the diligence drew up before the Corne d'Abondance. The host came out, holding a candle above his head and shading his eyes with his unengaged hand.

"Maitre, I have brought you two guests," said the postilion, sliding off his horse and grunting with satisfaction.

"Gentlemen, I hope."

"Ladies!" and lowering his voice, the postilion added: "Ladies of high degree, I can tell you. One is the granddaughter of an admiral and the other can not be less than a duchess."

"Ladies? Oh, that is most unfortunate! The ladies' chamber is all upset, and every other room is engaged. They will be compelled to wait fully an hour."

"That will not inconvenience us, Monsieur," said a voice from the window of the diligence, "provided we may have something hot to drink; wines and hot water, with a dash of sugar and brandy. Come, my dear; and don't forget your mask."

"How disappointing that the hotel was closed! Well, we can put up with the tavern till morning."

With some difficulty the two women alighted and entered the common assembly room, followed by the postilion who staggered under bulky portmanteaus. They approached the fire unconcernedly, ignoring the attention which their entrance aroused. The youngest gave a slight scream as the Iroquois rose abruptly and moved away from the chimney.

"Holy Virgin!" Anne cried, clutching Gabrielle's arm; "it is an Indian!" The vision of quiet in a Quebec convent grew vague.

"Hush! he would not be here if he were dangerous." Gabrielle turned her grey-masked face toward the fire and rested a hand on the broad mantel.

Victor, who had taken a table which sat in the shadow and who was trying by the aid of champagne to forget the tragic scene of the hour gone, came near to wasting a glass of that divine nectar of Nepenthe. He brushed his eyes and held a palm to his ear. "That voice!" he murmured. "It is not possible!"

At this same moment the vicomte turned his head, his face describing an expression of doubt and astonishment. He was like a man trying to recollect the sound of a forgotten voice, a melody. He stared at the two figures, the one of medium height, slender and elegant, the other plump and small, at the grey mask and then at the black. These were not masks of coquetry and larking, masks which begin at the brow and end at the lips: they were curtained. Seized, by an impulse, occult or mechanic, the vicomte rose and drew near. The younger woman made a gesture. Was it of recognition? The vicomte could not say. But he saw her lean toward her companion, whisper a word which caused the grey mask to wheel quickly. She seemed to grow taller, while a repelling light flashed from the eyeholes of the grey mask.

"Mesdames," said the vicomte with elaborate courtesy, "the sight of the Indian doubtless alarms you, but he is perfectly harmless. Permit a gentleman to offer his services to two ladies who appear to be traveling alone."

Father Chaumonot frowned from his chair and would have risen but for the restraining hand of Bouchard, who, like all seamen, was fond of gallantry.

"Monsieur," replied the black mask, coldly and impudently, "we are indeed alone; and upon the strength of this assertion, will you not resume your conversation with yonder gentlemen and allow my companion and myself to continue ours?"

"Mademoiselle," said the vicomte eagerly, "I swear to you, that your voice is familiar to my ears." He addressed the black mask, but he looked searchingly at the grey. His reward was small. She maintained under his scrutiny an icy, motionless dignity.

"And permit me to say," returned the black mask, "that while your voice is not familiar, the tone is, and very displeasing to my ears. And if you do not at once resume your seat, I shall be forced to ask aid of yonder priest."

"Yes, yes! that voice I have heard before!" Then, quick as a flash, he had plucked the strings of her mask, disclosing a round, piquant face, now white with fury.

"Oh, Monsieur!" she cried; "if I were a man!"

"This grows interesting," whispered Bouchard to Du Puys.

"Anne de Vaudemont?" exclaimed the vicomte; "in Rochelle?" The vicomte stepped back confused. He stared undecidedly at mademoiselle's companion. She deliberately turned her back.

Victor was upon his feet, and his bottle of wine lay frothing on the floor. He came forward.

"Vicomte, your actions are very disagreeable to me," he said. The end of his scabbard was aggressively high in the air. He was not so tall a man as the vicomte, but his shoulders were as broad and his chest as deep.

Neither the vicomte nor the poet heard the surprised exclamation which came with a muffled sound from behind the grey mask. She swayed slightly. The younger threw her arms around her, but never took her eyes from the flushed countenance of Victor de Saumaise.

"Indeed!" replied the vicomte coolly; "and how do you account for that?" He spoke with that good nature which deceives only those who are not banterers themselves.

"It is not necessary to particularize," proudly, "to a gentleman of your wide accomplishments."

"Monsieur de Saumaise, your servant," said the vicomte. "Ladies, I beg of you to accept my apologies. I admit the extent of my rudeness, Mademoiselle." He bowed and turned away, leaving Victor puzzled and diffident.

"Mademoiselle de Vaudemont," he said, "is it possible that I see you here in Rochelle?" How his heart beat at the sight of that figure standing by the mantel.

"And you, Monsieur; what are you doing here?"

"I am contemplating a journey to Spain," carelessly.

"Success to your journey," said Anne, frankly holding out a hand. But she was visibly distressed as she glanced at her companion. "Is the Vicomte d'Halluys going to Spain also?" smiling.

Victor shrugged. "He professes to have business in Quebec. That beautiful Paris has grown so unhealthy!"

"Quebec?" The woman in the grey mask spun on her heels. "Monsieur, did I hear you say Quebec?"

"Yes, Madame la Comtesse."

The grey mask made a gesture of dissent. Presently she spoke. "Monsieur, you have made a mistake. There is no Madame la Comtesse here."

Victor did not reply.

"Do you hear, Monsieur?"

"Yes, Madame. Our eyes and ears sometimes deceive us, but never the heart."

Madame flung out a hand in protest. "Never mind, Monsieur, what the heart says; it is not worth while."

Victor grew pale. There was a double meaning to this sentence. Anne eyed him anxiously.

A disturbance at the table caught Victor's ear. He saw that the vicomte and the others were proceeding toward the stairs. The vicomte was last to mount. At the landing he stopped, looked down at the group by the chimney, shrugged, and went on.

Maitre le Borgne came in from the kitchens. "If the ladies will follow me I will conduct them to their rooms. A fire is under way. The wines and brandy and sugar are on the table; and the warming-pan stands by the chimney."

"Anne," said madame, "go you to the room with the host. I will follow you shortly. I have something to say to Monsieur de Saumaise."

There was a decision in her tones which caused Victor to experience a chill not devoid of dread. If only he could read the face behind the mask!

Anne followed Maitre le Borgne upstairs. Victor and madame were alone. He waited patiently for her to speak. She devoted some moments absently to crushing with her boot the stray pieces of charred wood which littered the broad hearthstone.

"Victor," she said of a sudden, "forgive me!"

"Forgive you for what?"

"For innocently bringing this trouble upon you, for endangering your head."

"Oh, that is nothing. Danger is spice to a man's palate. But will you not remove your mask that I may look upon your face while you speak?" There was a break in his voice. This unexpected meeting seemed to have taken the solids from under his feet.

"You have been drinking!" with agitation.

"I have been striving to forget. But wine makes us reckless, not forgetful." He rumpled his hair. "But will you not remove the mask?"

"Victor, you ought never to look upon my face again."

"Do you suppose that I could forget your face, a single contour or line of it?"

"I have been so thoughtless! Forgive me! It was my hope that many months should pass ere we met again. But fate has willed it otherwise. I have but few words to say to you. I beg you to listen earnestly to them. It is true that in your company I have passed many a pleasant hour. Your wit, your gossip, your excellent verses, and your unending gaiety dispelled many a cloud of which you knew nothing, nor shall know. When I fled from Paris there was a moment when I believed you to be guilty of that abominable crime. That grey cloak; I had seen you wear it. Forgive me for doubting so brave a gentleman as yourself. I have learned all. You never spoke of the Chevalier du Cevennes as being your comrade in arms. That was excessive delicacy on your part. Monsieur, our paths must part to widen indefinitely."

"How calmly you put the cold of death in my heart!" The passion in his voice was a pain to her. Well she knew that he loved her deeply, honestly, lastingly. "Gabrielle, you know that I love you. You are free."

"Love?" with voice metallic. "Talk not to me of love. If I have inspired you with an unhappy passion, forgive me, for it was done without intent. I have played you an evil turn." She sank on one of the benches and fumbled, with the strings of her mask.

"So: the dream vanishes; the fire becomes ashes. Is it really you, Gabrielle? Has not the wine turned the world upside-down, brought you here only in fancy? This night is truly some strange dream. I shall wake to-morrow in Paris. I shall receive a note from you, bidding me bring the latest book. The Chevalier will dine with his beautiful unknown . . . Gabrielle, tell me that you love no one," anger and love and despair alternately changing his voice, "yes, tell me that!"

"Victor, I love no man. And God keep me from that folly. You are making me very unhappy!" She bent her head upon her arm.

"Oh, my vanished dream, do not weep on my account! You are not to blame. I love you well. That is God's blame, not yours, since He molded you, gave you a beautiful face, a beautiful mind, a beautiful heart. Well, I will be silent. I will go about my affairs, laughing. I shall write rollicking verses, fight a few duels, and sign a few papers under which the ax lies hidden! . . . Do you know how well I love you?" sinking beside her and taking her hand before she could place it beyond his reach. He put a kiss on it. "Listen. If it means anything toward your happiness and content of mind, I will promise to be silent forever." Suddenly he dropped the hand and rose. "Your presence is overpowering: I can not answer for myself. You were right. We ought not to have met again."

"I must go," she said, also rising. She moved blindly across the room, irresolutely. Seeing a door, she turned the knob and entered.

It was only after the door closed that Victor recollected. Paul and she together in that room? What irony! He was about to rush after madame, when his steps were arrested by a voice coming from the stairs. The vicomte was descending.

"Ah, Monsieur de Saumaise," said the vicomte, "how fortunate to find you alone!"

"Fortunate, indeed!" replied Victor. Here was a man upon whom to wreak his wrath, disappointment and despair. Justice or injustice, neither balanced on the scales of his wrath. He crossed over to the chimney, stood with his back to the fire and waited.

The vicomte approached within a yard, stopped; twisted his mustache, resting his left hand on his hip. His discerning inspection was soon completed. He was fully aware of the desperate and reckless light in the poet's eyes.

"Monsieur de Saumaise, you have this night offered me four distinct affronts. Men have died for less than one."

"Ah!" Victor clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.

"At the Hotel de Perigny you called me a fool when the Chevalier struck me with his sword. I shall pass over that. The Chevalier was mad, and we all were excited. But three times in this tavern you have annoyed me. Your temperament, being that of a poet, at times gets the better of you. My knowledge of this accounts for my patience."

"That is magnanimous, Monsieur," railingly.

"Were I not bound for a far country I might call you to account."

"It is possible, then?"

"Braver men than you find it to their benefit to respect this sword of mine."

"Then you have a sword?"

The vicomte laughed. It was real laughter, unfeigned. He was too keen a banterer himself not to appreciate this gift in the poet. "What a lively lad you are!" he exclaimed. "But four affronts make a long account for a single night."

"I am ready now and at all times to close the account."

"Do you love Paris?" asked the vicomte, adding his mite to the bantering.

"Not so much as I did."

"Has not Rochelle become suddenly attractive?"

"Rochelle? I do not say so."

"Come; confess that the unexpected advent of Madame de Brissac has brought this change about."

"Were we not discoursing on affronts?"

"Only as a sign of my displeasure. By September I dare say I shall return to France. I promise to look you up; and if by that time your manner has not undergone a desirable change I shall take my sword and trim the rude edges of your courtesy."

"September? That is a long while to wait. Why not come to Spain with me? We could have it out there. Quebec? Do you fear Mazarin, then, so much as that?"

"Do you doubt my courage, Monsieur?" asked the vicomte, his eyes cold and brilliant with points of light.

"But September?"

"Come, Monsieur; you are playing the boy. You will admit that I possess some courage. 'Twould be a fool's pastime to measure swords when neither of us is certain that to-morrow will see our heads safe upon our shoulders. I am not giving you a challenge. I am simply warning you."

"Warning? You are kind. However, one would think that you are afraid to die."

"I am. There is always something which makes life worth the living. But it is not the fear of dying by the sword. My courage has never been questioned. Neither has yours. But there is some doubt as regards your temper and reason ability. Brave? To be sure you are. At this very moment you would draw against one of the best blades in France were I to permit you. But when it comes man to man, Monsieur, you have to stand on your toes to look into my eyes. My arm is three inches longer than yours; my weight is greater. I have three considerable advantages over you. I simply do not desire your life; it is necessary neither to my honor nor to my happiness."

"To desire and to accomplish are two different things, Monsieur."

"Not to me, Monsieur," grimly. "When my desire attacks an obstacle it must give way or result in my death. I have had many desires and many obstacles, and I am still living."

"But you may be killed abroad. That would disappoint me terribly."

"Monsieur de Saumaise, I have seen for some months that you have been nourishing a secret antipathy to me. Be frank enough to explain why our admiration is not mutual." The vicomte seated himself on a bench, and threw his scabbard across his knees.

"Since you have put the question frankly I will answer frankly. For some time I have distrusted you. What was to be your gain in joining the conspiracy?"

"And yours?" quietly. "I think we both overlooked that part of the contract. Proceed."

"Well, I distrust you at this moment, for I know not what your purpose is to speak of affronts and refuse to let me give satisfaction. I distrust and dislike you for the manner in which you approached the Chevalier tonight. There was in your words a biting sarcasm and contempt which, he in his trouble did not grasp. And let me tell you, Monsieur, if you ever dare mention publicly the Chevalier's misfortune, I shall not wait for you to draw your sword."

The vicomte swung about his scabbard and began lightly to tap the floor with it. Here and there a cinder rose in dust. The vicomte's face was grave and thoughtful. "You have rendered my simple words into a Greek chorus. That is like you poets; you are super-sensitive; you misconstrue commonplaces; you magnify the simple. I am truly sorry for the Chevalier. Now there's a man. He is superb with the rapier, light and quick as a cat; a daredevil, who had not his match in Paris. Free with his money, a famous drinker, and never an enemy. Yes, I will apologize for my bad taste in approaching him to-night. I should have waited till morning."

"You were rude to Mademoiselle de Vaudemont." Victor suddenly refused to conciliate.

"Rude? Well, yes; I admit that. My word of honor, I could not contain myself at the sound of her voice."

"Or of madame's?" shrewdly.

"Or of madame's." The vicomte smoothed his mustache.

Their eyes met, and the flame in the vicomte's disquieted Victor, courageous though he was.

"It seems to me," said the vicomte, "that you have been needlessly beating about the bush. Why did you not say to me, 'Monsieur, you love Madame de Brissac. I love her also. The world is too small for both of us?'"

"I depended upon your keen sense," replied Victor.

"I am almost tempted to favor you. I could use a short rapier."

"Good!" said Victor. "There is plenty of room. I have not killed a man since this year Thursday."

"And having killed me," replied the vicomte, rising, and there was a smile on his lips, "you would be forced to seek out Monsieur le Comte d'Herouville, a man of devastated estates and violent temper, the roughest swordsman since Crillon's time; D'Herouville, whose greed is as great and fierce as his love. Have you thought of him, my poet? Ah well, something tells me that the time is not far distant when we shall be rushing at each other's throats. For the present, a truce. You love madame; so do I. She is free. We are all young. Win her, if you can, and I will step aside. But until you win her . . . I wish you good night. I am going for a tramp along the sea-walls. I beg of you not to follow."

The echo of the slamming door had scarce died away when Victor, raging and potent to do the vicomte harm, flung out after him. With his sword drawn he looked savagely up and down the street, but the vicomte was nowhere in sight. The cold air, however, was grateful to the poet's feverish cheeks and aching eyes; so he strode on absently, with no destination in mind. It was only when the Hotel de Perigny loomed before him, with its bleak walls and sinister cheval-de-frise, that his sense of locality revived. He raised a hand which cast a silent malediction on this evil house and its master, swung about and hurried back to the tavern, recollecting that Gabrielle and Paul were together.

"And all those dreams of her, they vanish like the hours. That hope, that joyous hope, of calling her mine shall buoy me up no more. She does not love me! God save me from another such unhappy night. We have all been stricken with madness." He struck at the snow-drifts with his sword. The snow, dry and dusty, flew up into his face.

Meanwhile, when madame entered the private assembly-room her eyes, blurred with tears, saw only the half dead fire. With her hand she groped along the mantel, and finding a candle, lit it. She did not care where she was, so long as she was alone; alone with her unhappy thoughts. She sat with her back toward the Chevalier, who had fallen into a slight doze. Presently the silence was destroyed by a hiccoughing sob. She had forced the end of her kerchief against her lips to stifle the sound, but ineffectually.

The Chevalier raised his head. . . . A woman? Or was his brain mocking him? And masked? How came she here? He was confused, and his sense of emergency lay fallow. He knew not what to do. One thing was certain; he must make known his presence, for he was positive that she was unaware of it. He rose, and the noise of his chair sliding back brought from her an affrighted cry. She turned. The light of the candle played upon his face.

"Madame, pardon me, but I have been asleep. I did not hear you enter. It was very careless of them to show you in here."

She rose without speaking and walked toward the door, with no uncertain step, with a dignity not lacking in majesty.

"She sees I have been drinking," he thought. "Pray, Madame, do not leave. Rather let me do that."

She made a gesture, hurried but final, and left him.

"It seems to me," mused the Chevalier, resuming his seat, "that I have lost gallantry to-night, among other considerable things. I might have opened the door for her. I wonder why she did not speak?"



CHAPTER XI

MONSIEUR LE COMTE D'HEROUVILLE TAKES THE JOURNEY TO QUEBEC

Victor ran most of the way back to the Corne d'Abondance. Gabrielle and Paul were together, unconscious puppets in the booth of Fate, that master of subtile ironies! How many times had their paths neared, always to diverge again, because Fate had yet to prepare the cup of misery? How well he had contrived to bring them together: she, her cup running bitter with disillusion and dread of imprisonment; he, dashed from the summit of worldly hopes, his birth impugned, stripped of riches and pride, his lips brushed with the ashes of greatness! And on this night, of all nights, their paths melted and became as one. It was true that they had never met; but this night was one of dupes and fools, and nothing was impossible. He cursed the vicomte for having put the lust to kill into his head, when he needed clearness and precision and delicacy to avert this final catastrophe. After the morrow all would he well; Gabrielle would be on the way to Spain, the Chevalier on the way to New France. But to-night! Dupes and fools, indeed! He stumbled on through the drifts. The green lantern at last: was he too late? He rushed into the tavern, thence into the private assembly, his rapier still in his hand. The cold air yet choked his lungs, forcing him to breathe noisily and rapidly. He cast about a nervous, hasty glance.

"You are alone, Paul?"

"Alone?" cried the Chevalier, astonished as much by the question as by Victor's appearance. "Yes. Why not? . . . What have you been doing with that sword?" suddenly.

"Nothing, nothing!" with energy. Victor sheathed the weapon. "A woman entered here by mistake . . . ?"

"She is gone," indifferently. "She was a lady of quality, for I could see that the odor of wine and the disorder of the room were distasteful to her."

"She left . . . wearing her mask?" asked the poet, looking everywhere but at the Chevalier, who was growing curious.

"Yes. Her figure was charming. That blockhead of a host! . . . to have shown her in here!"

"She was in distress?"

"Evidently. In the old days I should have striven to console. What is it all about, lad? Your hand trembles. Do you know her?"

"I know something of her history," with half a truth. Victor's forehead was cold and dry to the touch of his hand.

"She is in trouble?"

"Yes."

The Chevalier arranged a log on the irons. "Whither is she bound?"

"Spain."

"Ah! A matter of careless politics, doubtless."

"Good!" thought the poet. "He does not ask her name."

"Has she a pleasant voice? I spoke to her, but she remained dumb. Spain," ruminating. "For me, New France. Lad, the thought of reaching that far country is inspiriting. I shall mope a while; but there is metal in me which needs but proper molding. . . . For what purpose had you drawn your sword?"

"I challenged the vicomte, and he refused to fight."

"On my account?" sternly. "You did wrong."

"I can not change the heat of my blood," carelessly.

"No; but you can lose it, and at present it is very precious to me. He refused? The vicomte has sound judgment."

"Oh, he and I shall be killing each other one of these fine days; but not wholly on your account, Paul," gloom wrinkling his brow, as if the enlightening finger of prescience had touched it. "It is fully one o'clock; you will be wanting sleep."

"Sleep?" The ironist twisted his mouth. "It will be many a day ere sleep makes contest with my eyes . . . unless it be cold and sinister sleep. Sleep? You are laughing! Only the fatuous and the self-satisfied sleep . . . and the dead. So be it." He took the tongs and stirred the log, from which flames suddenly darted. "I wonder what they are doing at Voisin's to-night?" irrelevantly. "There will be some from the guards, some from the musketeers, and some from the prince's troops. And that little Italian who played the lute so well! Do you recall him? I can see them now, calling Mademoiselle Pauline to bring Voisin's old burgundy." The Chevalier continued his reminiscence in silence, forgetting time and place, forgetting Victor, who was gazing at him with an expression profoundly sad.

The poet mused for a moment, then tiptoed from the room. An idea had come to him, but as yet it was not fully developed.

"Should I have said 'good night'? Good night, indeed! What mockery there is in commonplaces! That idea of mine needs some thought." So, instead of going to bed he sat down on one of the chimney benches.

A sleepy potboy went to and fro among the tables, clearing up empty tankards and breakage. Maitre le Borgne sat in his corner, reckoning up the day's accounts.

Suddenly Victor slapped his thigh and rose. "Body of Bacchus and horns of Panurge! I will do it. Mazarin will never look for me there. It is simple." And a smile, genuine and pleasant, lit up his face. "I will forswear Calliope and nail my flag to Clio; I will no longer write poetry, I will write history and make it."

He climbed to his room, cast off his hostler's livery and slid into bed, to dream of tumbling seas, of vast forests, of mighty rivers . . . and of grey masks.

Promptly at seven he rejoined the Chevalier. Breton was packing a large portmanteau. He had gathered together those things which he knew his master loved.

"Monsieur," said the lackey, holding up a book, "this will not go in."

"What is it?" indifferently.

"Rabelais, Monsieur."

"Keep it, lad; I make you a present of it. You have been writing, Victor?"

Victor was carelessly balancing a letter in his hand. "Yes. A thousand crowns,—which I shall own some day,—that you can not guess its contents," gaily.

"You have found Madame de Brissac and are writing to her?" smiling.

For a moment Victor's gaiety left him. The Chevalier's suggestion was so unexpected as to disturb him. He quickly recovered his poise, however. "You have lost. It is a letter to my good sister, advising her of my departure to Quebec. Spain is too near Paris, Paul."

"You, Victor?" cried the Chevalier, while Breton's face grew warm with regard for Monsieur de Saumaise.

"Yes. Victor loves his neck. And it will be many a day ere monseigneur turns his glance toward New France in quest."

"But supposing he should not find these incriminating papers? You would be throwing away a future."

"Only temporarily. I have asked my sister to watch her brother's welfare. I will go. Come, be a good fellow. Let us go and sign the articles which make two soldiers of fortune instead of one. I have spoken to Du Puys and Chaumonot. It is all settled but the daub of ink. Together, Paul; you will make history and I shall embalm it." He placed a hand upon the Chevalier's arm, his boyish face beaming with the prospect of the exploit.

"And Madame de Brissac?" gently.

"We shall close that page," said the poet, looking out of the window. She would be in Spain. Ah well!"

"Monsieur," said Breton, "will you take this?"

The two friends turned. Breton was holding at arm's length a grey cloak.

"The cloak!" cried Victor.

"Pack it away, lad," the Chevalier said, the lines in his face deepening, "It will serve to recall to me that vanity is a futile thing."

"The devil! but for my own vanity and miserable purse neither of us would have been here." Victor made as though to touch the cloak, but shrugged, and signified to Breton to put it out of sight.

When Breton had buckled the straps he exhibited a restlessness, standing first on one foot, then on the other. He folded his arms, then unfolded them, and plucked at his doublet. The Chevalier was watching him from the corner of his eye.

"Speak, lad; you have something to say."

"Monsieur, I can not return to the hotel. Monsieur le Marquis has forbidden me." Breton's eyes filled with tears. It was the first lie he had ever told his master.

"Have you any money, Victor?" asked the Chevalier, taking out the fifty pistoles won from the vicomte and dividing them.

"Less than fifty pistoles; here is half of them."

The Chevalier pushed the gold toward the lackey. "Take these, lad; they will carry you through till you find a new master. You have been a good and faithful servant."

Breton made a negative gesture. "Monsieur," timidly, "I do not want money, and I could never grow accustomed to a new master. I was born at the chateau in Perigny. My mother was your nurse and she loved you. I know your ways so well, Monsieur Paul. Can I not accompany you to Quebec? I ask no wages; I ask nothing but a kind word now and again, and a fourth of what you have to eat. I have saved a little, and out of that I will find my clothing."

The Chevalier smiled at Victor. "We never find constancy where we look for it. Lad," he said to Breton, "I can not take you with me. I am going not as a gentleman but as a common trooper, and they are not permitted to have lackeys. Take the money; it is all I can do for you."

Breton stretched a supplicating hand toward the poet.

"Let him go, Paul," urged Victor. "Du Puys will make an exception in your case. Let him go. My own lad Hector goes to my sister's, and she will take good care of him. You can't leave this lad here, Paul. Take him along."

"But your future?" still reluctant to see Victor leave France.

"It is there," with a nod toward the west.

"The vicomte . . ."

"We have signed a truce till we return to French soil."

"Well, if you will go," a secret joy in his heart. How he loved this poet!

"It is the land of fortune, Paul; it is calling to us. True, I shall miss the routs, the life at court, the plays and the gaming. But, horns of Panurge! I am only twenty-three. In three years I shall have conquered or have been conquered, and that is something. Do not dissuade me. You will talk into the face of the tempest. Rather make the going a joy for me. You know that at the bottom of your heart you are glad."

"Misery loves company; we are all selfish," replied the Chevalier, "My selfishness cries out for joy, but my sense of honesty tells me not to let you go. I shall never return to France. You will not be happy there."

"I shall be safer; and happiness is a matter of temperament, not of time and place. You put up a poor defense. Look! we have been so long together, Paul; eight years, since I was sixteen, and a page of her Majesty's. I should not know what to do without you. We have shared the same tents on the battlefield; I have borrowed your clothes and your money, and you have borrowed my sword, for that is all I have. Listen to me. There will be exploits over there, and the echo of them will wander back here to France. Fame awaits us. Are we not as brave and inventive as De Champlain, De Montmagny, De Lisle, and a host of others who have made money and name? Come; take my hand. Together, Paul, and what may not fortune hold for us!"

There was something irresistible in his pleading; and the Chevalier felt the need of some one on whom to spend his brimming heart of love. His face showed that he was weighing the matter and viewing it from all points. Presently the severe lines of his face softened.

"Very well, we shall go together, my poet," throwing an arm across Victor's shoulders. "We shall go together, as we have always gone. And, after all, what is a name but sounding brass? 'Tis a man's arm that makes or unmakes his honesty, not his thrift; his loyalty, rather than his self-interest. We shall go together. Come; we'll sign the major's papers, and have done with it."

Victor threw his hat into the air.

"And I, Monsieur Paul?" said Breton, trembling in his shoes, with expectancy or fear.

"If they will let you go, lad," kindly; and Breton fell upon his knees and kissed the Chevalier's hand.

The articles which made them soldiers, obedient first to the will of the king and second to the will of the Company of the Hundred Associates, were duly signed. Breton was permitted to accompany his master with the understanding that he was to entail no extra expense. Father Chaumonot was delighted; Brother Jacques was thoughtful; the major was neutral and incurious. As yet no rumor stirred its ugly head; the Chevalier's reasons for going were still a matter of conjecture. None had the courage to approach the somber young man and question him. The recruits and broken gentlemen had troubles of sufficient strength to be unmindful of the interest in the Chevalier's. The officers from Fort Louis bowed politely to the Chevalier, but came not near enough to speak. Excessive delicacy, or embarrassment, or whatever it was, the Chevalier appreciated it. As for the civilians who had enjoyed the hospitality of the Hotel de Perigny, they remained unobserved on the outskirts of the crowd. The vicomte expressed little or no surprise to learn that Victor had signed. He simply smiled; for if others were mystified as to the poet's conduct, he was not. Often his glance roved toward the stairs; but there were no petticoats going up or coming down.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," said Brother Jacques, whose curiosity was eating deeply, "will you not explain to me the cause of the Chevalier's extraordinary conduct?"

"Ah, my little Jesuit!" said the vicomte; "so you are still burning with curiosity? Well, I promise to tell you all about it the first time I confess to you."

"Monsieur, have you any reason for insulting me?" asked Brother Jacques, coldly, his pale cheeks aflame.

"Good! there is blood in you, then?" laughed the vicomte, noting the color.

"Red and healthy, Monsieur," in a peculiar tone. Brother Jacques was within an inch of being as tall and broad as the vicomte.

The vicomte gazed into the handsome face, and there was some doubt in his own eyes. "You have not always been a priest?"

"Not always."

"And your antecedents?"

"A nobler race than yours, Monsieur," haughtily. "You also have grown curious, it would seem. I shall be associated with the Chevalier, and I desired to know the root of his troubles in order to help him. But for these robes, Monsieur, you would not use the tone you do."

"La, la! Take them off if they hamper you. But I like not curious people, I am not a gossip. The Chevalier has reasons in plenty. Ask him why he going to Quebec;" and the vicomte whirled on his heels, leaving the Jesuit the desire to cast aside his robes and smite the vicomte on the mouth.

"Swashbuckler!" he murmured. "How many times have you filched the Chevalier of his crowns by the use of clogged dice? . . . God pardon me, but I am lusting for that man's life!" His hand clutched his rosary and his lips moved in prayer, though the anger did not immediately die out of his eyes. He wandered among the crowds. Words and vague sentences filtered through the noise. Two gentlemen were conversing lowly. Brother Jacques neared them unconsciously, still at his beads.

"On my honor, it is as I tell you. The Chevalier . . ."

Brother Jacques raised his eyes,

"What! forfeited his rights in a moment of madness? Proclaimed himself to be . . . before you all? Impossible!"

The beads slipped through Brother Jacques's fingers. He leaned against the wall, his eyes round, his nostrils expanded. A great wave of pity surged over him. He saw nothing but the handsome youth who had spoken kindly to him at the Candlestick in Paris. That word! That invisible, searing iron! He straightened, and his eyes flashed like points of steel in the sunshine. That grim, wicked old man; not a thousand times a thousand livres would give him the key to Heaven. Brother Jacques left the tavern and walked along the wharves, breathing deeply of the vigorous sea-air.

Victor encountered the vicomte as the latter was about to go aboard.

"Ah," said the vicomte; "so you ran about with a drawn sword last night? Monsieur, you are only a boy." The vicomte never lost his banter; it was a habit.

"I was hot-headed and in wine." Victor had an idea in regard to the vicomte.

"The devil is always lurking in the pot; so let us not stir him again."

"Willingly."

"I compliment you on your good sense. Monsieur, I've been thinking seriously. Has it not occurred to you that Madame de Brissac has that paper?"

"Would she seek Spain?" said Victor.

"True. But supposing Mazarin should be seeking her, paper or no paper, to force the truth from her?"

"The supposition, does not balance. She knows no more than you or I."

"And Monsieur le Comte's play-woman?"

"Horns of Panurge!" excitedly. "You have struck a new note, Vicomte. I recollect hearing that she was confined in some one of the city prisons. The sooner the Saint Laurent sails, the better."

"Would that some one we knew would romp into town from Paris. He might have news." The vicomte bit the ends of his mustache.

The opening of the tavern door cut short their conversation. A man entered rudely. He pressed and jostled every one in his efforts to reach Maitre le Borgne. He was a man of splendid physical presence. His garments, though soiled and bedraggled by rough riding, were costly and rich. His spurs were bloody; and the dullness of the blood and the brightness of the steel were again presented in his fierce eyes. The face was not pleasing; it was too squarely hewn, too emotional; it indexed the heart too readily, its passions, its loves and its hates. There was cunning in the lips and caution in the brow; but the face was too mutable.

"The Comte d'Herouville!" exclaimed the vicomte. "Saumaise, this looks bad. He is not a man to run away like you and me."

The new-comer spoke to the innkeeper, who raised his index finger and leveled it at Victor and the vicomte. On seeing them, D'Herouville came over quickly.

"Messieurs," he began, "I am gratified to find you."

"The news!" cried the poet and the gamester.

"Devilish bad, Monsieur, for every one. The paper . . ."

"It is not here," interrupted the vicomte.

The count swore. "Mazarin has mentioned your name, Saumaise. You were a frequent visitor to the Hotel de Brissac. As for me, I swore to a lie; but am yet under suspicion. Has either of you seen Madame de Brissac? I have traced her as far as Rochelle."

The vicomte looked humorously at the poet. Victor scowled. Of the two men he abhorred D'Herouville the more. As for the vicomte, he laughed.

"You laugh, Monsieur?" said D'Herouville, coldly. His voice was not unpleasant.

"Why, yes," replied the vicomte. "Has Mazarin published an edict forbidding a man to move his diaphragm? You know nothing about the paper, then?"

"Madame de Brissac knows where it is," was the startling declaration. "I ask you again, Messieurs, have you seen her?"