"She is in Rochelle," said the vicomte. How many men, he wondered, had been trapped, by madame's eyes?

"Where is she?" eagerly.

"He lies!" thought Victor. "He knows madame has no paper."

"Where she is just now I do not know."

"She is to sail for Quebec at one o'clock," said the poet.

There was admiration in the vicomte's glance. To send the count on a wild-goose chase to Quebec while madame sauntered leisurely toward Spain! It was a brilliant stroke, indeed.

"What boat?" demanded D'Herouville.

"The Saint Laurent," answered the vicomte, playing out the lie.

Victor's glance was sullen.

"Wait a moment, man!" cried the vicomte, catching the count's cloak. "You can not mean to go running after madame in this fashion. You will compromise her. Besides, I have some questions to ask. What about De Brissac's play-woman?"

"Died in prison six days ago. She poisoned herself before they examined her." The count looked longingly toward the door.

"What! Poisoned herself? Then she must have loved that hoary old sinner!" The vicomte's astonishment was genuine.

The chilling smile which passed over the count's face was sinister. "I said she poisoned herself, advisedly."

"Oho!" The vicomte whistled, while Victor drew back.

"Now, Messieurs, will you permit me to go? It is high time you both were on the way to Spain." D'Herouville stamped his foot impatiently.

"And you will go to Quebec?" asked the vicomte.

"Certainly."

"Well then, till Monsieur de Saumaise and I see you on board. We are bound in that direction."

"You?" taken aback like a ship's sail.

"Why not, Monsieur," said Victor, a bit of irony in his tones, "since you yourself are going that way?"

"You took me by surprise." The count's eye ran up and down the poet's form. He moved his shoulders suggestively. "Till we meet again, then." And he left them.

"My poet," said the vicomte, "that was a stroke. Lord, how he will love you when he discovers the trick! What a boor he makes of himself to cover his designs! Here is a bag of trouble, and necessity has forced our hands into it. For all his gruffness and seeming impatience, D'Herouville has never yet made a blunder or a mistake. Take care."

"Why do you warn me?" Victor was full to the lips with rage.

"Because, hang me, I like your wit. Monsieur, there is no need of you and me cutting each other's throats. Let us join hands in cutting D'Herouville's. And there's the Chevalier; I had forgotten him. He and D'Herouville do not speak. I had mapped out three dull months on the water, and here walks in a comedy of various parts. Let us try a pot of canary together. You ought to change that livery of yours. Somebody will be insulting you and you will be drawing your sword."

Victor followed the vicomte to a table. After all, there was something fascinating about this man, with that devil-may-care air of his, his banter and his courage. So he buried a large part of his animosity, and accepted the vicomte's invitation.

All within the tavern was marked by that activity which precedes a notable departure. Seamen were bustling about, carrying bundles, stores, ammunition, and utensils. Here and there were soldiers polishing their muskets and swords and small arms. There was a calling to and fro. The mayor of the city came in, full of Godspeed and cheer, and following him were priests from the episcopal palace and wealthy burghers who were interested in the great trading company. All Rochelle was alive.

The vicomte, like all banterers, possessed that natural talent of standing aside and reading faces and dissecting emotions. Three faces interested him curiously. The Chevalier hid none of his thoughts; they lay in his eyes, in the wrinkles on his brow, in the immobility of his pose. How easy it was to read that the Chevalier saw nothing, save in a nebulous way, of the wonderful panorama surrounding. He was with the folly of the night gone, with Paris, with to-day's regrets for vanished yesterday. The vicomte could see perfectly well that Victor's gaiety was natural and unassumed; that the past held him but loosely, since this past held the vision of an ax. The analyst passed on to Brother Jacques, and received a slight shock. The penetrating grey eyes of the priest caught his and held them menacingly.

"Ah!" murmured the vicomte, "the little Jesuit has learned the trick, too, it would seem. He is reading my face. I must know more of this handsome fellow whose blood is red and healthy. He comes from no such humble origin as Father Chaumonot. Bah! and look at those nuns: they are animated coffins, holding only dead remembrances and dried, perfumeless flowers."

A strong and steady east wind had driven away all vestige of the storm. The sea was running westward in long and swinging leaps, colorful, dazzling, foam-crested. The singing air was spangled with frosty brine-mist; a thousand flashes were cast back from the city windows; the flower of the lily fluttered from a hundred masts. A noble vision, truly, was the good ship Saint Laurent, standing out boldly against the clear horizon and the dark green of the waters. High up among the spars and shrouds swarmed the seamen. Canvas flapped and bellied as it dropped, from arm to arm, sending the fallen snow in a flurry to the decks. On the poop-deck stood the black-gowned Jesuits, the sad-faced nuns, several members of the great company, soldiers and adventurers. The wharves and docks and piers were crowded with the curious: bright-gowned peasants, soldiers from the fort, merchants, and a sprinkling of the noblesse. It was not every day that a great ship left the harbor on so long and hazardous a voyage.

The Chevalier leaned against the railing, dreamily noting the white faces in the sunshine. He was still vaguely striving to convince himself that he was in the midst of some dream. He was conscious of an approaching illness, too. When would he wake? . . . and where? A hand touched his arm. He turned and saw Brother Jacques. There was a kindly expression on the young priest's face. He now saw the Chevalier in a new light. It was not as the gay cavalier, handsome, rich, care-free; it was as a man who, suffering a mortal stroke, carried his head high, hiding the wound like a Spartan.

"A last look at France, Monsieur le Chevalier, for many a day to come."

The Chevalier nodded.

"For many days, indeed. . . . And who among us shall look upon France again in the days to come? It is a long way from the Candlestick in Paris to the deck of the Saint Laurent. The widest stretch of fancy would not have brought us together again. There is, then, some invisible hand that guides us surely and certainly to our various ends, as the English poet says." The Chevalier was speaking to a thought rather than to Brother Jacques. "Who among us shall look upon these shores again?"

"What about these shores, Paul?" asked Victor, coming up. "They are not very engaging just now."

"But it is France, Victor; it is France; and from any part of France Paris may be reached." He turned his face toward the north, in the direction of Paris. His eyes closed; he was very pale. "Do we not die sometimes, Victor, while yet the heart and brain go on beating and thinking?"

Victor grasped the Chevalier's hand. There are some friendships which are expressed not by the voice, but by the pressure of a hand, a kindling glance of the eye. Brother Jacques moved on. He saw that for the present he had no part in these two lives.

"Look!" Victor cried, suddenly, pointing toward the harbor towers.

"Jehan?" murmured the Chevalier. "Good old soul! Is he waving his hand, Victor? The sun . . . I can not see."

"Do you suppose your father . . ."

"Who?" calmly.

"Ah! Well, then, Monsieur le Marquis: do you suppose he has sent Jehan to verify the report that you sail for Quebec?"

"I do not suppose anything, Victor. As for Monsieur le Marquis, I have already ceased to hate him. How beautiful the sea is! And yet, contemplate the horror of its rolling over your head, beating your life out on the reefs. All beautiful things are cruel."

"But you are glad, Paul," affectionately, "that I am with you?"

"Both glad and sorry. For after a time you will return, leaving me behind."

"Perhaps. And yet who can say that we both may not return, only with fame marching on ahead to announce us in that wonderfully pleasing way she has?"

"It is your illusions that I love, Victor: I see myself again in you. Keep to your ballades, your chant-royals, your triolets; you will write an epic whenever you lose your illusions; and epics by Frenchmen are dull and sorry things. When you go below tell Breton to unpack my portmanteau."

On the wharf nearest the vessel stood two women, hooded so as to conceal their faces.

"There, Gabrielle; you have asked to see the Chevalier du Cevennes, that is he leaning against the railing."

"So that is the Chevalier. And he goes to Quebec. In mercy's name, what business has he there?"

"You are hurting my arm, dear. Victor would not tell me why he goes to Quebec."

"Ah, if he goes out of friendship for Victor, it is well."

"Is he not handsome?"

"Melancholy handsome, after the pattern of the Englishman's Hamlet. I like a man with a bright face. When does the Henri IV sail?" suddenly.

"Two weeks from to-morrow. To-morrow is Fools' Day."

"Why, then, do not those on yonder ship sail to-morrow instead of to-day?"

"You were not always so bitter."

"I must have my jest. To-morrow may have its dupes as well as its fools. . . . Silence! The Comte d'Herouville in Rochelle? I am lost if he sees me. Let us go!" And Madame de Brissac dragged her companion back into the crowd. "That man here? Anne, you must hide me well."

"Why do you ask about the gloomy ship which is to take me to Quebec?" asked Anne, her curiosity aroused of a sudden.

Madame put a finger against her lips. "I shall tell you presently. Just now I must find a hiding place immediately. He must not know that I am here. He must have traced me here. Oh! am I not in trouble enough without that man rising up before me? I am afraid of him, Anne."

The two soon gained their chairs and disappeared. Neither of them saw the count go on board the ship.

On board all was activity. There came a lurch, a straining of ropes and a creaking of masts, and the good ship Saint Laurent swam out to sea. Suddenly the waters trembled and the air shook: the king's man-of-war had fired the admiral's salute. So the voyage began. Priests, soldiers, merchants, seamen, peasants and nobles, all stood silent on the poop-deck, watching the rugged promontory sink, turrets and towers and roofs merge into one another, black lines melt into grey; stood watching till the islands became misty in the sunshine and nothing of France remained but a long, thin, hazy line.

"The last of France, for the present," said the poet.

"And for the present," said the vicomte, "I am glad it is the last of France. France is not agreeable to my throat."

The Chevalier threw back his shoulders and stood away from the rail.

The Comte d'Herouville, his face purple with rage and chagrin, came up. He approached Victor.

"Monsieur," he said, "you lied. Madame is not on board." He drew back his hand to strike the poet in the face, but fingers of iron caught his wrist and held it in the air.

"The day we land, Monsieur," said the Chevalier, calmly. "Monsieur de Saumaise is not your equal with the sword."

"And you?" with a sneer.

"Well, I can try."



CHAPTER XII

ACHATES WRITES A BALLADE OF DOUBLE REFRAIN

The golden geese of day had flown back to the Master's treasure house; and ah! the loneliness of that first night at sea!—the low whistling song of the icy winds among the shrouds; the cold repellent color tones which lay thinly across the west, pressing upon the ragged, heaving horizon; the splendor and intense brilliancy of the million stars; the vast imposing circle of untamed water, the purple of its flowing mountains and the velvet blackness of its sweeping valleys; the monotonous seething round the boring prow and the sad gurgle of the speeding wake; the weird canvas shadows rearing heavenward; and above all, that silence which engulfs all human noises simply by its immensity! More than one stout heart grew doubtful and troubled under the weight of this mystery.

Even the Iroquois Indian, born without fear, stoic, indifferent to physical pain, even he wrapped his blanket closer about his head, held his pipe pendent in nerveless fingers, and softly chanted an appeal to the Okies of his forebears, forgetting the God of the black-robed fathers in his fear of never again seeing the peaceful hills and valleys of Onondaga or tasting the sweet waters of familiar springs. For here was evil water, of which no man might drink to quench his thirst; there were no firebrands to throw into the face of the North Wind; there was no trail, to follow or to retrace. O for his mat by the fire in the Long House, with the young braves and old warriors sprawling around, recounting the victories of the hunt!

Only the seamen and the priests went about unconcerned, untroubled, tranquil, the one knowing his sea and the other his God. There was something reassuring in the serenity of the black cassocks as they went hither and thither, offering physical and spiritual assistance. They inspired the timid and the fearful, many of whom still believed that the world had its falling-off place. And seasickness overcame many.

With some incertitude the Vicomte d'Halluys watched the Jesuits. After all, he mused, it was something to be a priest, if only to possess this calm. He himself had no liking for this voyage, since the woman he loved was on the way to Spain. Whenever Brother Jacques passed under the ship's lanterns, the vicomte stared keenly. What was there in this handsome priest that stirred his antagonism? For the present there seemed to be no solution. Eh, well, all this was a strange whim of fate. Fortune had as many faces as Notre Dame has gargoyles. To bring the Comte d'Herouville, himself, and the Chevalier du Cevennes together on a voyage of hazard! He looked around to discover the whereabouts of the count. He saw him leaning against a mast, his face calm, his manner easy.

"There is danger in that calm; I must walk with care. My faith! but the Chevalier will have his hands full one of these days."

Mass was celebrated, and a strange, rude picture was presented to those eyes accustomed to the interior of lofty cathedrals: the smoky lanterns, the squat ceiling, the tawdry woodwork, the kneeling figures involuntarily jostling one another to the rolling of the ship, the resonant voice of Father Chaumonot, the frequent glitter of a breast-plate, a sword-hilt, or a helmet.

The Chevalier knelt, not because he was in sympathy with Chaumonot's Latin, but because he desired not to be conspicuous. God was not in his heart save in a shadowy way; rather an infinite weariness, a sense of drifting blindly, a knowledge of a vague and futile grasping at the end of things. And winding in and out of all he heard was that mysterious voice asking: "Whither bound?" Aye, whither bound, indeed! Visions of golden days flitted across his mind's eye, snatches of his youth; the pomp and glory of court as he first saw it; the gallant epoch of the Fronde; the warm sunshine of forgotten summers; and the woman he loved! . . . The Chevalier was conscious of a pain of stupendous weight bearing down upon his eyes. Waves of dizziness, accompanied by flashes of fire, passed to and fro through his aching head. His tongue was thick and his lips were cracked with fever. It seemed but a moment gone that he had been shaking with the cold. He found himself fighting what he supposed to be an attack of seasickness, but this was not the malady which was seizing him in its pitiless grasp.

Chaumonot's voice rose and fell. Why had the marquis given this man a thousand livres? What evil purpose lay behind it? The marquis gave to the Church? He was surprised to find himself struggling against a wild desire to laugh. Sometimes the voice sounded like thunder in his ears; anon, it was so far away that he could hear only the echo of it. Presently the mass came to an end. The worshipers rose by twos and threes. But the Chevalier remained kneeling. The next roll of the ship toppled him forward upon his face, where he lay motionless. Several sprang to his aid, the vicomte and Victor being first. Together they lifted the Chevalier to his feet, but his knees doubled up. He was unconscious.

"Paul?" cried Victor in alarm. "He is seasick?" turning anxiously toward the vicomte.

"This is not seasickness; more likely a reaction. Here comes Lieutenant Nicot, who has some fame as a leech. He will tell us what the trouble is."

A hasty examination disclosed that the Chevalier was in the first stages of brain fever, and he was at once conveyed to his berthroom. Victor was inconsolable; the vicomte, thoughtful; and even the Comte d'Herouville showed some interest.

"What brought this on?" asked Nicot, when the Chevalier was stretched on his mattress.

The vicomte glanced significantly at Victor.

"He . . . The Chevalier has just passed through an extraordinary mental strain," Victor stammered.

"Of what nature?" asked Nicot.

"Never mind what nature, Lieutenant," interrupted the vicomte. "It is enough that he has brain fever. The question is, can you bring him around?"

Nicot eyed his patient critically. "It is splendid flesh, but he has been on a long debauch. I'll fetch my case and bleed him a bit."

"Poor lad!" said Victor. "God knows, he has been through enough already. What if he should die?"

"Would he not prefer it so?" the vicomte asked. "Were I in his place I should consider death a blessing in disguise. But do not worry; he will pull out of it, if only for a day, in order to run his sword through that fool of a D'Herouville. The Chevalier always keeps his engagements. I will leave you now. I will call in the morning."

For two weeks the Chevalier's mind was without active thought or sense of time. It was as if two weeks had been plucked from his allotment without his knowledge or consent. Many a night Victor and Breton were compelled to use force to hold the sick man on his mattress. He horrified the nuns at evening prayer by shouting for wine, calling the main at dice, or singing a camp song. At other times his laughter broke the quiet of midnight or the stillness of dawn. But never in all his ravings did he mention the marquis or the tragedy of the last rout. Some secret consciousness locked his lips. Sometimes Brother Jacques entered the berthroom and applied cold cloths, and rarely the young priest failed to quiet the patient. Often Victor came in softly to find the Chevalier sleeping that restless sleep of the fever-bound and the priest, a hand propping his chin, lost in reverie. One night Victor had been up with the Chevalier. The berthroom was close and stifling. He left the invalid in Breton's care and sought the deck for a breath of air, cold and damp though it was. Glancing up, he saw Brother Jacques pacing the poop-deck, his hands clasped behind him, his head bent forward, absorbed in thought. Victor wondered about this priest. A mystery enveloped his beauty, his uncommunicativeness.

Presently the Jesuit caught sight of the dim, half-recognizable face below.

"The Chevalier improves?" he asked.

"His mind has just cleared itself of the fever's fog, thank God!" cried Victor, heartily.

"He will live, then," replied Brother Jacques, sadly; and continued his pacing. After a few moments Victor went below again, and the priest mused aloud: "Yes, he will live; misfortune and misery are long-lived." All about him rolled the smooth waters, touched faintly with the first pallor of dawn.

On the sixteenth of April the Chevalier was declared strong enough to be carried up to the deck, where he was laid on a cot, his head propped with pillows in a manner such as to prevent the rise and fall of the ship from disturbing him. O the warmth and glory of that spring sunshine! It flooded his weak, emaciated frame with a soothing heat, a sense of gladness, peace, calm. As the beams draw water from the rivers to the heavens, so they drew forth the fever-poison from his veins and cast it to the cleansing winds. He was aware of no desire save that of lying there in the sun; of watching the clouds part, join, and dissolve, only to form again, when the port rose; of measuring the bright horizon when the port sank. From time to time he held up his white hands and let the sun incarnadine them. He spoke to no one, though when Victor sat beside him he smiled. On the second day he feebly expressed a desire for some one to read to him.

"What shall I read, Paul?" asked Victor, joyously.

"You will find my Odyssey in the berthroom. Read me of Ulysses when he finally arrived at Ithaca and found Penelope still faithful."

"Monsieur," said Chaumonot, who overheard the request, "would you not rather I should read to you from the life of Loyola?"

"No, Father," gently; "I am still pagan enough to love the thunder of Homer."

"If only I might convince you of the futility of such books!" earnestly.

"Nothing is futile, Father, which is made of grace and beauty."

So Victor read from the immortal epic. He possessed a fine voice, and being a musician he knew how to use it. The voice of his friend and the warmth of the sun combined to produce a pleasant drowsiness to which the Chevalier yielded, gratefully. That night he slept soundly.

The following day was not without a certain glory. The wind was mild and gentle like that which springs up suddenly during a summer's twilight and breathes mysteriously among the tops of the pines or stirs a murmur in the fields of grain. The sea wrinkled and crinkled its ancient face, not boisterously, but rather kindly; like a giant who had forgotten his feud with mankind and lay warming himself in the sunshine. From the unbroken circle of the horizon rose a cup of perfect turquoise. Victor, leaning against the rail, vowed that he sniffed the perfume of spices, blown up from the climes of the eternal summer.

"I feel it in my bones," he said, solemnly, "that I shall write verses to-day. What is it the presence of spring brings forth from us?—this lightness of spirit, this gaiety, this flinging aside of worldly cares, this longing to laugh and sing?"

"Well, Master Poet," and Major du Puys clapped the young man on the shoulder and smiled into his face. "Let them be like 'Henri at Cahors,' and, my faith! you may read them all day to me."

"No, I have in mind a happy refrain. 'Where are the belles of the balconies?' This is the time of year when life awakens in the gardens. Between four and five the ladies will come out upon the balconies and pass the time of day. Some one will have discovered a new comfit, and word will go round that Mademoiselle So-and-So, who is a great lady, has fallen in love with a poor gentleman. And lackeys will wander forth with scented notes of their mistresses, and many a gallant will furbish up his buckles. Heigho! Where, indeed, are the belles of the balconies? But, Major, I wish to thank you for the privileges which you have extended the Chevalier and myself."

"Nonsense, my lad!" cried the good major. "What are we all but a large family, with a worldly and a spiritual father? All I ask of you, when we are inside the fort at Quebec, is not to gamble or drink or use profane language, to obey the king, who is represented by Monsieur de Lauson and myself, to say your prayers, and to attend mass regularly. And your friend, the Chevalier?"

"On my word of honor, he laughed at a jest of mine not half an hour ago. Oh, we shall have him in his boots again ere we see land. If we are a big family, as you say, Major, will you not always have a fatherly eye upon my friend? He survives a mighty trouble. His heart is like a king's purse, full of gold that rings sound and true. Only give him a trial, and he will prove his metal. I know what lieutenants and corporals are. Sometimes they take delight in pricking a fallen lion. Let his orders come from you till he has served his time."

"And you?"

"I have nothing to ask for myself."

"Monsieur, no man need ask favors of me. Let him not shirk his duty, and the Chevalier's days shall be as peaceful as may be. And if he serves his time in the company, why, he shall have his parcel of land on the Great River. I shall not ask you any questions. His past troubles are none of my affairs. Let him prove a man. I ask no more of him than that. Father Chaumonot has told me that Monsieur le Marquis has given a thousand livres to the cause. The Chevalier will stand in well for the first promotion."

"Thank you, Major. It is nine. I will go and compose verses till noon."

"And I shall arrange for some games this afternoon, feats of strength and fencing. I would that my purse were heavy enough to offer prizes."

"Amen to that."

The major watched the poet as he made for the main cabin. "So the Chevalier has a heart of gold?" he mused. "It must be rich, indeed, if richer than this poet's. He's a good lad, and his part in life will have a fine rounding out."

Victor passed into the cabin and seated himself at the table in the main cabin. Occasionally he would nod approvingly, or rumple the feathery end of the quill between his teeth, or drum with his fingers in the effort to prove a verse whose metrical evenness did not quite satisfy his ear. There were obstacles, however, which marred the sureness of his inspiration. First it was the face of madame as he had seen it, now here, now there, in sunshine, in cloud. Was hers a heart of ice which the warmth of love could not melt? Did she love another? Would he ever see her again? Spain! Ah, but for the Chevalier he might be riding at her side over the Pyrenees. The pen moved desultorily. Line after line was written, only to be rejected. The envoi first took shape. It is a peculiar habit the poet has of sometimes putting on the cupola before laying the foundation of his house of fancy. Victor read over slowly what he had written:

"Prince, where is the tavern's light that cheers? Where is La Place with its musketeers, Golden nights and the May-time breeze? And where are the belles of the balconies?"

Ah, the golden nights, indeed! What were they doing yonder in Paris? Were they all alive, the good lads in his company? And how went the war with Spain? Would the ladies sometimes recall him in the tennis courts? With a sigh he dipped the quill in the inkhorn and went on. The truth is, the poet was homesick. But he was not alone in this affliction.

Breton was sitting by the port-hole in his master's berthroom. He was reading from his favorite book. Time after time he would look toward the bunk where the Chevalier lay dozing. Finally he closed the book and rose to gaze out upon the sea. In fancy he could see the hills of Perigny. The snow had left them by now. They were green and soft, rolling eastward as far as the eye could see. Old Martin's daughter was with the kine in the meadows. The shepherd dog was rolling in the grass at her feet. Was she thinking of Breton, who was on his way to a strange land, who had left her with never a good by to dull the edge of separation? He sobbed noiselessly. The book slipped from his fingers to the floor, and the noise of it brought the Chevalier out of his gentle dreaming.

"Is it you, lad?"

"Yes, Monsieur Paul," swallowing desperately.

"What is the matter?"

"I was thinking how the snow has left the hills of Perigny. I can see my uncle puttering in the gardens at the chateau. Do you remember the lilacs which grew by the western gates? They will soon be filling the park with fragrance. Monsieur will forgive me for recalling?"

"Yes; for I was there in my dreams, lad. I was fishing for those yellow perch by the poplars, and you were baiting my hooks."

"Was I, Monsieur?" joyfully. "My mother used to tell me that it was a sign of good luck to dream of fishing. Was the water clear?"

"As clear as Monsieur le Cure's emerald. Do you remember how he used to twist it round and round when he visited the chateau? It was a fine ring. The Duchesse d'Aiguillon gave it to him, so he used to tell us. 'Twas she who founded the Hotel Dieu at Quebec, where we are going."

"Yes; and in the month of May, which is but a few days off, we used to ride into Cevennes to the mines of porphyry and marbles which . . . which . . ." Breton stopped, embarrassed.

"Which I used to own," completed the Chevalier. "They were quarries, lad, not mines. 'Golden days, that turn to silver, then to lead,' writes Victor. Eh, well! Do you know how much longer we are to remain upon this abominable sea? This must be something like the eighteenth of April."

"The voyage has been unusually prosperous, Captain Bouchard says. We sight Acadia in less than twenty days. It will be colder then, for huge icebergs come floating about in the water. We shall undoubtedly reach Quebec by June. The captain says that it is all nonsense about pirates. They never come so far north as this. I wonder if roses grow in this new country? I shall miss the lattice-covered summer-house."

"There will be roses, Breton, but the thorns will be large and fierce. A month and a half before we reach our destination! It is very long."

"You see, Monsieur, we sail up a river toward the inland seas. If we might sail as we sail here, it would take but a dozen days to pass Acadia. But they tell me that this river is a strange one. Many rocks infest it, and islands grow up or disappear in a night."

The Chevalier fingered the quilt and said nothing. By and by his eyes closed, and Breton, thinking his master had fallen asleep, again picked up his book. But he could not concentrate his thought upon it. He was continually flying over the sea to old Martin's daughter, to the grey chateau nestling in the green hills. He was not destined long to dream. There was a rap on the door, and Brother Jacques entered.

"My son," he said to Breton, "leave us."



CHAPTER XIII

TEN THOUSAND LIVRES IN A POCKET

The Chevalier, who had merely closed his eyes, opened them and looked up inquiringly. "Breton," he said, "return in half an hour." Breton laid aside his book and departed. "Now, my father and my brother," began the Chevalier lightly, "what is it you have to say to me the importance of which necessitates the exclusion of my servant?"

"I wish to do you a service, Monsieur."

"That is kind of you. And what may this service be?"

"A simple warning."

"Ah!"

"The Comte d'Herouville has no love for you."

"Nor I for him." The Chevalier drew the coverlet to his chin and stared through the square port-hole.

"When we land you will still be weak."

"Not so weak that I can not stand."

"All this means that you will fight him?"

"It does."

"A woman?"

"A woman, a vulgar jest and a glass of wine. Monsieur le Comte and myself have been forbidden to meet under the pain of indefinite imprisonment. Yonder it will be different."

"Mademoiselle de Longueville . . ."

"Has forgotten the incident, as I had, till D'Herouville came on board in search of some woman. Monsieur de Saumaise played him a trick of some kind, and I stepped between."

"Can you be dissuaded?"

"Not the smallest particle. I shall be strong, never fear."

"I am drawn toward you, Monsieur. I am a priest, but I love courage and the unconfused mind which accompanies it. You are a brave man."

"I?" humorously.

"Yes. Who has heard you complain?"

"Against what?" The Chevalier had propped himself on his elbow.

The Jesuit closed his lips and shook his head.

"Against what?" with piercing eyes. "Did I speak strange words when fever moved my tongue?"

"No, Monsieur."

"You have said too much or too little," sharply.

"I have heard of Monsieur d'Herouville; he is not a good man."

"Against what did I not complain?" insistently.

"Against the misfortune which brought you here," lowly.

"You know? . . . From whom?" drawing his tongue across his parched lips.

"I have done wrong to excite you. There were words passed to and fro that morning at the Corne d'Abondance. Need I say more? Monsieur de Saumaise knows, and the vicomte; why should you fear me, who have nothing but brotherly love for you?"

"What is your name?" sinking wearily back among the pillows.

"Father Jacques, or Brother Jacques, familiarly."

"I mean your worldly name."

"I have almost forgotten it," evasively.

"You have not always been a priest?"

"Since I was eighteen." Silence. "Have you anything on your mind of which you wish to be relieved?"

"Nothing. One can not confess who is no nearer God than I."

"Hush! That is blasphemy."

"I am sorely tried."

"Your trials are but a pebble on the sea's floor. Always remember that, Monsieur; it will make the days less dark. No matter how much you may suffer in the days to come, do not forget that at one time you enjoyed to the full all worldly pleasures; that to you was given the golden key of life as you loved it. Thousands have been denied these, and your sufferings compared to theirs is as a child's plaint compared to a man's agony. God has some definite purpose in crossing our paths. Have patience."

"You, too, have suffered?" interestedly. Those almost incredible eyes,—what mystery lurked in their abysmal greys? "You, too, have suffered?" the Chevalier repeated.

"I?" A shiver ran over Brother Jacques's frame; his form shook and vibrated like a harpstring rudely struck. "Yes, I have suffered; but God is applying a remedy called forgetfulness. They will carry you up to the deck this afternoon?"

"Yes. I am told that there are to be games."

Here Breton returned, followed by Victor, who carried a roll of paper in his hand. Brother Jacques pressed the poet's arm affectionately. He had grown to love this youth whose cheeriness and amiability never left him.

"Paul, my boy," said Victor, when the priest had gone, "I have started a ballade of double refrain."

"Is it gay, lad?" The Chevalier was glad to see his friend. There was no mystery here; he could see to the bottom of this well.

"Not so gay as it might be, nor so melancholy as I strove to make it. Frankly, I was a trifle homesick this morning. There was something in the air which recalled to me the Loire in the springtime."

The Chevalier looked at Breton, who flushed. "Homesick, eh?" he said. "Well, don't be ashamed of it, Victor; Breton here was moping but half an hour ago over the hills of Perigny. And, truth to tell, so was I."

"Ha!" cried the poet with satisfaction, "that sounds like Paul of old."

"What are the games this afternoon?" asked the Chevalier. "Will there be foils?"

"Yes." Victor straightened out his papers and cleared his voice.

"And you will take part?"

"Certainly."

"Does the vicomte enter the bouts?"

"He does. I daresay that we shall come together."

"I had rather you would decline," said the Chevalier.

"What! not to face him with the foils?"

"He is a better fencer than you, Victor; and to witness your defeat would be no less a humiliation to me than to you. You can reasonably decline."

"And have that boor D'Herouville laugh? No! Let him give me the chance, and I will give him the back of my hand. Hang it, Paul, what made you interfere?"

"I have a prior claim. You recollect it well enough. He spoke lightly of the conduct of Mademoiselle de Longueville, and I threw a glass of champagne in his face. You had best decline to measure swords with the vicomte."

"Horns of Panurge! Some of these broken gentlemen doubt my ability. Besides, I may learn something of the vicomte's strength. I wonder what it is: when I am out of his presence I dislike him; when he approaches me, my dislike melts in the air."

"Read me what you have written," resignedly.

"I have polished only the third stanza and the envoi. I will read these to you; and tell me where it lacks smoothness."

"Beatrice is vanished and with her her smiles; Others shall kiss away Henriette's tears, Others surrender to Marguerite's wiles: Where is La Place with its musketeers? Oh, but the days they shall lengthen to years Ere I return o'er these pathless seas, Carried wherever the Pilot steers! And where are the belles of the balconies?

"Prince, where is the tavern's light that cheers? Where is La Place with its musketeers, Golden nights and the May-time breeze? And where are the belles of the balconies?"

"That will do very well," was the Chevalier's comment. His thought was carried back, even as the poet's, to La Place Royale. "Read the whole of it, even if it be in the rough. It will divert me." And, listening, he watched his garments swinging to and fro from the hook, particularly the grey cloak. It held a strange fascination.

"Monsieur improves constantly," observed Breton, soberly.

Victor laughed, and began explaining the difficulty of constructing a ballade of double refrain, when a hand fell upon the door.

"Enter," called the Chevalier, listlessly.

The door opened and the vicomte came in. Great good nature beamed from his countenance. His strong white teeth displayed themselves in a smile.

"And how are you this morning, Chevalier?" he inquired.

"Only a little more thickness to my blood," returned the Chevalier, smiling with equal good nature, "and I shall be able to stand up and look into your eyes. Help yourself to a stool. It is good to be ill once in a while, if only to test one's friendships. I am feeling vastly better. Let me thank you for your kindness during the crisis."

"Don't speak of it, Chevalier. It is with great happiness that I see you on the highway to complete recovery. There was a time when we feared for you." The vicomte took advantage of the Chevalier's courtesy and drew forward the remaining stool. "I would that you were well enough to take part in the bouts this afternoon. I was in the Academy that morning when you disarmed Comminges. La! but the lieutenant was a most surprised man when his sword went rolling to the mat."

"It was merely an accident, Vicomte," deprecatingly. "Monsieur de Comminges slipped, and I took advantage of his mishap, which I should not have done."

Victor's eyebrows arched. He had witnessed the match, and knew that the Chevalier had executed an amazing stroke.

"You are too modest, Chevalier," replied the vicomte. "I learn that you have entered the bouts, my poet. I tried to interest D'Herouville, but he declined. He goes about like a moping owl, watching ever for a returning ship which he may hail."

"We shall probably come together," said Victor.

"And I was just telling him, Vicomte," put in the Chevalier, "to decline to measure foils with so hardy a swordsman as yourself. You are taller, your weight is greater, and your reach is longer. How monotonous to lie here, weak and useless!"

"Monsieur de Saumaise may withdraw with all honor," said the vicomte.

"You are very discouraging, Paul," and Victor stuffed his poem into his doublet. "Still, what you advance is in the main true. But every man has a certain trick of his own which he has worked out all by himself, regardless of rules, in defiance of the teachings of the fencing-master. Perhaps I have one which the vicomte is not familiar with."

"I hope so," said the Chevalier.

"Doubtless he has," added the vicomte.

At four the fencing bouts began between the gentlemen. There were some exciting contests, but ere half an hour was gone the number had resolved itself into two, Victor and the vicomte.

"Well, Monsieur," said the latter, pleasantly, "suppose we share the laurels?"

"We shall, with your permission, make the victory more definite," replied the poet, testing his foil and saluting the ladies above.

"As you please," and the vicomte stepped into position.

It was a pretty exhibition. For a long time it seemed that neither Victor nor the vicomte had any advantage. What Victor lacked in reach and height he made up in agility. He was as light on his feet as a cat. In and out he went, round and round; twice his button came within an inch of the vicomte's breast. The second round brought no conclusion. As the foils met in the third bout, the vicomte spoke.

"Now, Monsieur," he said, but in so low a tone that only Victor heard him, "take care. You have made a brave showing, and, on my word, you hold a tolerable blade for a poet. Now then!"

Victor smiled, but a moment later his smile died away, and he drew his lips inward with anxiety. He felt a new power in the foil slithering up and down his own. Suddenly a thousand needles stung his wrist: his foil lay rolling about the deck. The vicomte bowed jestingly, stepped forward and picked up the foil, presenting it to its owner. Again they resumed guard. Quick as light the vicomte's foil went almost double against the poet's doublet. From this time on the poet played warily. He maintained a splendid defense, so splendid that doubt began to gather in the vicomte's eyes. Twice Victor stooped and his foil slid under the vicomte's guard, touching him roughly on the thigh, But Victor was fighting against the inevitable. Gradually the vicomte broke down the defense, and again Victor's foil was wrested from his grasp. The contest came to an end, with seven points for the vicomte and two for the poet. The vicomte was loudly applauded, as was due a famous swordsman and a hail-fellow.



The Chevalier, who had followed each stroke with feverish eyes, sighed with chagrin. There were three strokes he had taught Victor, and the poet had not used one of them.

"Why did you let those opportunities pass?" he asked, petulantly.

"Some day I may need those strokes. The vicomte does not know that I possess them." Victor smiled; then he frowned. "He is made of iron; he is a stone wall; but he is not as brilliant and daring as you are, Paul."

"Let us prolong the truce indefinitely," said the vicomte, later.

Victor bowed without speaking. The courtesy had something non-committal in it, and it did not escape the keen eye of the vicomte.

"Monsieur, you are the most gallant poet I know," and the vicomte saluted gravely.

They were becalmed the next day and the day following. The afternoon of the second day promised to be dull and uninteresting, but grew suddenly pregnant with possibilities when the Comte d'Herouville addressed the vicomte with these words: "Monsieur, I should like to speak to the Chevalier du Cevennes. Will you take upon yourself the responsibility of conducting me to his cabin? It is not possible for me to ask the courtesy of Monsieur de Saumaise. My patience becomes strained at the sight of him."

"Certainly, Monsieur," answered the vicomte, pleasantly, though the perpendicular line above his nose deepened. "I dare venture that the matter concerns the coming engagement at Quebec, and you desire a witness."

"Your surmise is correct. I do not wish to take advantage of him. I wish to know if he believes he will be in condition."

"Follow me." The vicomte started toward the companionway.

The Chevalier lay in his bunk, in profound slumber. Breton was dozing over his Rabelais. The clothes on the hooks moved but slightly. As the two visitors entered, the lackey lifted his head and placed a finger against his lips.

"He sleeps?" whispered the vicomte.

Breton nodded, eying d'Herouville with disapproval.

The vicomte stared at the wan face on the pillow. He shrugged his shoulders, and there was an essence of pity in the movement. Meanwhile the count gazed with idle curiosity at the partitions. He saw the Chevalier's court rapier with its jeweled hilt. The Chevalier's grandsire had flaunted the slender blade under the great Constable's nose in the days of Henri II. There had been a time when he himself had worn a rapier even more valuable; but the Jews had swallowed it even as the gaming tables had swallowed his patrimony. Next he fingered the long campaign rapier, and looked away as if trying to penetrate the future. A sharp gasp slipped past his lips.

"Boy," he said lowly and with apparent calm, "was not that a ship passing?"

Breton looked out of the port-hole. As he did so the count grasped the vicomte's arm. The vicomte turned quickly, and for the first time his eyes encountered the grey cloak. His breath came sharply, while his hand stretched forth mechanically and touched the garment, sinister and repelling though it was. There followed his touch a crackling sound, as of paper. D'Herouville paled. On the contrary, the vicomte smiled.

"Messieurs," said Breton, "your eyes deceived you. The horizon is clear. But take care, or you will have monsieur's clothes from the hooks."

"Tell your master," said the vicomte, "that we shall pay him a visit later, when he wakes." He opened the door, and followed D'Herouville out.

Once outside the two men gazed into each other's eyes. Each sought to discover something that lay behind.

"The cloak!" D'Herouville ran his fingers through his beard. "The Chevalier has never searched the pockets."

"Let us lay the matter before him and acquaint him with our suspicions," said the vicomte, his eyes burning. "His comrade's danger is common to both of us. We will ask the Chevalier for his word, and he will never break it."

"No! a thousand devils, no! Place my neck under his heel? Not I."

"You have some plan?"

"Beaufort offers five thousand livres for that paper, and Gaston will give five thousand more to have proof that it is destroyed. That is ten thousand, Monsieur."

"Handsome!"

"And I offer to share with you."

"You do not need money, Monsieur."

"I? The Jews have me tied in a thousand knots!" replied the count, bitterly.

"I am not the least inclined toward partnership. You must manoeuver to reach the inside of that cloak before I do. There is nothing more to be said, Monsieur."

"Take care!" menacingly.

"Faith! Monsieur," the vicomte said, coolly, "my sword is quite as long as yours. And there is the Chevalier. You must fight him first."

"And if you find the paper?" forcing a calm into his tones.

"I shall take the next ship back to France. I will see Beaufort and Gaston, and the bubble will be pricked."

"Perhaps you may never return."

"As to that, we shall see. Come, is there not something more than ten thousand livres behind that paper?"

"You banter. I do not understand."

"Is not madame's name there?"

"Well?"

"She is a widow, young, beautiful, and rich. And this incriminating signature of hers,—what a fine thing it would be to hold over her head! She is a woman, and a woman is easily duped in all things save love."

D'Herouville trembled. "You are forcing war."

"So be it," tranquilly. "I will make one compact with you; if I find the paper I will inform you. Will you accept a like?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, then, once in Paris, I will stake ten thousand livres against your tentative claims to madame's hand. We will play at vingt-et-un. That is true gambling, Monsieur, and you are a good judge."

"I pick up the gauntlet with pleasure, under all conditions. Besides, an idea has occurred to me. The paper may not be what we think it is. The man who killed De Brissac is not one to give up or throw away the rewards. Eh, Monsieur?"

"Perhaps he was pressed for time. His life perhaps depended upon his escape. He may have dropped the cloak," shrewdly, "and some friend found it and returned it to the Chevalier. A plausible supposition, as you will agree."

"You may tell me a lie," said D'Herouville, thoughtfully.

"It would not be necessary, Monsieur le Comte," returned the vicomte, suggestively tapping his sword.



CHAPTER XIV

BRETON FINDS A MARKER FOR HIS COPY OF RABELAIS

After the calm the storm came, after the storm the rough winds and winnowed skies. At one moment the ship threatened to leap to heaven, at another, to plunge down to the sea's floor. Breton had a time of it one afternoon in the cabin. He was buffeted about like maize in a heated pan. He fell, and in trying to save himself he clutched at the garments hanging from the hooks. The cloth gave. The pommel of the Chevalier's rapier hit him in the forehead, cutting and dazing him. He rose, staggering, and indulged in a little profanity which made him eminently human. One by one he gathered up the fallen garments and cloaks. It was haphazard work: for now the floor was where the partition had been, and the ceiling where the bunk had stood. Keys had rolled from the Chevalier's pockets—keys, coins, and rings; and Breton scrambled and slid around on his hands and knees till he had recovered these treasures, which he knew to be all his master had. He thought of the elegant rubies and sapphires and topaz of the garters he had ordered for his master but four months gone. And that mysterious lady of high degree? Paris! Alas, Paris was so far away that he, Breton, was like to see it never again.

He stood up, balanced himself, and his eye caught sight of the grey cloak, which lay crumpled under the bunk.

"Ah! so it is you, wretched cloak, that gave way when I clung to you for help?" He stooped and dragged it forth by its skirts. "So it was you?" swinging it fiercely above his head and balancing himself nicely. The bruise on his forehead made him savage. "Whatever made me bring you to the Corne d'Abondance? What could you not tell, if voice were given to you? And Monsieur Paul used to look so fine in it! You make me cold in the spine!" He shook it again and again, then hung it up by the torn collar, which had yielded over-readily to his frenzied grasp.

As the ache in his head subsided, so diminished the strength of his wrath; and he went out to ask the Chevalier if he should keep the valuables in his own pocket or replace them in the pocket of the pantaloons from which they had fallen. The Chevalier took the rings and slipped them on his fingers, all save the signet ring, which he handed to his lackey.

"Keep this, lad, till I ask for it," was all he said.

Breton put the ring in the little chamois bag which his mother had given him. The ring rattled against a little silver crucifix. The lad then returned to the cabin and read his favorite book till his eyes grew weary. He looked about for a marker and espied some papers on the floor. These he thrust into his place and fell to dreaming.

Each afternoon the Chevalier was carried up to the deck; and what with the salt air and the natural vigor which he inherited from his father, the invalid's bones began to take on flesh and his interest in life became normal. It is true that when left alone a mask of gloom shadowed his face, and his thin fingers opened and closed nervously and unconsciously. Diane, Diane, Diane! It was the murmur of far-off voices, it was the whisper of the winds in the shrouds, it was the cry of the lonely gull and the stormy petrel. To pass through the weary years of his exile without again seeing that charming face, finally to strive in vain to recall it in all its perfect beauty! This thought affected him more than the thought of the stigma on his birth. That he could and would live down; he was still a man, with a brain and a heart and a strong arm. But Diane!

The Comte d'Herouville, for some reason best known to himself, appeared to be acting with a view toward partial conciliation. The Chevalier did not wholly ignore this advance. D'Herouville would fight fair as became a gentleman, and that was enough. Since they were soon to set about killing each other, what mattered the prologue?

The vicomte watched this play, and it caused him to smile. He knew the purpose of these advances: it was to bring about the freedom of the Chevalier's cabin. As yet neither he nor the count had found the golden opportunity. The Chevalier was never asleep or alone when they knocked at the door of his cabin.

Each day D'Herouville approached the Chevalier when the latter was on deck.

"You are improving, Monsieur?" was the set inquiry.

"I am gaining every hour, Monsieur," always returned the invalid.

"That is well;" and then D'Herouville would seek some other part of the ship. He ignored Victor as though he were not on board.

"Victor, you have not yet told me who the woman in the grey mask was," said the Chevalier.

"Bah!" said Victor, with fictitious nonchalance.

"She is fleeing from some one?"

"That may be."

"Who is she?" directly.

"I regret that I must leave you in the dark, Paul."

"But you said that you knew something of her history; and you can not know that without knowing her name."

Victor remained silent.

"Somehow," went on the Chevalier, "that grey mask continually intrudes into my dreams."

"That is because you have been ill, Paul."

"Is she some prince's light-o'-love?"

"She is no man's light-o'-love. Do not question me further. I may tell you nothing. She is a fugitive from the equivocal justice of France."

"Politics?"

"Politics."

"She comes from a good family?"

"So high that you would laugh were I to tell you."

"As she left the private assembly that night I caught the odor of vervain. Perhaps that is what printed her well upon my mind."

"Pretend to yourself that it was attar of roses, and forget her. She will never enter into your life, my good comrade."

"I am merely curious, indifferently curious. It is something to talk about. I daresay that she is pretty. Homely women never flee from anything but mirrors."

"And homely men," laughed the poet. "I am going to see Bouchard for a moment."

Du Puys, D'Herouville and the vicomte drew their stools around the Chevalier, and discussed politics, religion, and women.

"Why is it that women intrigue?" asked the Chevalier, recalling the grey mask. "Is it because they wish the great to smile on them?"

"No," replied the vicomte; "rather that they wish to smile on the great. Women love secret power, that power which comes from behind the puppet-booth. A man must stand before his audience to appear as great; woman becomes most powerful when her power is not fully known. The king's mistress has ever been the mistress of the king."

"And Marie de Touchet?" asked Du Puys.

"Charles IX was not a fool; he was mad." D'Herouville smoothed his beard.

Presently the Chevalier said to the vicomte: "Monsieur, will you be so kind as to seek my lackey? I am growing chilly and desire a shawl or a cloak."

"I will gladly seek him," said the vicomte, flashing a triumphant look at D'Herouville, whose face became dark.

"Permit me to accompany you," requested the count.

"The vicomte will do, Monsieur," interposed the Chevalier, wonderingly.

The vicomte passed down the companionway and disappeared. He stopped before the Chevalier's cabin and knocked. The sound of his knuckles was as thunder in his ears. Breton opened the door, rubbing his eyes.

"Your master, my lad, has sent me for his grey cloak. Will you give it to me to carry to him?"

"The grey cloak?" repeated Breton, greatly astonished.

"Yes. Be quick about it, as your master complains of the cold."

"Why, Monsieur Paul has not touched the grey cloak . . ."

"Must I get it myself? Be quick!" The vicomte was pale with excitement and impatience.

Breton, without further parley, took down the cloak and passed it over to the vicomte.

"Monsieur will find the collar badly torn," he said.

"If he changes his mind, I will return shortly;" and the vicomte threw the cloak over his arm, left the cabin, and closed the door.

Breton wiped his hands on his breeches as if to wipe away the contaminating touch of the cloak. His eyes were bothering him of late, and he had not read from his favorite book since he left Panurge hunting for the prophetess. Being now awake and having nothing to do, he took down his master's sword and began polishing the blade. He had scarce begun his labor when the door opened and the vicomte stood on the threshold.

"My lad," he said, quietly, "you were right. Your master wants the purple cloak. I was wrong."

Without replying, Breton hung up the grey cloak and took down another.

"Is Monsieur le Vicomte seasick?" he asked.

"It is hunger, lad, which makes me pale."

As the vicomte reappeared upon deck, he saw D'Herouville biting his nails. He met the questioning glance, and laughed coldly and mirthlessly.

"Chevalier," said the vicomte, "your lackey handed me the grey cloak first."

"The grey cloak?"

"Yes; but I recalled its history, and returned with this. Hang me, but you have a peculiar fancy. In your place, I should have burned that cloak long ago."

D'Herouville looked interested.

"I have a morbid fancy for that cloak," returned the Chevalier. "I want it always with me. Murder will out, and that garment will some day . . . No matter."

"Have you ever searched the pockets?" asked D'Herouville, in a quiet, cool tone.

The vicomte's eyes brightened. There was good metal in this D'Herouville.

"Searched the pockets?" said the Chevalier. "Not I! I have not touched the cloak since I last wore it. I never expect to touch it. Vicomte, thank you for your trouble." The Chevalier threw the cloak around his shoulders and closed his eyes. The wind, blowing forcefully and steadily into his face produced a drowsiness.

Du Puys looked from one to the other. A grey cloak? All this was outside the circle of his understanding. When Victor returned the old soldier rose and made his way to the cabin. As he disappeared, D'Herouville moved toward the wheel. From time to time he looked back at the vicomte, but that gentleman purposely refused to acknowledge these glances.

"Chevalier," he said, "you know why our poet here and myself are upon this ship: a certain paper, ten by twelve inches, stands between us and the block."

"Ah!" The Chevalier opened his eyes.

"Yes. Has it ever occurred to you, my poet, to investigate Monsieur le Chevalier's grey cloak; that is to say, search its pockets?"

Victor smothered an oath and thwacked his thigh. "Horns of Panurge!" softly.

"Then you have not. It would be droll if our salvation was accompanying us to the desert." The vicomte was up and heading toward D'Herouville.

"Victor, lad," said the Chevalier, "go you and see if there is anything in the pockets of that grey cloak."

"Well, Monsieur?" said D'Herouville, eagerly.

"There is a ghost upon the ship," replied the vicomte.

"You have secured the papers?"

"Papers?" with elevated brows. "Is there more than one, then?" the vicomte's tone hardening.

"Paper or papers, it matters not; I was speaking only in a general way."

"Do you recall that when I touched that cloak it gave forth a crackling sound as of paper?"

"It was paper," said the count impatiently. What was this man D'Halluys driving at?

"Well, as I said;" and the vicomte twisted the ends of his mustache and gnawed it between his teeth. "There is a ghost upon this ship. There was nothing in that pocket, not even a piece of paper as large as your thumb-nail."

"You lie!" roughly.

Their faces came close together.

"If Monsieur le Chevalier leaves enough of you, Monsieur," said the vicomte. His tone was gentle. "When I gave you my word it was given honestly, without reservation. There were no papers in that cloak. Some one has gone before us, or rather, some one has gone before me. You spoke of papers: what gave you to believe there was more than one? Monsieur, is not the lie on your side? Have you not had access to the Chevalier's room? You say that I lie; is not your own tongue crooked? Besides, let us not forget the poet, who, while he may be unaware of the commercial value of that paper, has no less an interest in it. You have given me the lie: go about your affairs as you please, and I shall do likewise. When we land, if the Chevalier does not kill you, I will."

"Why?"

"You tell me that I lie."

"Bah! Monsieur, under all circumstances there would be cause for war between us. Do you not love Madame de Brissac? Heigho! she has given the motley to us all. Are we not fine fools? It is droll. Well, I will write the Chevalier's discharge, and you shall go out by the same order. We are all cats in the bags, and some of us are likely to be scratched."

"It will be an exciting day, no doubt;" and the vicomte turned on his heel.

"There was nothing in the pockets of the cloak," said Victor, a while later.

On the second day of June the Saint Laurent dropped anchor before Quebec. The voyage had come to an end, and a prosperous voyage, indeed. There had been only one death at sea; they had encountered neither the Spaniard nor the outlaw; the menace of ice they had slipped past. What a welcome was roared to them from Fort Louis, from the cannon and batteries, high up on the cliffs! The echoes rolled across the river and were lost in the mighty forests beyond. Again and again came the flash, and the boom. It was wondrous to see the fire and smoke so far above one's head. Flags fluttered in the sunshine; all labor was stopped, and the great storehouses were closed for the remainder of the day. Canoes filled with peaceful Hurons sallied forth, and the wharves were almost blotted out of sight with crowding humanity.

Many notable faces could be identified here and there among the pressing throng on the wharves. Some were there to meet friends or relatives; some wanted the news from France; some came for mail to be delivered to the various points along the river. Prominent among them was Governor Lauson, a grey-haired, kindly civilian, who, though a shrewd speculator, was by no means the man to be at the head of the government in Canada. He was pulled this way and that, first by the Company, then by the priests, then by the seigneurs. Depredations by the Indians remained unpunished; and the fear of the great white father grew less and less. Surrounding Monsieur de Lauson was his staff and councillors, and the veterans Du Puys had left behind while in France. There were names which in their time were synonyms for courage and piety. The great Jesuits were absent in the south, in Onondaga, where they had erected a mission: Father Superior le Mercier, and Fathers Dablon and Le Moyne.

Immediately on landing, Father Chaumonot made a sign, and his sea-weary voyagers fell upon their knees and kissed the earth. New France!

"Now," said Victor, shaking himself, "let us burn up the remaining herrings and salt codfish. I see yonder a gentleman with a haunch of venison on his shoulder."

"One would think that you had had no duck or deer since we passed Acadia," laughed Du Puys. "But, patience, lad; Monsieur de Lauson invites all the gentlemen to the Fort at six to partake of his table. You have but four hours to wait for a feast such as will make your Paris eyes bulge."

"Praise be!"

As he breathed in the resinous, balsamic perfume which wafted across the mighty river from the forests and the river-rush; as his eye traveled up the glorious promontory, now mellowed in sunshine, to the summit bristling with cannon; as his gaze swept the broad reaches of the river, and returned to rest upon the joyous faces around him, joyous even in the face of daily peril, the Chevalier threw back his shoulders, as if bracing himself for the battle to come. Here he was to forget and build anew; France, his mother, was dead, and here was his foster-mother, rugged and brave, opening her arms to him. New France! Ah, well, there was here, somewhere, a niche for him, and the man in him vowed to fill it. He did not yet say "With God's help." It was early, and the sting of his misfortune still stirred the poison in his soul.

"New France, Paul," cried the poet at his side. The newness and strangeness of the scene had filled the poet's face with animation. No problems beset his buoyant soul.

"Yes, lad; this is New France. Fortune here seems to be of the masculine; and I daresay that you and I shall receive many cuffs in the days to come."

"Come, my friends," said Brother Jacques, "and I will show you the path which leads to the citadel."

And the three proceeded up the incline.

Sister Benie of the Ursulines was passing along the narrow road which led to the river. There was on her serene face the remains of what had been great beauty, such as is sometimes given to the bourgeois; but the purple eyes were wells of sadness and the lips ever drooped in pity and mercy. Across her pale cheek was a paler scar, which ran from the left temple to the chin. Sister Teresa, her companion, was young and plain. Soldiers and trappers and Indians passed them on the way up, touching their caps and hats; for Sister Benie was known from Montreal to Tadousac. Suddenly Sister Benie gave a low cry and pressed a hand upon her heart.

"Sister, you are ill?" asked her companion.

"A dizziness; it is gone now." Presently she caught the arm of a gentleman who was passing.

"My son," she said, sweetly, "can you tell me who is that young man walking with Brother Jacques; the tall one?"

"He? That is the Chevalier du Cevennes."

"His family?"

"He is the son of the Marquis de Perigny."

"Thank you, my son."



CHAPTER XV

THE SUPPER

"Monsieur du Cevennes," said D'Herouville, just before supper that first night of their arrival on Canadian soil, "I see that you are not quite strong enough to keep the engagement. This day two weeks: will that be agreeable?"

"It will; though I should be better pleased to fix the scene for to-morrow morning."

D'Herouville raised a deprecating hand. "I should not like to have it said that I took advantage of a man's weakness. Of course, if you wish absolutely to force it . . ."

The Chevalier looked thoughtfully at his pale hands. "I shall take advantage of your courtesy, Monsieur le Comte."

"How polite men are when about to cut each other's throats!" The Vicomte d'Halluys adjusted his baldric and entered the great dining-hall of the Chateau Saint Louis.

He and D'Herouville sat side by side.

"Vicomte, you have never told me why the Chevalier is here. Why should he leave France, he, who possessed a fortune, who had Mazarin's favor, and who had all the ladies at his feet?"

"Ask him when you meet him," answered the vicomte, testing the governor's burgundy.

"And will you pay me those ten thousand livres which you wagered against my claims for madame's hand?"

The vicomte took a sip of the wine. There was no verbal answer, but his eyes spoke.

"Quebec promises to afford a variety," commented d'Herouville, glancing to where the Chevalier sat.

"It is quite probable," affably returned the vicomte. "This is good wine for a wilderness like this. To be sure, it comes from France; I had forgotten."

The first fortnight passed with the excitement attendant to taking up quarters in a strange land. The Chevalier, Victor and the vicomte were given rooms in the citadel; D'Herouville accepted the courtesy of the governor and became a resident of the chateau; father Chaumonot, Major du Puys, and his selected recruits, had already made off for Onondaga. A word from Father Chaumonot into the governor's ear promoted the Chevalier to a lieutenancy in lieu of Nicot's absence in Onondaga. Everything began very well.

Seldom a day went by without a skirmish with the Iroquois, who had grown impudent and fearless again. The Iroquois were determined to destroy their ancient enemies, the Hurons, primarily because they hated them, and secondarily because they were allies of the French. France did what she could in reason to stop these depredations, but the task needed an iron gauntlet, and De Lauson was a civilian. At this period the Mohawks were the fiercest, the Onondagas having agreed to a temporary treaty. Marauders were brought in and punished, but usually the punishment was trivial compared to the offense. The governor wished to rule by kindness; but his lieutenants knew the Indian thoroughly. He must not be treated with kindness where justice was merited; it gave him the idea that the white man was afraid. Therefore, his depredations should be met with a vengeance swift and final and convincing. But nine times out of ten De Lauson and the priests overruled the soldiers; and the depredations continued unabated. Once, however, the Chevalier succeeded in having several gibbets erected on the island of Orleans, and upon these gibbets he strung half a dozen redskins who had murdered a family of peaceful Hurons.

Though he went about somberly, untalkative and morose, the Chevalier proved himself a capital soldier, readily adapting himself to the privations of scouting and the loneliness of long watches in the night. He studied his Indian as one who intended to take up his abode among them for many years to come. He discarded the uniform for the deerskin of the trapper. But the Chevalier made no friends among the inhabitants; and when not on duty he was seen only in the company of Victor, the vicomte and Brother Jacques, who was assisting him in learning the Indian languages. Brown he grew, lithe and active as the enemy he watched and studied. Never a complaint fell from his lips; he accepted without question the most hazardous duty.

"Keep your eye upon Monsieur le Chevalier," said De Lauson; "for he will count largely before the year is gone."

As for Victor, he was more or less indifferent. He was perfectly willing to fight the Indian, but his gorge rose at the thought of studying him as an individual. As a rule he found them to be unclean, vulgar and evil-minded; and the hideous paints disturbed his dreams. Secretly, his enthusiasm for New France had already waned, and there were times when he longed for the road to Spain—Spain which by now held for him the dearest treasure in all the world. But not even the keen-eyed Brother Jacques read this beneath the poet's buoyancy and lightness of spirit. Besides, Brother Jacques had set himself to watch the Comte d'Herouville and the Vicomte d'Halluys, and this was far more important to him than the condition of the poet's temperament.

D'Herouville mingled with the great seigneurs, and, backed by his reputation as a famous swordsman, did about as he pleased. He watched the Chevalier's progress toward health; and he noted with some concern his enemy's quick, springy step, the clear and steady eye. He still ignored the poet as completely as though he did not exist.

Every Friday night the table was given up to the governor's gentlemen councillors, friends, and officers. Victor and the Chevalier were on this list, as were the vicomte and D'Herouville. Usually these were enjoyable evenings. Victor became famous as a raconteur, and the Chevalier lost some of his taciturnity in this friendly intercourse. D'Herouville's conduct was irreproachable in every sense.

One day the Chevalier entered one of the school-rooms. In his arms he held a small white child which had sprained its weak ankle while playing on the lumber pile outside the convent of the Ursulines. Sister Benie was quick to note how tenderly he held the sobbing child.

"Give him to me, Monsieur," she said, her velvet eyes moist with pity.

The Chevalier placed the little boy in her arms, and he experienced a strange thrill as he noticed the manner in which she wrapt the boy to her heart. How often Breton's mother, his nurse, had taken him to her breast that way! And he stood there marveling over that beautiful mystery which God had created, for the wonder of man, the woman and the child.

"I chanced to be passing and heard his cry," he said, diffidently.

"Playing the good Samaritan?" asked a voice from the window. The Sister and the Chevalier looked around and saw the vicomte leaning on the window-sill. "Why was it not my happiness to tarry by that lumber-pile. I saw the lad.'"

"Ah, it is you, Vicomte?" said the Chevalier, pleasantly.

"Yes, Chevalier. Will you walk with me?"

Being without excuse, the Chevalier joined him, and together they proceeded toward the quarters.

Sister Benie stared after them till they had disappeared around the corner of the building.

"Chevalier," said the vicomte, "do you remember Henri de Leviston?"

"De Leviston?" The Chevalier frowned. "Yes; I recollect him. Why?"

"He is here."

"In Quebec?"

"Yes. He came in this morning from Montreal, where he is connected with the Associates. Was he not in your company three or four years ago? He was dismissed, so I heard, for prying into De Guitaut's private despatches."

"I remember the incident. I was the one who denounced him. It was a disagreeable duty, but De Guitaut had put me on De Leviston's tracks. It was unavoidable."

"You had best beware of him."

"I am perfectly in health, thank you," replied the Chevalier.

The vicomte covertly ran his eye over his companion. It was not to be denied that the Chevalier had gained wonderfully in the fortnight. The air, the constant labor, and the natural medicine which he inhaled in the forests, had given a nervous springiness to his step and had cleared his eyes till the whites were like china. No; the Chevalier need have no fear of De Leviston, was the vicomte's mental comment.

"Well, you do look proper. The wine is all out of your system, and there is balsam in your blood. A wonderful country!" The vicomte stopped before his door.

"Yes, it is a wonderful country. It is not France; it is better than the mother country. Ambition has a finer aim; charity is without speculation; and a man must be a man here, else he can not exist."

"That is an illusion," replied the vicomte. "Only the women have what you call a finer ambition. The men are puling as in France. The Company seeks riches without working; the military seek batons without war; and these Jesuits . . . Bah! What are they trying to do? To rule the pope, and through him, the world. My faith, I can barely keep from laughing at some of the stories these priests tell all in good faith."

"My thought did not include the great," said the Chevalier, quietly. "I meant the lower orders. They will eventually become men and women in the highest sense. There is no time for dalliance and play; labor is the monitor best suited to hold back, to trim and regulate a man's morals and habits. There is no idleness here, Vicomte."

"I do not know but you are right."

"Shall you remain here long?" asked the Chevalier.

"Who can say? I would return to France on the next boat were my neck less delicately attached to my shoulders. Let us say six months; it will have quieted down by then. Devil take me, but I should like to feel that paper crackling between my fingers. And you meet D'Herouville in two days?"

"In two days."

"Will you not join me in a glass of the governor's old burgundy as a toast to your success?"

"Thank you, but I am on duty. They are bringing some Mohawks up from the lower town, and I am to take charge of them."

"Good luck to you;" and the vicomte waved a friendly hand as he started off toward the citadel.

The Chevalier with a dozen men started for the lower town. But his mind was not on his duty. He was thinking of Diane, her gay laughter, her rollicking songs, the old days.

"Monsieur, are we to go to Sillery?" asked a trooper, respectfully.

"Sillery?" The Chevalier shook himself, and took the right path.

The Chevalier and Victor sat on their narrow cots that night. Brother Jacques had just gone. The windows were open, and the balmy air of summer drifted in, carrying with it forest odors and the freshness of the rising dew. Fireflies sparkled in the grass, and the pale stars of early evening pierced the delicate green of the heavens. A single candle flickered on the table, and the candlestick was an empty burgundy bottle. The call of one sentry to another broke the solemn quiet.

"And you have not grown sick for home since you left the sea?" asked the Chevalier.

"Not I!" There were times when Victor could lie cheerfully and without the prick of conscience. "One hasn't time to think of home. But how are you getting on with your Iroquois?"

"Fairly."

"You are determined to meet D'Herouville?"

The Chevalier extended his right arm, allowing Victor to press it with his fingers. Victor whistled softly. The arm, while thin, was like a staff of oak. Presently the same arm reached out and snuffed the candle.

"Shall you ever go back to France, Paul?"

A sigh from the other side of the room.

"I saw the vicomte talking to De Leviston to-day. De Leviston was scowling. They separated when I approached."

"Will you have the goodness to go to sleep?"

"What the devil brings De Leviston so high on this side the water?"

Silence.

"I never liked his sneaking face."

A sentry called, another, and still another.

"Are you there, Paul?"

No answer.

"You're as surly as a papoose!"

Soon after that there was nothing to be heard but the deep and regular breathing of two healthy men resting in sleep.

Some fourteen gentlemen sat around the governor's table the third Friday night. There were the governor and his civic staff and his officers, three or four merchants, and two priests, Brother Jacques and Dollier de Casson, that brother to Rabelais, with his Jove-like smile and his Herculean proportions. De Casson had arrived that day from Three Rivers, and he had come for aid.

Two chairs were vacant, and presently the vicomte filled one of them. The other was reserved for the Chevalier.

Victor was telling some amusing tales of the court; how Beaufort was always blundering, how Mazarin was always saving, how Louis was always making love, and how the queen was always praying.

"Ah, Monsieur de Saumaise," said the governor, "you must not tell jests at the expense of their Majesties; Mazarin I do not mind, for he is certainly niggard with funds and with men."

"How that handsome young king of ours will spend money when a new prime minister is needed!" was the vicomte's comment, his gaze falling on the Chevalier's empty chair. "Do you remember how Mazarin took away Scarron's pension? Scarron asked that it be renewed; and Mazarin refused, bidding the wit to be of good cheer. Scarron replied, 'Monseigneur, I should indeed be in good cheer were I not positive that I shall not outlive your parsimony.'"

When the Chevalier finally came in he was cordially greeted by the governor. He took his chair, filled his glass and lit his pipe. He waved aside all food, stating that he had eaten his supper in the lower town.

No sooner had he lighted his pipe than De Leviston rose, shoving back his chair noisily. A cold, sneering contempt marked his swart face.

"What is the matter, Monsieur de Leviston?" asked the governor, mildly.

"Your Excellency will pardon me," said De Leviston; "but I find, it impossible to sit at this table till another person leaves it."

Surprise and consternation lay written on every face. The Chevalier lowered his pipe, and looked from one face to another. He was so tired with the labor of the day, that he had forgotten all about himself and his history.

The governor sat rigid in his chair. Victor's hand rested on the table; he was ready to rise and meet the blow he knew was coming.

"Explain yourself," said the governor, coldly. "You impugn the conduct or honor of some gentleman at my table? Take care, Monsieur."

"It is my regret."

"Who is this person who has aroused your displeasure, and what has he done that he may not sit in the presence of gentlemen?"

Victor rose, white and trembling.

"Sit down, Monsieur de Saumaise," commanded the governor, sternly.

"He calls himself the Chevalier du Cevennes." De Leviston smiled.

Every eye was leveled at the Chevalier. Victor felt his heart swelling. It had come at last! Brother Jacques leaned forward, peering into every face. D'Herouville's face was expressive of deep surprise, and the vicomte was staring at De Leviston as if he believed that gentleman to be mad.

"Calls himself the Chevalier du Cevennes?" thundered the governor. "Calls himself? This demands an immediate explanation from you, Monsieur de Leviston."

"I object to sit at a table with a person who does not know who his mother was." Each word was deliberately and carefully measured.

"Death of my life!" roared the governor, upon his feet.

The Chevalier reached over and caught De Lauson's sleeve. "Hush, Monsieur; what Monsieur de Leviston says is . . . true." He got up, white as the broken pipe that lay at the side of his plate. Under the chair was his hat. He reached for it. Looking neither to the right nor to the left, he walked quietly and with dignity from the room.

There was a single laugh, rude and loud. It came from D'Herouville.

The general silence which followed lasted several minutes. The Chevalier's declaration had stunned them. The governor was first to recover. He rose again, quietly, though his eyes sparkled with anger.

"Monsieur de Leviston," he said, "you have wilfully broken and destroyed the peace and dignity of my household. I shall cross you from my list, and the sooner you return to Montreal, the better. Your peculiar sense of honor in no wise appeals to me. It is an ignoble revenge; for do not doubt that I know your own history, Monsieur, and also the part the Chevalier had in it. But believing you had come to this country to repair your honor, I have assisted you by inviting you to partake of my bounty and of my friendship."

De Leviston paled, and turned a scowling face to those about him. He found no sympathy in any eye, not even in D'Herouville's.

"You have wounded brutally and with intent," went on the governor, "the heart of a man who has not only proved himself a gentleman, but a hero. And I add this: Let no one repeat what has happened, or he shall feel the weight of my displeasure, and my displeasure will mean much to promotion and liberty." He pushed his chair under the table, which signified that he was to retire.

The gentlemen left the table with him.

Outside, Victor approached D'Herouville, ignoring De Leviston. The vicomte followed in the rear.

"Monsieur d'Herouville, you have a bad heart," said the poet. "You have laughed insolently at a man whose misfortune is none of his own making. You are a poltroon and a coward!"

The vicomte interposed. "D'Herouville, listen to me. After what has happened you will refuse to meet the Chevalier."

"I certainly shall."

"I am at your service," said the vicomte.

"D'Halluys," cried the poet, "you have no right to interfere."

"Stand aside, Monsieur de Saumaise." The vicomte pressed the poet back.

"Vicomte," said D'Herouville, "I will not fight you to-night."

"I am certain. Here is a phrase which leaves no misunderstanding." The vicomte slapped D'Herouville in the face.

"Damnation!" D'Herouville fell back.

Victor turned to De Leviston. "I will waive the question of gentleman," and he struck De Leviston even as the vicomte had struck D'Herouville.

"Curse you, I will accompany you!" roared De Leviston.

"Very good," returned the poet. "Vicomte, there is a fine place back of the Ursulines. Let us go there."

When Victor entered, his room that night, an hour later, it was dark. He groped for the candle and stoked the flint. As soon as his eyes grew accustomed to the glare of the light, he looked about, and his shadow wavered on the plastered walls. The Chevalier lay on his cot, his face buried in his arms. Victor touched him and he stirred.

"It is all right, Paul." Victor threw his sword and baldric into a corner and sat down beside his stricken friend, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "I have just this moment run De Leviston through the shoulder. That vicomte is a cool hand. He put his blade nicely between D'Herouville's ribs. They will both remain in hospital for two or three weeks. It was a good fight."



CHAPTER XVI

THE POET EXPLAINS TO MONSIEUR DE LAUSON

By the next morning all Quebec had heard of the double duel, and speculation ran high as to the cause. All Quebec, to be sure, amounted only to a few hundreds; and a genuine duel at this period was a rare happening. So everybody knew that D'Herouville and De Leviston were in hospital, seriously though not dangerously wounded, and that Monsieur de Saumaise was in the guardhouse, where, it was supposed, he would remain for some time to come, in order that his hot blood might cool appreciably. As for Monsieur d'Halluys, he was not under the governor's direct jurisdiction, and was simply ordered to stay in his room.

The officers and civilians respected the governor's command, and no outsider gathered a word of information from them. The officers, talking among themselves, secretly admired the poet's pluck. Like all men of evil repute, De Leviston was a first-class swordsman and the poet's stroke had lessened his fame. As for what had caused the fight between the vicomte and D'Herouville, they were somewhat at a loss to say or account for. The governor himself was exceedingly wrathful. At ten o'clock he summoned Victor to appear before him, to render a full account of the affair. The savages made life hazardous enough, without the additional terror of duels.

Victor found the governor alone, and for this he was thankful.

"Monsieur de Saumaise," De Lauson began, sternly, "I gave you credit for being a young man of sense."

"And a man of heart, too, your Excellency, I hope," replied the poet, valiantly.

"Heart? Is it heart to break the edict, to upset the peace of my household, to set tongues wagging? Persons will want to know the cause of this foolish duel. I am positive that it was fought contrary to the Chevalier's wishes. He conducted himself admirably last night. You have done more harm than good with your impetuosity. My command would have been respected, and your friend's misfortune would have gone no farther than my dining-room."

"And Monsieur de Leviston?" with a shade of irony which escaped the governor.

"Would have remained silent on the pain of being sent back to France, where the Bastille awaits him. He was exiled to this country, and he may not leave it till the year sixty. De Maisonneuve would have stood by me in the matter. So you see that you have blundered in the worst possible manner."

"And the Vicomte d'Halluys?"

"If D'Herouville dies, the vicomte shall return to France in irons."

"Monsieur," with a sign of heat, "there are some insults which can not be treated with contempt. I should have proved myself a false friend and a coward had I done otherwise than I did."

"What does the Chevalier say about your fighting his battles for him?" asked the governor, quietly.

Victor's gaze rested on his boots.

"He doesn't approve, then?" The governor drummed with his fingers. "I thought as much. At your age I was young myself. Youth sees affronts where it ought to see caution and circumspection."

"When I have arrived at your Excellency's age . . ."

"No sarcasm, if you please. You are still under arrest."

Victor bowed, and twirled his hat, which was sadly in need of a new plume.

"I warn you, if De Leviston dies I shall hang you high from one of the Chevalier's gibbets on Orleans. If he lives, I shall keep in touch with your future conduct, Monsieur; so take good care of yourself."

"De Leviston will not die. Such men as he do not die honestly in bed. But he was only a puppet in this instance."

"A puppet? Explain."

"There was another who prompted him from behind."

"Who?" sharply.

"I am afraid that at present I can not name him."

"D'Herouville? Be careful, Monsieur; this is a grave accusation you are making. You will be forced to prove it." The governor looked worried; for to him the Comte d'Herouville was a great noble.

"I did not name him. There was a woman behind all this; a woman who is the innocent cause."

"Ha! a woman?" The governor leaned forward on his elbows.

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Mademoiselle de Longueville. D'Herouville insulted her and the Chevalier took up her cause."

"Why, then, did you not pick your quarrel with the count?"

"The vicomte had some prior claim."

The governor got up and walked about, biting his mustache. Victor eyed him with some anxiety.

"But the Chevalier; why did he not defend himself?"

Victor breathed impatiently. "Frankly, Monsieur, how can he defend himself?"

"True." The governor scrubbed his beard. He was in a quandary and knew not which way to move. Tardy decision was the stumbling-block in the path of this well meaning man. Problems irritated him; and in his secret heart he wished he had never seen the Chevalier, D'Herouville, the poet, or the vicomte, since they upset his quiet. He had enough to do with public affairs without having private ones thrust gratuitously upon his care. "Well, well," he said, reseating himself; "you know my wishes. Nothing but publicity will come of duels and brawls, and publicity is the last thing the Chevalier is seeking. I feel genuinely sorry for him. The stain on his name does not prevent him from being a brave man and a gentleman. Control yourself, Monsieur de Saumaise, and the day will come when you will thank me for the advice. As you have no incentive for running away, I will put you on your word, and the vicomte also. You may go. While I admire the spirit which led you to take up the Chevalier's cause, I deplore it. Who, then, will succeed Monsieur le Marquis?"

"That is a question I can not answer. To the best of my knowledge, no one will succeed Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny."

"So this is what brought him over here? What brought you?"

"Friendship for him, an empty purse and a pocketful of ambition."

The answer pleased De Lauson, and he nodded. "That is all."

"Thank you, Monsieur."

"I shall keep you in mind . . . if you escape the gibbet."

Monsieur de Saumaise, in displaying his teeth, signified that the least of his worries was the thought of the gibbet.

And so concluded the interview.

The Chevalier remained in his room all day, putting aside his food, and staring beyond the river. His eyes were dull and the lids discolored from sleeplessness. Victor waited for him to heap reproach upon him; but never a word did the Chevalier utter. The only sign he gave of the volcano raging and burning beneath the thin mask of calm was the ceaseless knotting of the muscles of the jaw and the compressed lips. When the poet broke forth, reviling his own conduct, the Chevalier silenced him with a gesture of the hand.

"You are wasting your breath. What you have done can not be undone." The tones of his voice were all on a dull level, cold and unimpassioned.

Victor was struck with admiration at the sight of such extraordinary control; and he trembled to think of the whirlwind which would some day be let loose.

"I will kill De Leviston the first opportunity," he said.

The Chevalier arose. "No, lad; the man who told him. He is mine!"

Victor sought out Brother Jacques for advice; but Brother Jacques's advice was similar to the Chevalier's and the governors.

So the day wore on into evening, and only then did the Chevalier venture forth. He wandered aimlessly about the ramparts, alone, having declined Victor's company, and avoiding all whom he saw. He wanted to be alone, alone, forever alone. Longingly he gazed toward the blackening forests. Yonder was a haven. Into those shadowy woods he might plunge and hide himself, built him a hut, and become lost to civilization, his name forgotten and his name forgetting. O fool in wine that he had been! To cut himself off from the joys and haunts of men in a moment of drunken insanity! He had driven the marquis with taunts and gibes; he had shouted his ignoble birth across a table; and he expected, by coming to this wilderness, to lose the Nemesis he himself had set upon his heels! What a fool! What a fool! He had cast out his heart for the rooks and the daws. Wherever he might go, the world would go also, and the covert smile . . . and the covert smile . . . God, how apart from all mankind he seemed this night. But for Victor he would have sought the woods at once, facing the Iroquois fearlessly. He must remain, to bow his head before the glances of the curious, the head that once was held so high; accept rebuffs without murmur, stand aside, step down, and follow. If a man laughed at him, he must turn away: his sword could no longer protect him. How his lips thirsted for the wine-cup, for one mad night, and then . . . oblivion! An outcast! What would be his end? O the long years! For him there should be no wifely lips to kiss away the penciled lines of care; the happy voices of children would never make music in his ears. He was alone, always and ever alone!

Presently the Chevalier bowed his head upon the cold iron of the cannon. The crimson west grew fainter and fainter; and the evening breeze came up and stirred the Company's flags on the warehouses far below.

Suddenly the Chevalier lifted his head. He was still an officer and a gentleman. He would stand taller, look into each eye and dare with his own. It was not what he had been, nor what had been done to him; it was what he was, would be and do. If every hand was to be against his, so be it. D'Herouville? Some day that laugh should cost him dear. The vicomte? What was his misfortune to the vicomte that he should pick a quarrel on his account? Was he a gallant fellow like Victor? He would learn.