“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!”