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.”