“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.