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.