“Does this mean that, having lain upon my heart for more than a year, it is no longer of value to you?” He laid the chain and locket upon the table.  “Yesterday I had thought my cup was full.”  The mask lay crumpled at his feet, and he recovered it absently.  “You?” he cried, suddenly, as the picture came back.  He looked at the mask, then at her.  “Was it you who came into that room at the Corne d’Abondance in Rochelle, and when I addressed you, would not speak?  Oh!  You, were implicated in a conspiracy, and you were on the way to Spain.  Saumaise!  He knows who you are, and by the friendship he holds for me and I for him, he shall tell me!” He became all eagerness again.  “Vervain!  I might have known.  Diane, give me some hope that all this mystery shall some day be brushed aside.  I am innocent of any evil; I have committed no crime.  Will you give me some hope, the barest straw?”

She did not answer.  She was nervously fingering the ashes of her letter.

“You do not answer?  So be it.  You have asked me why I did not seek you.  Some day you will learn.  Since you refuse to take the locket, I will keep it.  Poor fool that I have been, with all these dreams!”

“You are destroying my mask, Monsieur.”

He pressed his lips against the silken lips where hers had been so often.

“Keep it,” she said, carelessly, “or destroy it.  It is valueless.  Will you stand aside?  I wish to go.”

He stood back, and she passed out.  Her face remained in the shadow.  He strove to read it, in vain.  Ah, well, Quebec was small.  And she had taken the voyage on the same ship as his father. . . .  She had not heard; she could not have heard!  Ah, where was this labyrinth to lead, and who was to throw him the guiding thread?  He had returned that evening from Three Rivers, if not happy, at least in a contented frame of mind . . . to learn that a lie had sent him into the wilderness, a lie crueler in effect than the accepted truth! . . . to learn that the woman he loved was about to become a nun!  No!  She should not become a nun.  He would accept his father’s word, resume his titles long grown dusty, and set about winning this mysterious beauty.  For she was worth winning, from the sole of her charming foot to the glorious crown on her brow.  He would see her again; Quebec was indeed small.  He would cast aside the mantle of gloom, become a good fellow, laugh frequently, sing occasionally; in fine, become his former self.

Here Victor rushed in, breathless.

“Paul, lad,” he cried, “have you heard the astonishing news?”

“News?”

“Monsieur le Marquis is here!”

“I have seen him, Victor, and spoken to him,”

“A reconciliation?  The Virgin save me, but you will return to France!”

“Not I, lad,” with a gaiety which deceived the poet.  “I will tell you something later.  Have you had your supper?”