“Paul, is not that a woman to be loved?” he said; with a gaiety which was not spontaneous.

“Which one?” asked the Chevalier, diplomatically.

“The one with hair like the haze in the morning.”

“The simile is good,” confessed the Chevalier.  “But there is something in the eye which should warn a man.”

“Eye?  Can you tell the color of an eye from this distance?  It’s more than I can do.”

The Chevalier’s tan became a shade darker.  “Perhaps it was the reflection of the sun.”

Victor swung his hat from his head gallantly.  The Chevalier bowed stiffly; the pain in his heart stopped the smile which would have stirred his lips.  The lad at his side had faith in women, and he should never know that yonder beauty had played cup and ball with his, the Chevalier’s, heart.  How nonchalant had been her cruelty the preceding night!  That letter!  The Chevalier’s eyes snapped with anger and indignation as he replaced his hat.  It was enough that the poet knew why the marquis was in Quebec.

“You murmured a name in your sleep last night,” said the Chevalier.

“What was it?”

“It sounded like ‘Gabrielle’; I am not sure.”

“They say that Monsieur le Marquis was a most handsome youth,” Anne remarked, when the men had disappeared round an angle.

“Then it is possible the son will make a handsome old man,” was madame’s flippant rejoinder.

“Supposing, after all, you had married him?” suggested Anne, with a bit of malice; for somehow the Chevalier’s face appealed to her admiration.

“Heaven evidently had some pity for me, for that would have been a catastrophe, indeed.”  Madame did not employ warm tones, and the lids of her eyes narrowed.  “Wedded to a fop, whose only thought was of himself?  That would have been even worse than Monsieur le Comte, who was, with all his faults, a man of great courage.”

“I have never heard that the Chevalier was a coward,” warmly.  “In fact, in Rochelle he had the reputation of being one of the most daring soldiers in France.  And a coward would never have done what he did for Monsieur de Saumaise.”

“Good Heaven! let us talk of something else,” cried madame.  “The Chevalier, the Chevalier!  He has no part in my life, nor I in his; nor will he have.  I do not at present hate him, but if you keep trumpeting his name into my ears I shall.”  Madame was growing visibly angry.  “I will leave you, Anne, with the Mother Superior’s letters.  I do not want company; I want to be alone.  I shall return before the noon meal.”

“Gabrielle, you are not angry at me?  I was only jesting.”

“No, Anne; I am angry at myself.  My vanity is still young and green, and I can not yet separate Monsieur du Cevennes from the boot-heel which ground upon my likeness.  No woman with any pride would forgive an affront like that; and I am both proud and unforgiving.”