“Monsieur Paul,” said Breton gaily, “do we return to France on the Henri IV?”

“No, lad; nor on many a ship to come and go.”

Breton’s heart contracted.  “But Monsieur le Marquis . . . ?”

“Will return alone.  Go with him, lad; you are homesick.  Go and marry old Martin’s daughter, and be happy.  It would be wrong for me to rob you of your youth’s right.”

“But you, Monsieur?”

“I shall remain here.  I have my time to serve.  After that, France, maybe . . . or become a grand seigneur.”

The Chevalier put on his hat.  He had an idle hour.

Breton choked back the sob.  “I will remain with you, Monsieur, for the present.  I was wondering where in the world that copy of Rabelais had gone.  I had not seen it since we left the ship Saint Laurent.”  The lad patted the book with a fictitious show of affection.

“Possibly in the hurry of bringing it here you dropped it, and some one, seeing my name in it, has returned it.”

“Never to see France again?” murmured Breton, alone.  “Ah, if only I loved her less, or Monsieur Paul not so well!” Even Breton had his tragedy.

The Chevalier perched himself upon one of the citadel’s parapets.  The southwest wind was tumbling the waters of the river and the deep blues of the forests seemed continually changing in hues.  Forces within him were at war.  He was uneasy.  That his father had fought D’Herouville on his account there could be no doubt.  What a sorry world it was, with its cross-purposes, its snarled labyrinths!  The last meeting with his father came back vividly; and yet, despite all the cutting, biting dialogue of that interview, Monsieur le Marquis had taken up his cause unasked and had gone about it with all the valor of his race.  He was chagrined, angered.  Had the old days been lived rightly and with reason; had there been no ravelings, no tangles, no misunderstandings, life would have run smoothly enough.  Had this strange old man, whom fate had made his father, come with repentance, but without mode of expression, without tact?  Three thousand miles; ’twas a long way when a letter would have been sufficient.  But the cruelty of that lie, and the bitterness of all these weeks!  If his thrusts that night had been cruel, he knew that, were it all to be done over again, he should not moderate a single word.  The lie, the abominable lie!  One does not forgive such a lie, at least not easily.  And yet that duel!  He would have given a year of his life to see that fight as Brother Jacques described it.  It was his blood; and whatever pits and chasms yawned between, the spirit of this blood was common.  Perhaps some day he could forgive.

And Diane, she had mocked him, not knowing; she had laughed in his face, unconscious of the double edge; she had accused him and he had been without answer.  Heaven on earth! to win her, to call her his, to feel her breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair in his nostrils!  Hedged in, whichever way he turned, whether toward hate or love!  He clutched the handle of his rapier and knotted the muscles of his arms.  He would fight his way toward her; no longer would he supplicate, he would demand.  He would follow her wherever she went, aye, even back to France!  For what had he to lose?  Nothing.  And all the world to gain.