And the morrow came, the rarest gem in all the diadem of days.  There was a ripple on the water; a cloudless sky; fields of corn waving their tasseled heads and the broad leaf of the tobacco plant trembling, trembling.

“What!” cried Victor in surprise; “you have a new feather in your hat?”

“Faith, lad,” said the Chevalier, “the old plume was a shabby one.  But I have not destroyed it; too many fond remembrances cling to it.  How often have I doffed that plume at court, in the gardens, on the balconies and on the king’s highways!  And who would suspect, to look at it now, that it had ever dusted the mosaics at the Vatican?  And there have been times when I flung it on the green behind the Luxembourg, my doublet beside it.”

“Ah, yes; we used to have an occasional affair.”  And Victor nodded as one who knew the phrase.  “But a new feather here?  Who will notice it?  Pray, glance at this suit of mine!  I give it one month’s service, and then the Indian’s clout.  I can’t wear those skins.  Pah!”

“Examine this feather,” the Chevalier requested.

“White heron, as I live!  You are, then, about to seek the war-path?” laughing.

“Or the path which leads to it.  I am going a-courting.”

“Ah!”

“Yes.  Heigho!  How would you like a pheasant, my poet, and a bottle of Mignon’s bin of ’39?”

“Paris!” Victor smacked his lips drolly.

“Or a night at Voisin’s, with dice and the green board?”

“Paris!”

“Or a romp with the girls along the quays?”

“Horns of Panurge!  I like this mood.”

“It’s a man’s mood.  I am thinking of the chateau of oak and maple I shall some day build along some river height.  What a fireplace I shall have, and what cellars!  Somehow, Paris no longer calls to me.”

“To me,” said the poet, “it is ever calling, calling.  Shall I see my beloved Paris again?  Who can say?”

“Mazarin will not live forever.”

“But here it is so lonesome; a desert.  And you will make a fine seigneur, you with your fastidious tastes, love of fine clothes and music.  Look at yourself now!  A silk shirt in tatters, tawdry buckskin, a new hero’s feather, and a dingy pair of moccasins.  And you are going a-courting.  What, fortune?”

“’Tis all the same.”

“So you love her?” quietly.

“Yes, lad, I love her; and I am determined to learn this day the worth of loving.”

“Take care,” warned the poet.

“Victor, some day you will be going back to Paris.  Tell them at court how, of a summer’s morn, Monsieur le Chevalier du Cevennes went forth to conquest.”

“Hark!” said Victor.  “I hear a blackbird.”  He sorted his papers, for he was writing.  “I will write an ode on your venture.  What shall I call it?”

“Call it ‘Hazards,’ comrade; for this day I put my all in the leather cup and make but a single throw.  Who is madame?”