The monotonous beating of the drum went on.  Harsh laughter rose; for every night the Indians contrived to find new epithets with which to revile the captives.  So far there had been no hint of torture save the gamut.  The Chevalier, even with his inconsequent knowledge of the tongue, caught the meaning of some of the words.  The jests were coarse and vulgar, and the women laughed over them as heartily as the men.  Modesty and morality were not among the red man’s immediate obligations.

The Chevalier devoted his time to dreaming.  It was an occupation which all shared in, as it took them mentally away from their surroundings.  He conjured up faces from the sparkle of the fire.  He could see the Rubens above the mantel at the hotel in Rochelle, the assembly at the Candlestick, the guardroom at the Louvre, the kitchens along the quays, or the cabarets in the suburbs.  A camp song rises above the clinking of the bottles and glasses; a wench slaps a cornet’s face for a pilfered kiss; a drunken guardsman quarrels over an unduly heavy die.

“Count,” said the vicomte to D’Herouville, “did you ever reckon what you should do with those ten thousand livres which you were to receive for that paper of signatures?”

At any other time this remark would have interested Victor.

D’Herouville, having concentrated his gaze upon the ragged soles of his boots, saw no reason why he should withdraw it.  He was weary of the vicomte’s banter.  All he wanted was a sword and a clear sweep, with this man opposing him.

“Now, if I had those livres,” went on the vicomte, whose only object was to hear the sound of his own voice, “and were at Voisin’s, I should order twelve partridge pies and twelve bottles of bordeaux.”

“Bordeaux,” said Victor, absently.

The Chevalier looked up, but seeing that he was not addressed, resumed his dreams.

“Yes, my poet, bordeaux, red and friendly.  And on top of that should be a fish salad, with that wonderful vinegar and egg dressing which Voisin alone knows how to make.”

“And then?” urged Victor, falling into the grim humor of the thing.

“Then, two bottles of champagne.”  The vicomte stood up.  He appeared to be counting on his fingers.  “That would make fourteen bottles.”

“You would be drunk.”

“Drunk as a fiddler on Saturday night.  Now, I am going to promote my character among these rascals by doing some medicine work myself.”  And he burst forth sonorously in profanity, waving his hands and swaying his body.  He recalled every oath in his extensive camp vocabulary.  The expression on his face was sober, and Victor had a suspicion that this exhibition was not all play.  The savages regarded the vicomte as one suddenly gone demented, till it dawned upon one of them that the white man was committing a sacrilege, mocking the reverend medicine man.  He rose up behind the vicomte, reached over and struck him roughly on the mouth.  The vicomte wheeled like a flash.  The Indian folded his arms across his bronzed chest and looked the furious man calmly in the eye.  The vicomte presently dropped his balled fists, shrugged, and sat down.  It was the best and wisest thing he could do.