And then the manuscript of the poet was put aside.

“Why?” asked Chaumonot one night.  He had been greatly interested in the poet’s work.

Victor flushed guiltily.  “Perhaps it may be of no value.  There are but half a dozen thoughts worth remembering.”

“And who may say that immortality does not dwell in these thoughts?” said the priest.  “All things are born to die save thought; and if in passing we leave but a single thought which will alleviate the sufferings of man or add beauty to his existence, one does not live and die in vain.”  Chaumonot’s afterthought was:  “This good lad is in love with one or the other of these women.”

But Clio knew Victor no more.  On the margins he drew faces or began rondeaux which came to no end.

“Laughter has a pleasant sound in my ears, Paul,” said Victor; “and I have not heard you laugh in some time.”

“Perhaps the thought has not occurred to me,” replied the Chevalier, glancing at the entrance to the palisade.  Madame had only that moment passed through, having left the vicomte.  “I have lost the trick of laughing.  No thought of mine is spontaneous.  With a carpenter’s ell I mark out each thought; it is all edges and angles.”

“Something must be done, then, to make you laugh.  Madame and mademoiselle have promised to take a canoe trip back into the hills this afternoon.  Come with us.”

“They suggested . . . ?” the Chevalier stammered.

“No.  But haven’t you the right?  At least you know madame.”

“Madame?”

“Madame, always madame.  Here formalities would only be ridiculous.  You will go with us for safety’s sake, if for nothing more.”

“I will go . . . with that understanding.  Ah, lad, if only I knew what you know!”

“We should still be where we are,” evasively.  The poet had a plan in regard to madame and the Chevalier.  It twisted his brave heart, yet he clung to it.

Caprice is an exquisite trait in a woman; a woman who has it—­and what woman has not?—­is all the seasons of the year compressed into an hour—­the mildness of spring, the warmth of summer, the glory of autumn, and the chill of winter.  And when madame saw the Chevalier that afternoon, she put a foot into the canoe, and immediately withdrew it.

“What is it?” asked Victor.

“Is Monsieur le Chevalier going?”

“Yes.”  Victor waited.  “Why?” he said finally.

“Nothing, nothing.”  Madame took her place in the canoe.

“It is necessary for our general safety, Madame, that the Chevalier goes with us.”

“There is danger, then?”

“There will he none,” emphatically.

“Let us be off,” was madame’s rejoinder.