“Dead . . . as I shall soon be.”  The vicomte’s dulling eyes roved from one face to another till they rested on madame.  “He will sing no more; he will not fly southward this winter, nor next.  Ah, Madame, will you forget that kiss?  I believe not.  Listen:  . . .  I did not kiss simply your lips; ’twas your memory.  Ever shall that kiss stand between you and your lover’s lips.”

“It is true,” she said brokenly.  “You had a wicked heart, Monsieur.  You, you have brought about all this misery.  You have wantonly cast a shadow upon my life.”

“Have I done that?  Well, that is something . . . something.”

“I forgive you.”

“Eh?  I am growing deaf!” He reeled toward the door, and the men made way for him.  “I am growing blind, besides.”  He braced himself against the jamb of the door.  “My faith! it is a pretty world. . . .  I regret to leave it.”  He stared across the lake, but he could see nothing.  A page of his youth came back.

“Monsieur,” said Chaumonot, “you have many sins upon your soul.  Shall I give you absolution?”

“Absolution?” The vicomte’s lips grimaced; it might have been an attempt to smile.  “Absolution for me?  Where is Brother Jacques?  That would be droll. . . .  Those eyes!  Absolution?  That for your heaven,” snapping his fingers, “and that for your hell.  I know.  It is all silence.  There is nothing.  I wonder. . . .”  His knees suddenly refused to support the weight of his body.  He raised himself upon his hands.  The trees were merging together; the lake was red and blurred.  “Gabrielle, Gabrielle, I loved you after my own fashion! . . .  The devil take that grey cloak!” And the vicomte’s lawless soul went forth.

The men took the three bodies and placed them in the canoes.  They were somewhat rough with the vicomte’s.

“Gently, my brothers,” said Nicot.  “He was a rascal, but he was a man.”

Madame and the Chevalier were alone.  To both of them it seemed as though years had passed.  Madame was weary.  She would have liked to lie down and sleep . . . forever.  The Chevalier brushed his eyes.  He was a man.  Weeping over death and in pity was denied him.  At present he was incapable of accepting the full weight of the catastrophe.  His own agony was too recent.  Everything was vague and dreamy.  His head ached painfully from the blow he had received in the fight.

“What did he do to you?” he asked, scarce knowing what he said.

“He kissed me; kissed me on the mouth, Monsieur.”  She wiped her lips again.  “It is of no use.  It will always be there.”

“You are Madame de Brissac?”

“Yes.”  The hopelessness of her tone chilled him.

“And you loved Victor?”

Her head drooped.  She was merely tired; but he accepted this as an affirmative answer.

“It would have been well, Madame, had I died in his place.”