The Chevalier glanced at it indifferently . . . and at once became absorbed.  It was the list of the cabal which had cost the lives of four strong men.  He remained seated, lost in meditation.  From time to time he opened the paper and refolded it.  The movement was purely mechanical, and had no significance.

“Monsieur,” said Breton timidly, “will you do me the honor to tell me what has happened?  Monsieur de Saumaise, the vicomte and Monsieur d’Herouville; they are not with you?”

“Well, lad, perhaps it is due you;” and the Chevalier recounted a simple story of what had befallen him.

“Ah, that brave Monsieur de Saumaise!” exclaimed Breton, tears in his eyes.  “And what became of the grey cloak, Monsieur?”

The Chevalier did not immediately reply.

“What became of it, Monsieur?”

“The Vicomte d’Halluys sleeps in it, lad.  It is his shroud.”

And not another word spoke the Chevalier to Breton that night.  He sat before the bright chimney:  old scenes, old scenes, with the gay poet moving blithely among them.  Madame had heard the vicomte’s insults, but now there was nothing to explain to her.  What should he do with his useless life?  There was no future; everything beyond was dark with monotony.  It was a cruel revenge madame had taken, but she had asked his forgiveness, and he had forgiven.  Would she return to France in the spring?  Would she become a nun?  Would his father live or die, and would he send for him?  The winter wind sang in the chimney and the windows shuddered.  He looked out.  It was the storm of the winds which bring no snow.  Nine o’clock!  How long the nights would be now, having no dreams!

There came presently a timorous knocking on the panels of the door.  Only Breton heard it, and he rose silently to answer this delicate summons.  He looked at his master.  The Chevalier was deep in his melancholy recollections.  It seemed to Breton that Quebec was filled with phantoms:  he had listened to so many strange noises these lonely nights, waiting and hoping for his master’s return.  He was not sure that this gentle rapping was not a deception.  Besides, it was past nine.  Who could be calling this time of night?  A trooper or an officer would have put the full weight of his fist against the door.  He stopped and put his hand to his ear.  The knocking came again.  Breton opened the door quietly, and to his unbounded surprise a woman entered.  She pointed toward the hall.  Breton, comprehending that she wished to be alone with his master, tiptoed out; and the door closed.

The visitor stood with her back to the door, silent and motionless as a statue.  A burning log crackled with a sharp report, and a thousand sparks flew heaven-ward.  There were wonderful lights in this woman’s eyes and a high color on her somewhat thin cheeks.  A minute passed; and another ticked itself into eternity.  The Chevalier sat upright and stirred restlessly.  The paper of the cabal crackled in his hand. . . .  What was it? he wondered.  Something, he could not tell what, seemed drawing, drawing.  He became vaguely conscious of a presence.  He turned his head slowly.