“Is it true that her Majesty is at times attacked by a strange malady?”

“A cancer has been discovered growing in her breast.”

Du Puys opened his commission and ran over it.  He studied the lean, slanting chirography of the prime minister and stroked his grizzled chin.  His thought went back to the days when the handsome Buckingham threw his pearls into an admiring crowd.  “Woman and the world’s end,” he mused.  “Who will solve them?”

“Who indeed!” echoed Victor, resting his chin on the knuckles of his hand.  “Monsieur, you have heard of the Chevalier du Cevennes?”

“Aye; recently dismissed from court, stripped of his honors, and exiled in disgrace.”

“I am here to command his immediate return to Paris,” and De Saumaise blinked moodily at the fire.

“And what brought about this good fortune?”

“His innocence and another man’s honesty.”

“Ah!”

“Monsieur, you are a man of experience; are there not times when the best of us are unable to surmount temptation?”

“Only his Holiness is infallible.”

“The Chevalier was unjustly exiled for a crime he knew nothing about.  He suffered all this ignominy to save a comrade in arms, whom he believed to be guilty, but who was as innocent as himself.  Only a week ago this comrade became aware of what had happened.  Even had he been guilty he would not have made profit from his friend’s generosity.  It was fine of the chevalier; do you not agree with me?”

“Then the Chevalier is not all bad?” said Du Puys.

“No.  But he is the son of his father.  You have met the Marquis de Perigny?”

“Only to pass him on the streets.  But here comes the host with the punch.  What shall the toast be?”

“New France.”

“My compliments on your good taste.”

And they bowed gravely to each other, drinking in silence.  The youth renewed his gaze at the fire, this time attracted by the chimney soot as it wavered above the springing flames, now incandescent, now black as jet, now tearing itself from the brick and flying heavenward.  Sometimes the low, fierce music of the storm could be heard in the chimney.  Du Puys, glancing over the lid of his pewter pot, observed the young man kindly.

“Monsieur,” he asked, “are you related to the poet De Saumaise?”

The youth lifted his head, disclosing an embarrassed smile.  “Yes, Monsieur.  I have the ill-luck to be that very person.”

“Then I am doubly glad to meet you.  While in Paris I heard your praises sung not infrequently.”

The poet held up a protesting hand.  “You overwhelm me, Monsieur.  If I write an occasional ballade, it is for the mere pleasure of writing, and not because I seek notoriety such as Voiture enjoyed when in favor.”

“I like that ballade of yours on ‘Henri at Cahors.’  It has the true martial ring to it that captivates the soldier.”