“So that is why De Beaufort, thinking me to be the guilty man, sought me out and demanded the paper?  My faith, this grows interesting.  But oh! wise poet, did you not hear me tell you never to sign your name to anything save poetry?”

“It might have been a poem . . .  I wonder whither madame has flown?  By the way, Mademoiselle de Longueville gave me a letter to give to you.  It is unaddressed.  I promised to deliver it to you.”

The Chevalier took the letter and opened it carelessly; but no sooner did he recognize the almost illegible but wholly aristocratic pothooks than a fit of trembling seized him.  The faint odor of vervain filled his nostrils, and he breathed quickly.

“Forgive!  How could I have doubled so gallant a gentleman!  You have asked me if I love you.  Find me and put the question again.  I leave Paris indefinitely.  France is large.  If you love me you will find me.  You complain that I have never permitted you to kiss me.  Read.  In this missive I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times.  Diane.”

A wild desire sprang into the Chevalier’s heart to mount and ride to Paris that very night.  The storm was nothing; his heart was warm, sending a heat into his cheeks and a sparkle into his dull eyes.

“Horns of Panurge! you weep?” cried Victor jestingly.  “Good!  You are maudlin.  What is this news which makes you weep?”

“Ah, lad,” said the Chevalier, standing, “you have brought me more than exoneration; you have brought me life, life and love.  France is small when a beloved voice calls.  I shall learn who she is, this glorious creature.  A month and I shall have solved the enchantment.  Victor, I have told you of her.  Sometimes it seems that I must wake to find it all a dream.  For nearly a year she has kept me dangling in mid air.  She is as learned as Aspasia, as holding as Calypso, as fascinating as Circe.  She is loveliness and wisdom; and I love her madly.”

“And you will return to-morrow ?” asked Victor regretfully.

“To-morrow!  Blessed day!  Back to life and love! . . .  Forgive me, lad; joy made me forget!  I will see you safely in Spain.”

Victor brooded for a space.  “Horns of Panurge!  Could I but lay my hands upon that paper!”

“No moping, lad.  The bowl awaits; trouble shall smother in the cup.  We shall make this night one for memory.  I have a chateau in the Cevennes, and it shall be yours till all this blows over.  Ah!”

The door leading to the private assembly opened.  On the threshold stood a man of thirty-three or four, his countenance haughty and as clean cut as a Greek medallion.  The eyes were large and black, the brows slanting and heavy, the nose high-bridged and fierce, the chin aggressive.  There lay over all this a mask of reckless humor and gaiety.  It was the face of a man who, had he curbed his desires and walked with circumspection, would have known enduring greatness as a captain, as an explorer, as a theologian.  Not a contour of the face hut expressed force, courage, daring, immobility of purpose.