On the way to the Corne d’Abondance the self-made victim of this night’s madness and his friend exchanged no words.  There was nothing to be said.  But there was death in the Chevalier’s heart; his chin was sunken in his collar, and he bore heavily on Victor’s arm; from time to time he hiccoughed.  Victor bit his lips to repress the sighs which urged against them.

“Where do you wish to go, Paul?” he asked, when they arrived under the green lantern and tarnished cherubs of the tavern.

“Have I still a place to go?” the Chevalier asked.  “Ah well, lead on, wherever you will; I am in your keeping.”

So together they entered the tavern.

“Maitre,” said Victor to le Borgne, “is the private assembly in use?”

“No, Monsieur; you wish to use it?”

“Yes; and see that no one disturbs us.”

In passing through the common assembly, Victor saw Du Puys and Bouchard in conversation with the Jesuits.  Brother Jacques glanced carelessly in the Chevalier’s direction, frowned at some thought, and turned his head away.  The Iroquois had fallen asleep in a chair close to the fire.  In a far corner Victor discovered the form of the Vicomte d’Halluys; he was apparently sleeping on his arms, which were extended across the table.

“Why do I dislike that man?” Victor asked in thought.  “There is something in his banter which strikes me as coming from a man consumed either by hate or envy.”  He pushed the Chevalier into the private assembly, followed and closed the door.

“Ah!” The Chevalier sank into a chair.  “Three hours ago I was laughing and drinking in this room.  Devil take me, but time flies!”

“God knows, Paul,” said Victor, brokenly, “what you have done this night.  You are mad, mad!  What are you going to do?  You have publicly branded yourself as the illegitimate son of the marquis.”

“It is true,” simply.

“True or false, you have published it without cause or reason.  Good God! and they will laugh at you; and I will kill all who laugh in my presence.  What madness!” Victor flung his hat on the table, strode the length of the room, beating his hands and rumpling his hair.

“How you go on, Victor!” said the Chevalier with half a smile.  “And you love me still?”

“And will, to the latest breath in my body.  I know of no other man I love so wholly as I love you.”

“I would lose two marquisates rather than be without this knowledge.”

“But oh! what have you done?  To-morrow . . .  What will you do to-morrow?”

“To-morrow?  A bottle of wine, lad; and wherefore to-morrow?  To-morrow?  There will always be a tomorrow.  The world began on one and will end on one.  So give me wine, bubbling with lies, false promises, phantom happiness, mockery and despair.  Each bottle is but lies; and yet how well each bottle tells them!  Wine, Victor; do you hear me?  I must never come sober again;