“But what will you do?”

“What shall I do?  Paris shall see me no more, nor France.  I shall go . . .  Yes; thanks, Brother Jacques, thanks!  I shall go to that France across the sea and become . . . a grand seigneur, owning a hut in the wilderness.  Monsieur le Chevalier, lately a fop at court will become a habitant of the forests, will wear furs, and seek his food by the aid of a musket.  It will be a merry life, Victor; no dicing, no tennis, no women, no wine.”  The Chevalier rested his chin in his hands, staring at the candle.  “On Thursday next there will be a mask ball at the Palais Royal; but the Chevalier du Cevennes will not be with his company.  He will be on the way to New France, with many another broken soldier, to measure his sword against fortune’s.  And from the camp-fires, lad, I shall conjure up women’s faces, and choose among the most patient . . . my mother’s.  Vanity!” suddenly.  “But for vanity I had not been here.  Look, Victor; it was not wine, it was not madness.  It was vanity in the shape of a grey cloak, a grey cloak.  Will you call Major du Puys?”

“Paul, you can not mean it?”

“Frankly, can I remain in France?  Have I not already put France behind me?”

“And what’s to become of me?” asked the poet.

“You?  Why, you will shortly find Madame de Brissac, marry her, and become a fine country gentleman.  And when Mazarin becomes forgetful or dies, you will return to Paris, your head secure upon your shoulders.  As for me, New France, and a fresh quill, and I will be a man yet,” smiling.  “And I give you the contents of my rooms at the Candlestick.”

“What! live among these ghosts of happy times?  I could not!”

“Well, I will give them to Mignon, then.  There is one who will miss me.  Will you call the major, or shall I?”

“I will call him, since you are determined.”

“I shall take the grey cloak, too, lad.  I will wear that token of vanity into rags.  Faith, I have not looked at it once since I loaned it to you.”

“And the unknown?”

“When we come to the end of a book, my poet, we lay it down.  What woman’s love could surmount this birth of mine, these empty pockets?  I have still some reason; that bids me close the book.  Yonder, from what I have learned, they are in need of men’s arms and brains, not ancestry, noble birth.  And there is some good blood in this arm, however it may have come into the world.”  The Chevalier extended it across the table and the veins swelled upon the wrist and hand.  “Seek the major, lad.”

When the major entered the Chevalier stood up.  “Monsieur,” he said, “pardon me for interrupting you, but is it true that to-morrow you sail for Quebec?”

“The weather permitting,” answered Du Puys, vaguely wondering why the Chevalier wished to see him.  His shrewd glance traveled from the Chevalier to Victor, and he saw that they had been drinking.