“To continue, then:  you are a man of extraordinary courage, and I have always admired you even while I envied you.  To-night I lost to you some fifty pistoles.  Give me the happiness of crossing out this trifling debt,” and the vicomte counted out fifty golden pistoles which he laid on the table.  There was no particle of offense in his actions.

“To prove to you my entire good will, I will place my life into your keeping, Monsieur le Chevalier.  Doubtless Saumaise has told you that at present Paris is uninhabitable both to himself and to me.  The shadows of the Bastille and the block cast their gloom upon us.  We have conspired against the head of the state, which is Mazarin.  There is a certain paper, which, if seen by the cardinal, will cause the signing of our death warrants.  Monsieur de Saumaise, have you any idea who stole your cloak?”

“It was not my cloak, Monsieur,” said Victor, with a frown; “it was loaned to me by Monsieur le Chevalier.”

“Yours?” cried the vicomte, turning to the Chevalier.

“Yes.”  The Chevalier thoughtfully fingered the golden coin.  One slipped through his fingers and went jangling along the stone of the floor.

“I was wondering where I had seen it before.  Hang me, but this is all pretty well muddled up.  There was a traitor somewhere, or a coward.  What think you, Saumaise; does not this look like Gaston of Orleans?”

Victor started.  “I never thought of him!”

“Ah!  If Gaston has that paper, France is small, Monsieur,” said the vicomte, addressing the Chevalier, “I learn that you are bound for Quebec.  Come, Saumaise; here is our opportunity.  Let the three of us point westward.”

Victor remained silent.  As oil rises to the surface of water, so rose his distrust.  He could not shut out the vision of that half-smile of the hour gone.

“Monsieur,” said the Chevalier, looking up, “this is like you.  You have something of the Bayard in your veins.  It takes a man of courage to address me, after what has happened.  I am become a pariah; he who touches my hand loses caste.”

“Bah!  Honestly, now, Chevalier, is it not the man rather than the escutcheon?  A trooper is my friend if he has courage; I would not let a coward black my boots, not if he were a king.”

“If ever I have offended you, pray forgive me.”

“Offended me?  Well, yes,” easily.  “There was Madame de Flavigny of Normandy; but that was three years ago.  Such affairs begin and end quickly.  My self-love was somewhat knocked about; that was all.  If the weather permits, the Saint Laurent will sail at one o’clock.  Till then, Messieurs,” and bowing gravely the vicomte retired.

Both Victor and the Chevalier stared, at the door through which the vicomte vanished.  Victor frowned; the Chevalier smiled.

“Curse his insolence!” cried the poet, slapping his sword.

“Lad, what an evil mind you have!” said the Chevalier in surprise.