“And permit me to say,” returned the black mask, “that while your voice is not familiar, the tone is, and very displeasing to my ears.  And if you do not at once resume your seat, I shall be forced to ask aid of yonder priest.”

“Yes, yes! that voice I have heard before!” Then, quick as a flash, he had plucked the strings of her mask, disclosing a round, piquant face, now white with fury.

“Oh, Monsieur!” she cried; “if I were a man!”

“This grows interesting,” whispered Bouchard to Du Puys.

“Anne de Vaudemont?” exclaimed the vicomte; “in Rochelle?” The vicomte stepped back confused.  He stared undecidedly at mademoiselle’s companion.  She deliberately turned her back.

Victor was upon his feet, and his bottle of wine lay frothing on the floor.  He came forward.

“Vicomte, your actions are very disagreeable to me,” he said.  The end of his scabbard was aggressively high in the air.  He was not so tall a man as the vicomte, but his shoulders were as broad and his chest as deep.

Neither the vicomte nor the poet heard the surprised exclamation which came with a muffled sound from behind the grey mask.  She swayed slightly.  The younger threw her arms around her, but never took her eyes from the flushed countenance of Victor de Saumaise.

“Indeed!” replied the vicomte coolly; “and how do you account for that?” He spoke with that good nature which deceives only those who are not banterers themselves.

“It is not necessary to particularize,” proudly, “to a gentleman of your wide accomplishments.”

“Monsieur de Saumaise, your servant,” said the vicomte.  “Ladies, I beg of you to accept my apologies.  I admit the extent of my rudeness, Mademoiselle.”  He bowed and turned away, leaving Victor puzzled and diffident.

“Mademoiselle de Vaudemont,” he said, “is it possible that I see you here in Rochelle?” How his heart beat at the sight of that figure standing by the mantel.

“And you, Monsieur; what are you doing here?”

“I am contemplating a journey to Spain,” carelessly.

“Success to your journey,” said Anne, frankly holding out a hand.  But she was visibly distressed as she glanced at her companion.  “Is the Vicomte d’Halluys going to Spain also?” smiling.

Victor shrugged.  “He professes to have business in Quebec.  That beautiful Paris has grown so unhealthy!”

“Quebec?” The woman in the grey mask spun on her heels.  “Monsieur, did I hear you say Quebec?”

“Yes, Madame la Comtesse.”

The grey mask made a gesture of dissent.  Presently she spoke.  “Monsieur, you have made a mistake.  There is no Madame la Comtesse here.”

Victor did not reply.

“Do you hear, Monsieur?”

“Yes, Madame.  Our eyes and ears sometimes deceive us, but never the heart.”

Madame flung out a hand in protest.  “Never mind, Monsieur, what the heart says; it is not worth while.”