“Love?” with voice metallic.  “Talk not to me of love.  If I have inspired you with an unhappy passion, forgive me, for it was done without intent.  I have played you an evil turn.”  She sank on one of the benches and fumbled, with the strings of her mask.

“So:  the dream vanishes; the fire becomes ashes.  Is it really you, Gabrielle?  Has not the wine turned the world upside-down, brought you here only in fancy?  This night is truly some strange dream.  I shall wake to-morrow in Paris.  I shall receive a note from you, bidding me bring the latest book.  The Chevalier will dine with his beautiful unknown . . .  Gabrielle, tell me that you love no one,” anger and love and despair alternately changing his voice, “yes, tell me that!”

“Victor, I love no man.  And God keep me from that folly.  You are making me very unhappy!” She bent her head upon her arm.

“Oh, my vanished dream, do not weep on my account!  You are not to blame.  I love you well.  That is God’s blame, not yours, since He molded you, gave you a beautiful face, a beautiful mind, a beautiful heart.  Well, I will be silent.  I will go about my affairs, laughing.  I shall write rollicking verses, fight a few duels, and sign a few papers under which the ax lies hidden! . . .  Do you know how well I love you?” sinking beside her and taking her hand before she could place it beyond his reach.  He put a kiss on it.  “Listen.  If it means anything toward your happiness and content of mind, I will promise to be silent forever.”  Suddenly he dropped the hand and rose.  “Your presence is overpowering:  I can not answer for myself.  You were right.  We ought not to have met again.”

“I must go,” she said, also rising.  She moved blindly across the room, irresolutely.  Seeing a door, she turned the knob and entered.

It was only after the door closed that Victor recollected.  Paul and she together in that room?  What irony!  He was about to rush after madame, when his steps were arrested by a voice coming from the stairs.  The vicomte was descending.

“Ah, Monsieur de Saumaise,” said the vicomte, “how fortunate to find you alone!”

“Fortunate, indeed!” replied Victor.  Here was a man upon whom to wreak his wrath, disappointment and despair.  Justice or injustice, neither balanced on the scales of his wrath.  He crossed over to the chimney, stood with his back to the fire and waited.

The vicomte approached within a yard, stopped; twisted his mustache, resting his left hand on his hip.  His discerning inspection was soon completed.  He was fully aware of the desperate and reckless light in the poet’s eyes.

“Monsieur de Saumaise, you have this night offered me four distinct affronts.  Men have died for less than one.”

“Ah!” Victor clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.

“At the Hotel de Perigny you called me a fool when the Chevalier struck me with his sword.  I shall pass over that.  The Chevalier was mad, and we all were excited.  But three times in this tavern you have annoyed me.  Your temperament, being that of a poet, at times gets the better of you.  My knowledge of this accounts for my patience.”