Victor ran most of the way back to the Corne d’Abondance.  Gabrielle and Paul were together, unconscious puppets in the booth of Fate, that master of subtile ironies!  How many times had their paths neared, always to diverge again, because Fate had yet to prepare the cup of misery?  How well he had contrived to bring them together:  she, her cup running bitter with disillusion and dread of imprisonment; he, dashed from the summit of worldly hopes, his birth impugned, stripped of riches and pride, his lips brushed with the ashes of greatness!  And on this night, of all nights, their paths melted and became as one.  It was true that they had never met; but this night was one of dupes and fools, and nothing was impossible.  He cursed the vicomte for having put the lust to kill into his head, when he needed clearness and precision and delicacy to avert this final catastrophe.  After the morrow all would he well; Gabrielle would be on the way to Spain, the Chevalier on the way to New France.  But to-night!  Dupes and fools, indeed!  He stumbled on through the drifts.  The green lantern at last:  was he too late?  He rushed into the tavern, thence into the private assembly, his rapier still in his hand.  The cold air yet choked his lungs, forcing him to breathe noisily and rapidly.  He cast about a nervous, hasty glance.

“You are alone, Paul?”

“Alone?” cried the Chevalier, astonished as much by the question as by Victor’s appearance.  “Yes.  Why not? . . .  What have you been doing with that sword?” suddenly.

“Nothing, nothing!” with energy.  Victor sheathed the weapon.  “A woman entered here by mistake . . . ?”

“She is gone,” indifferently.  “She was a lady of quality, for I could see that the odor of wine and the disorder of the room were distasteful to her.”

“She left . . . wearing her mask?” asked the poet, looking everywhere but at the Chevalier, who was growing curious.

“Yes.  Her figure was charming.  That blockhead of a host! . . . to have shown her in here!”

“She was in distress?”

“Evidently.  In the old days I should have striven to console.  What is it all about, lad?  Your hand trembles.  Do you know her?”

“I know something of her history,” with half a truth.  Victor’s forehead was cold and dry to the touch of his hand.

“She is in trouble?”

“Yes.”

The Chevalier arranged a log on the irons.  “Whither is she bound?”

“Spain.”

“Ah!  A matter of careless politics, doubtless.”

“Good!” thought the poet.  “He does not ask her name.”

“Has she a pleasant voice?  I spoke to her, but she remained dumb.  Spain,” ruminating.  “For me, New France.  Lad, the thought of reaching that far country is inspiriting.  I shall mope a while; but there is metal in me which needs but proper molding. . . .  For what purpose had you drawn your sword?”