“You have found Madame de Brissac and are writing to her?” smiling.

For a moment Victor’s gaiety left him.  The Chevalier’s suggestion was so unexpected as to disturb him.  He quickly recovered his poise, however.  “You have lost.  It is a letter to my good sister, advising her of my departure to Quebec.  Spain is too near Paris, Paul.”

“You, Victor?” cried the Chevalier, while Breton’s face grew warm with regard for Monsieur de Saumaise.

“Yes.  Victor loves his neck.  And it will be many a day ere monseigneur turns his glance toward New France in quest.”

“But supposing he should not find these incriminating papers?  You would be throwing away a future.”

“Only temporarily.  I have asked my sister to watch her brother’s welfare.  I will go.  Come, be a good fellow.  Let us go and sign the articles which make two soldiers of fortune instead of one.  I have spoken to Du Puys and Chaumonot.  It is all settled but the daub of ink.  Together, Paul; you will make history and I shall embalm it.”  He placed a hand upon the Chevalier’s arm, his boyish face beaming with the prospect of the exploit.

“And Madame de Brissac?” gently.

“We shall close that page,” said the poet, looking out of the window.  She would be in Spain.  Ah well!”

“Monsieur,” said Breton, “will you take this?”

The two friends turned.  Breton was holding at arm’s length a grey cloak.

“The cloak!” cried Victor.

“Pack it away, lad,” the Chevalier said, the lines in his face deepening, “It will serve to recall to me that vanity is a futile thing.”

“The devil! but for my own vanity and miserable purse neither of us would have been here.”  Victor made as though to touch the cloak, but shrugged, and signified to Breton to put it out of sight.

When Breton had buckled the straps he exhibited a restlessness, standing first on one foot, then on the other.  He folded his arms, then unfolded them, and plucked at his doublet.  The Chevalier was watching him from the corner of his eye.

“Speak, lad; you have something to say.”

“Monsieur, I can not return to the hotel.  Monsieur le Marquis has forbidden me.”  Breton’s eyes filled with tears.  It was the first lie he had ever told his master.

“Have you any money, Victor?” asked the Chevalier, taking out the fifty pistoles won from the vicomte and dividing them.

“Less than fifty pistoles; here is half of them.”

The Chevalier pushed the gold toward the lackey.  “Take these, lad; they will carry you through till you find a new master.  You have been a good and faithful servant.”

Breton made a negative gesture.  “Monsieur,” timidly, “I do not want money, and I could never grow accustomed to a new master.  I was born at the chateau in Perigny.  My mother was your nurse and she loved you.  I know your ways so well, Monsieur Paul.  Can I not accompany you to Quebec?  I ask no wages; I ask nothing but a kind word now and again, and a fourth of what you have to eat.  I have saved a little, and out of that I will find my clothing.”