“Certainly.”

“Well then, till Monsieur de Saumaise and I see you on board.  We are bound in that direction.”

“You?” taken aback like a ship’s sail.

“Why not, Monsieur,” said Victor, a bit of irony in his tones, “since you yourself are going that way?”

“You took me by surprise.”  The count’s eye ran up and down the poet’s form.  He moved his shoulders suggestively.  “Till we meet again, then.”  And he left them.

“My poet,” said the vicomte, “that was a stroke.  Lord, how he will love you when he discovers the trick!  What a boor he makes of himself to cover his designs!  Here is a bag of trouble, and necessity has forced our hands into it.  For all his gruffness and seeming impatience, D’Herouville has never yet made a blunder or a mistake.  Take care.”

“Why do you warn me?” Victor was full to the lips with rage.

“Because, hang me, I like your wit.  Monsieur, there is no need of you and me cutting each other’s throats.  Let us join hands in cutting D’Herouville’s.  And there’s the Chevalier; I had forgotten him.  He and D’Herouville do not speak.  I had mapped out three dull months on the water, and here walks in a comedy of various parts.  Let us try a pot of canary together.  You ought to change that livery of yours.  Somebody will be insulting you and you will be drawing your sword.”

Victor followed the vicomte to a table.  After all, there was something fascinating about this man, with that devil-may-care air of his, his banter and his courage.  So he buried a large part of his animosity, and accepted the vicomte’s invitation.

All within the tavern was marked by that activity which precedes a notable departure.  Seamen were bustling about, carrying bundles, stores, ammunition, and utensils.  Here and there were soldiers polishing their muskets and swords and small arms.  There was a calling to and fro.  The mayor of the city came in, full of Godspeed and cheer, and following him were priests from the episcopal palace and wealthy burghers who were interested in the great trading company.  All Rochelle was alive.

The vicomte, like all banterers, possessed that natural talent of standing aside and reading faces and dissecting emotions.  Three faces interested him curiously.  The Chevalier hid none of his thoughts; they lay in his eyes, in the wrinkles on his brow, in the immobility of his pose.  How easy it was to read that the Chevalier saw nothing, save in a nebulous way, of the wonderful panorama surrounding.  He was with the folly of the night gone, with Paris, with to-day’s regrets for vanished yesterday.  The vicomte could see perfectly well that Victor’s gaiety was natural and unassumed; that the past held him but loosely, since this past held the vision of an ax.  The analyst passed on to Brother Jacques, and received a slight shock.  The penetrating grey eyes of the priest caught his and held them menacingly.