Occasionally the vicomte would stare at the Chevalier, long and

profoundly. Only Victor was aware of this peculiar scrutiny. It often

recalled to him that wild night at the Hôtel de Périgny in Rochelle.

But the scrutiny was untranslatable.

No one spoke of madame; there was no need, as each knew instinctively

that she was always in the others' thoughts. The Chevalier no more

questioned the poet as to her identity. Was she living or dead, in

captivity or safe again in Quebec? Not one laid his head down at night

without these questions.

The monotonous beating of the drum went on. Harsh laughter rose; for

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every night the Indians contrived to find new epithets with which to

revile the captives. So far there had been no hint of torture save the

gamut. The Chevalier, even with his inconsequent knowledge of the

tongue, caught the meaning of some of the words. The jests were coarse

and vulgar, and the women laughed over them as heartily as the men.

Modesty and morality were not among the red man's immediate obligations.

The Chevalier devoted his time to dreaming. It was an occupation which

all shared in, as it took them mentally away from their surroundings.

He conjured up faces from the sparkle of the fire. He could see the

Rubens above the mantel at the hôtel in Rochelle, the assembly at the

Candlestick, the guardroom at the Louvre, the kitchens along the quays,

or the cabarets in the suburbs. A camp song rises above the clinking

of the bottles and glasses; a wench slaps a cornet's face for a

pilfered kiss; a drunken guardsman quarrels over an unduly heavy die.

"Count," said the vicomte to D'Hérouville, "did you ever reckon what

you should do with those ten thousand livres which you were to receive

for that paper of signatures?"

At any other time this remark would have interested Victor.

D'Hérouville, having concentrated his gaze upon the ragged soles of his

boots, saw no reason why he should withdraw it. He was weary of the

vicomte's banter. All he wanted was a sword and a clear sweep, with

this man opposing him.

"Now, if I had those livres," went on the vicomte, whose only object

was to hear the sound of his own voice, "and were at Voisin's, I should

order twelve partridge pies and twelve bottles of bordeaux."

"Bordeaux," said Victor, absently.

The Chevalier looked up, but seeing that he was not addressed, resumed

his dreams.

"Yes, my poet, bordeaux, red and friendly. And on top of that should

be a fish salad, with that wonderful vinegar and egg dressing which

Voisin alone knows how to make."

"And then?" urged Victor, falling into the grim humor of the thing.

"Then, two bottles of champagne." The vicomte stood up. He appeared

to be counting on his fingers. "That would make fourteen bottles."




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