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
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."