"And you will return to-morrow ?" asked Victor regretfully.
"To-morrow! Blessed day! Back to life and love! . . . Forgive me,
lad; joy made me forget! I will see you safely in Spain."
Victor brooded for a space. "Horns of Panurge! Could I but lay my
hands upon that paper!"
"No moping, lad. The bowl awaits; trouble shall smother in the cup.
We shall make this night one for memory. I have a château in the
Cévennes, and it shall be yours till all this blows over. Ah!"
The door leading to the private assembly opened. On the threshold
stood a man of thirty-three or four, his countenance haughty and as
clean cut as a Greek medallion. The eyes were large and black, the
brows slanting and heavy, the nose high-bridged and fierce, the chin
aggressive. There lay over all this a mask of reckless humor and
gaiety. It was the face of a man who, had he curbed his desires and
walked with circumspection, would have known enduring greatness as a
captain, as an explorer, as a theologian. Not a contour of the face
hut expressed force, courage, daring, immobility of purpose.
"Hurrah, Chevalier!" he cried; "the bowl will soon be empty."
"The Vicomte d'Halluys?" murmured Victor. "Paul, there is another
gentleman bound for Spain. We shall have company."
"What? The astute vicomte, that diplomat?"
"Even so. The Vicomte d'Halluys, wit, duelist, devil-may-care,
spendthrift. Ho, Vicomte!" the poet called.
"Saumaise?" cried the man at the door, coming forward.
"Go in, Paul," said the poet; "I want a word with him."
The Chevalier passed into the private assembly. The vicomte and the
poet looked into each other's eyes for a moment. The vicomte slapped
his thigh and laughed.
"Hang me from a gargoyle on Notre Dame," he broke forth, "if it isn't
the poet!"
"The same," less hilariously.
"I thought you had gone to Holland?"
"I can talk Spanish," replied Victor, "but not a word of Dutch. And
you? Is it Spain?"
"Nay; when the time comes I'm for New France. I have some property
there; a fine excuse to see it. What a joke! How well it will read in
Monsieur Somebody's memoirs! What is new?"
"Mazarin has not yet come into possession of that paper. Beaufort will
see to that, so far as it lies in his power. I am all at sea."
"And I soon shall be! Come on, then. We are making a night of it."
And the vicomte caught the poet by the arm and dragged him into the
private assembly.
Around a huge silver bowl sat a company of roisterers, all flushed with
wine and the attendant false happiness. Long clay pipes clouded the
candle-light; there was the jingle of gold and the purr of shuffling
cards; and here and there were some given to the voicing of ribald
songs. To Victor this was no uncommon scene; and it was not long
before he had thrown himself with gay enthusiasm into this mad carouse.