The roisterers went their devious ways, sobered and subdued. So deep

was their distraction that the watch passed unmolested. Usually a rout

was rounded out and finished by robbing the watch of their staffs and

lanterns; by singing in front of the hôtel of the mayor or the

episcopal palace; by yielding to any extravagant whim suggested by

mischief. But to-night mischief itself was quiet and uninventive. Had

there been a violent death among them, the roisterers would have

accepted the event with drunken philosophy. The catastrophe of this

night, however, was beyond their imagination: they were still-voiced

and horrified. The Chevalier du Cévennes, that prince of good fellows

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. . . was a nobody, a son of the left hand! Those who owed the

Chevalier money or gratitude now recollected with no small satisfaction

that they had not paid their indebtedness. Truly adversity is the

crucible in which the quality of friendship is tried.

On the way to the Corne d'Abondance the self-made victim of this

night's madness and his friend exchanged no words. There was nothing

to be said. But there was death in the Chevalier's heart; his chin was

sunken in his collar, and he bore heavily on Victor's arm; from time to

time he hiccoughed. Victor bit his lips to repress the sighs which

urged against them.

"Where do you wish to go, Paul?" he asked, when they arrived under the

green lantern and tarnished cherubs of the tavern.

"Have I still a place to go?" the Chevalier asked. "Ah well, lead on,

wherever you will; I am in your keeping."

So together they entered the tavern.

"Maître," said Victor to le Borgne, "is the private assembly in use?"

"No, Monsieur; you wish to use it?"

"Yes; and see that no one disturbs us."

In passing through the common assembly, Victor saw Du Puys and Bouchard

in conversation with the Jesuits. Brother Jacques glanced carelessly

in the Chevalier's direction, frowned at some thought, and turned his

head away. The Iroquois had fallen asleep in a chair close to the

fire. In a far corner Victor discovered the form of the Vicomte

d'Halluys; he was apparently sleeping on his arms, which were extended

across the table.

"Why do I dislike that man?" Victor asked in thought. "There is

something in his banter which strikes me as coming from a man consumed

either by hate or envy." He pushed the Chevalier into the private

assembly, followed and closed the door.

"Ah!" The Chevalier sank into a chair. "Three hours ago I was

laughing and drinking in this room. Devil take me, but time flies!"

"God knows, Paul," said Victor, brokenly, "what you have done this

night. You are mad, mad! What are you going to do? You have publicly

branded yourself as the illegitimate son of the marquis."




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