At this same moment the vicomte turned his head, his face describing an

expression of doubt and astonishment. He was like a man trying to

recollect the sound of a forgotten voice, a melody. He stared at the

two figures, the one of medium height, slender and elegant, the other

plump and small, at the grey mask and then at the black. These were

not masks of coquetry and larking, masks which begin at the brow and

end at the lips: they were curtained. Seized, by an impulse, occult or

mechanic, the vicomte rose and drew near. The younger woman made a

gesture. Was it of recognition? The vicomte could not say. But he

saw her lean toward her companion, whisper a word which caused the grey

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mask to wheel quickly. She seemed to grow taller, while a repelling

light flashed from the eyeholes of the grey mask.

"Mesdames," said the vicomte with elaborate courtesy, "the sight of the

Indian doubtless alarms you, but he is perfectly harmless. Permit a

gentleman to offer his services to two ladies who appear to be

traveling alone."

Father Chaumonot frowned from his chair and would have risen but for

the restraining hand of Bouchard, who, like all seamen, was fond of

gallantry.

"Monsieur," replied the black mask, coldly and impudently, "we are

indeed alone; and upon the strength of this assertion, will you not

resume your conversation with yonder gentlemen and allow my companion

and myself to continue ours?"

"Mademoiselle," said the vicomte eagerly, "I swear to you, that your

voice is familiar to my ears." He addressed the black mask, but he

looked searchingly at the grey. His reward was small. She maintained

under his scrutiny an icy, motionless dignity.

"And permit me to say," returned the black mask, "that while your voice

is not familiar, the tone is, and very displeasing to my ears. And if

you do not at once resume your seat, I shall be forced to ask aid of

yonder priest."

"Yes, yes! that voice I have heard before!" Then, quick as a flash, he

had plucked the strings of her mask, disclosing a round, piquant face,

now white with fury.

"Oh, Monsieur!" she cried; "if I were a man!"

"This grows interesting," whispered Bouchard to Du Puys.

"Anne de Vaudemont?" exclaimed the vicomte; "in Rochelle?" The vicomte

stepped back confused. He stared undecidedly at mademoiselle's

companion. She deliberately turned her back.

Victor was upon his feet, and his bottle of wine lay frothing on the

floor. He came forward.

"Vicomte, your actions are very disagreeable to me," he said. The end

of his scabbard was aggressively high in the air. He was not so tall a

man as the vicomte, but his shoulders were as broad and his chest as

deep.

Neither the vicomte nor the poet heard the surprised exclamation which

came with a muffled sound from behind the grey mask. She swayed

slightly. The younger threw her arms around her, but never took her

eyes from the flushed countenance of Victor de Saumaise.




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