"What boat?" demanded D'Hérouville.
"The Saint Laurent," answered the vicomte, playing out the lie.
Victor's glance was sullen.
"Wait a moment, man!" cried the vicomte, catching the count's cloak.
"You can not mean to go running after madame in this fashion. You will
compromise her. Besides, I have some questions to ask. What about De
Brissac's play-woman?"
"Died in prison six days ago. She poisoned herself before they
examined her." The count looked longingly toward the door.
"What! Poisoned herself? Then she must have loved that hoary old
sinner!" The vicomte's astonishment was genuine.
The chilling smile which passed over the count's face was sinister. "I
said she poisoned herself, advisedly."
"Oho!" The vicomte whistled, while Victor drew back.
"Now, Messieurs, will you permit me to go? It is high time you both
were on the way to Spain." D'Hérouville stamped his foot impatiently.
"And you will go to Quebec?" asked the vicomte.
"Certainly."
"Well then, till Monsieur de Saumaise and I see you on board. We are
bound in that direction."
"You?" taken aback like a ship's sail.
"Why not, Monsieur," said Victor, a bit of irony in his tones, "since
you yourself are going that way?"
"You took me by surprise." The count's eye ran up and down the poet's
form. He moved his shoulders suggestively. "Till we meet again,
then." And he left them.
"My poet," said the vicomte, "that was a stroke. Lord, how he will
love you when he discovers the trick! What a boor he makes of himself
to cover his designs! Here is a bag of trouble, and necessity has
forced our hands into it. For all his gruffness and seeming
impatience, D'Hérouville has never yet made a blunder or a mistake.
Take care."
"Why do you warn me?" Victor was full to the lips with rage.
"Because, hang me, I like your wit. Monsieur, there is no need of you
and me cutting each other's throats. Let us join hands in cutting
D'Hérouville's. And there's the Chevalier; I had forgotten him. He
and D'Hérouville do not speak. I had mapped out three dull months on
the water, and here walks in a comedy of various parts. Let us try a
pot of canary together. You ought to change that livery of yours.
Somebody will be insulting you and you will be drawing your sword."
Victor followed the vicomte to a table. After all, there was something
fascinating about this man, with that devil-may-care air of his, his
banter and his courage. So he buried a large part of his animosity,
and accepted the vicomte's invitation.
All within the tavern was marked by that activity which precedes a
notable departure. Seamen were bustling about, carrying bundles,
stores, ammunition, and utensils. Here and there were soldiers
polishing their muskets and swords and small arms. There was a calling
to and fro. The mayor of the city came in, full of Godspeed and cheer,
and following him were priests from the episcopal palace and wealthy
burghers who were interested in the great trading company. All
Rochelle was alive.