The vicomte, like all banterers, possessed that natural talent of
standing aside and reading faces and dissecting emotions. Three faces
interested him curiously. The Chevalier hid none of his thoughts; they
lay in his eyes, in the wrinkles on his brow, in the immobility of his
pose. How easy it was to read that the Chevalier saw nothing, save in
a nebulous way, of the wonderful panorama surrounding. He was with the
folly of the night gone, with Paris, with to-day's regrets for vanished
yesterday. The vicomte could see perfectly well that Victor's gaiety
was natural and unassumed; that the past held him but loosely, since
this past held the vision of an ax. The analyst passed on to Brother
Jacques, and received a slight shock. The penetrating grey eyes of the
priest caught his and held them menacingly.
"Ah!" murmured the vicomte, "the little Jesuit has learned the trick,
too, it would seem. He is reading my face. I must know more of this
handsome fellow whose blood is red and healthy. He comes from no such
humble origin as Father Chaumonot. Bah! and look at those nuns: they
are animated coffins, holding only dead remembrances and dried,
perfumeless flowers."
A strong and steady east wind had driven away all vestige of the storm.
The sea was running westward in long and swinging leaps, colorful,
dazzling, foam-crested. The singing air was spangled with frosty
brine-mist; a thousand flashes were cast back from the city windows;
the flower of the lily fluttered from a hundred masts. A noble vision,
truly, was the good ship Saint Laurent, standing out boldly against the
clear horizon and the dark green of the waters. High up among the
spars and shrouds swarmed the seamen. Canvas flapped and bellied as it
dropped, from arm to arm, sending the fallen snow in a flurry to the
decks. On the poop-deck stood the black-gowned Jesuits, the sad-faced
nuns, several members of the great company, soldiers and adventurers.
The wharves and docks and piers were crowded with the curious:
bright-gowned peasants, soldiers from the fort, merchants, and a
sprinkling of the noblesse. It was not every day that a great ship
left the harbor on so long and hazardous a voyage.
The Chevalier leaned against the railing, dreamily noting the white
faces in the sunshine. He was still vaguely striving to convince
himself that he was in the midst of some dream. He was conscious of an
approaching illness, too. When would he wake? . . . and where? A hand
touched his arm. He turned and saw Brother Jacques. There was a
kindly expression on the young priest's face. He now saw the Chevalier
in a new light. It was not as the gay cavalier, handsome, rich,
care-free; it was as a man who, suffering a mortal stroke, carried his
head high, hiding the wound like a Spartan.