"A last look at France, Monsieur le Chevalier, for many a day to come."
The Chevalier nodded.
"For many days, indeed. . . . And who among us shall look upon France
again in the days to come? It is a long way from the Candlestick in
Paris to the deck of the Saint Laurent. The widest stretch of fancy
would not have brought us together again. There is, then, some
invisible hand that guides us surely and certainly to our various ends,
as the English poet says." The Chevalier was speaking to a thought
rather than to Brother Jacques. "Who among us shall look upon these
shores again?"
"What about these shores, Paul?" asked Victor, coming up. "They are
not very engaging just now."
"But it is France, Victor; it is France; and from any part of France
Paris may be reached." He turned his face toward the north, in the
direction of Paris. His eyes closed; he was very pale. "Do we not die
sometimes, Victor, while yet the heart and brain go on beating and
thinking?"
Victor grasped the Chevalier's hand. There are some friendships which
are expressed not by the voice, but by the pressure of a hand, a
kindling glance of the eye. Brother Jacques moved on. He saw that for
the present he had no part in these two lives.
"Look!" Victor cried, suddenly, pointing toward the harbor towers.
"Jehan?" murmured the Chevalier. "Good old soul! Is he waving his
hand, Victor? The sun . . . I can not see."
"Do you suppose your father . . ."
"Who?" calmly.
"Ah! Well, then, Monsieur le Marquis: do you suppose he has sent Jehan
to verify the report that you sail for Quebec?"
"I do not suppose anything, Victor. As for Monsieur le Marquis, I have
already ceased to hate him. How beautiful the sea is! And yet,
contemplate the horror of its rolling over your head, beating your life
out on the reefs. All beautiful things are cruel."
"But you are glad, Paul," affectionately, "that I am with you?"
"Both glad and sorry. For after a time you will return, leaving me
behind."
"Perhaps. And yet who can say that we both may not return, only with
fame marching on ahead to announce us in that wonderfully pleasing way
she has?"
"It is your illusions that I love, Victor: I see myself again in you.
Keep to your ballades, your chant-royals, your triolets; you will write
an epic whenever you lose your illusions; and epics by Frenchmen are
dull and sorry things. When you go below tell Breton to unpack my
portmanteau."
On the wharf nearest the vessel stood two women, hooded so as to
conceal their faces.
"There, Gabrielle; you have asked to see the Chevalier du Cévennes,
that is he leaning against the railing."