"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?"

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"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."




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