"So that is the Chevalier. And he goes to Quebec. In mercy's name,
what business has he there?"
"You are hurting my arm, dear. Victor would not tell me why he goes to
Quebec."
"Ah, if he goes out of friendship for Victor, it is well."
"Is he not handsome?"
"Melancholy handsome, after the pattern of the Englishman's Hamlet. I
like a man with a bright face. When does the Henri IV sail?" suddenly.
"Two weeks from to-morrow. To-morrow is Fools' Day."
"Why, then, do not those on yonder ship sail to-morrow instead of
to-day?"
"You were not always so bitter."
"I must have my jest. To-morrow may have its dupes as well as its
fools. . . . Silence! The Comte d'Hérouville in Rochelle? I am lost
if he sees me. Let us go!" And Madame de Brissac dragged her
companion back into the crowd. "That man here? Anne, you must hide me
well."
"Why do you ask about the gloomy ship which is to take me to Quebec?"
asked Anne, her curiosity aroused of a sudden.
Madame put a finger against her lips. "I shall tell you presently.
Just now I must find a hiding place immediately. He must not know that
I am here. He must have traced me here. Oh! am I not in trouble
enough without that man rising up before me? I am afraid of him, Anne."
The two soon gained their chairs and disappeared. Neither of them saw
the count go on board the ship.
On board all was activity. There came a lurch, a straining of ropes
and a creaking of masts, and the good ship Saint Laurent swam out to
sea. Suddenly the waters trembled and the air shook: the king's
man-of-war had fired the admiral's salute. So the voyage began.
Priests, soldiers, merchants, seamen, peasants and nobles, all stood
silent on the poop-deck, watching the rugged promontory sink, turrets
and towers and roofs merge into one another, black lines melt into
grey; stood watching till the islands became misty in the sunshine and
nothing of France remained but a long, thin, hazy line.
"The last of France, for the present," said the poet.
"And for the present," said the vicomte, "I am glad it is the last of
France. France is not agreeable to my throat."
The Chevalier threw back his shoulders and stood away from the rail.
The Comte d'Hérouville, his face purple with rage and chagrin, came up.
He approached Victor.
"Monsieur," he said, "you lied. Madame is not on board." He drew back
his hand to strike the poet in the face, but fingers of iron caught his
wrist and held it in the air.
"The day we land, Monsieur," said the Chevalier, calmly. "Monsieur de
Saumaise is not your equal with the sword."