aitre," said Victor to le Borgne, "is the private assembly in use?"

"No, Monsieur; you wish to use it?"

"Yes; and see that no one disturbs us."

In passing through the common assembly, Victor saw Du Puys and Bouchard
in conversation with the Jesuits. Brother Jacques glanced carelessly
in the Chevalier's direction, frowned at some thought, and turned his
head away. The Iroquois had fallen asleep in a chair close to the
fire. In a far corner Victor discovered the form of the Vicomte
d'Halluys; he was apparently sleeping on his arms, which were extended
across the table.

"Why do I dislike that man?" Victor asked in thought. "There is
something in his banter which strikes me as coming from a man consumed
either by hate or envy." He pushed the Chevalier into the private
assembly, followed and closed the door.

"Ah!" The Chevalier sank into a chair. "Three hours ago I was
laughing and drinking in this room. Devil take me, but time flies!"

"God knows, Paul," said Victor, brokenly, "what you have done this
night. You are mad, mad! What are you going to do? You have publicly
branded yourself as the illegitimate son of the marquis."

"It is true," simply.

"True or false, you have published it without cause or reason. Good
God! and they will laugh at you; and I will kill all who laugh in my
presence. What madness!" Victor flung his hat on the table, strode
the length of the room, beating his hands and rumpling his hair.

"How you go on, Victor!" said the Chevalier with half a smile. "And
you love me still?"

"And will, to the latest breath in my body. I know of no other man I
love so wholly as I love you."

"I would lose two marquisates rather than be without this knowledge."

"But oh! what have you done? To-morrow . . . What will you do
to-morrow?"

"To-morrow? A bottle of wine, lad; and wherefore to-morrow?
To-morrow? There will always be a tomorrow. The world began on one
and will end on one. So give me wine, bubbling with lies, false
promises, phantom happiness, mockery and despair. Each bottle is but
lies; and yet how well each bottle tells them! Wine, Victor; do you
hear me? I must never come sober again; in drunkenness, there lies
oblivion. What! shall I come sober . . . to feel, to care? . . . to
hear them laugh? No, no! See!" brushing his forehead, beaded with
moisture; "I am sweating gall, lad. God!" striking the table with his
fist; "could you but look within and see th