ugh his fingers and went jangling along the stone of the
floor.

"I was wondering where I had seen it before. Hang me, but this is all
pretty well muddled up. There was a traitor somewhere, or a coward.
What think you, Saumaise; does not this look like Gaston of Orleans?"

Victor started. "I never thought of him!"

"Ah! If Gaston has that paper, France is small, Monsieur," said the
vicomte, addressing the Chevalier, "I learn that you are bound for
Quebec. Come, Saumaise; here is our opportunity. Let the three of us
point westward."

Victor remained silent. As oil rises to the surface of water, so rose
his distrust. He could not shut out the vision of that half-smile of
the hour gone.

"Monsieur," said the Chevalier, looking up, "this is like you. You
have something of the Bayard in your veins. It takes a man of courage
to address me, after what has happened. I am become a pariah; he who
touches my hand loses caste."

"Bah! Honestly, now, Chevalier, is it not the man rather than the
escutcheon? A trooper is my friend if he has courage; I would not let
a coward black my boots, not if he were a king."

"If ever I have offended you, pray forgive me."

"Offended me? Well, yes," easily. "There was Madame de Flavigny of
Normandy; but that was three years ago. Such affairs begin and end
quickly. My self-love was somewhat knocked about; that was all. If
the weather permits, the Saint Laurent will sail at one o'clock. Till
then, Messieurs," and bowing gravely the vicomte retired.

Both Victor and the Chevalier stared, at the door through which the
vicomte vanished. Victor frowned; the Chevalier smiled.

"Curse his insolence!" cried the poet, slapping his sword.

"Lad, what an evil mind you have!" said the Chevalier in surprise.

"There is something below all this. Did he pay you those pistoles he
lost to you in December?"

"To the last coin."

"Have you played with him since?"

"Yes, and won. Last night he won back the amount he lost to me; and
with these fifty pistoles our accounts are square. What have you
against the vicomte? I have always found him a man. And of all those
who called themselves my friends, has not he alone stood forth?"

"There is some motive," still persisted the poet.

"Time will discover it."

"Oh, the devil, Paul! he loves Madame de Brissac; and my gorge rises at
the sight of him."

"What! is all Paris in love with Madame de Brissac? You have explained
you