r antipathy. Every man has a right to love."

"I know it."

"I wonder how it happens that I have never seen this daughter of the
Montbazons?"

"You have your own affair."

"Past tense, my lad, past tense. Now, I wish to be alone. I have some
thinking to do which requires complete isolation. Go to bed and sleep,
and do not worry about me. Come at seven; I shall be awake." The
Chevalier stood and held forth his arms. They embraced. Once alone
the outcast blew out the candle, folded his arms on the table, and hid
his face in them. After that it was very still in the private
assembly, save for the occasional moaning in the chimney.

CHAPTER X

THE DILIGENCE FROM ROUEN AND THE MASQUERADING LADIES

The diligence from Rouen rolled and careened along the road to
Rochelle. Eddies of snow, wind-formed, whirled hither and thither, or
danced around the vehicle like spirits possessed of infinite mischief.
Here and there a sickly tree stretched forth its barren arms blackly
against the almost endless reaches of white. Sometimes the horses
struggled through drifts which nearly reached their bellies; again,
they staggered through hidden marsh pools. The postilion, wrapped in a
blanket, cursed deeply and with ardor. He swung his whip not so much
to urge the horses as to keep the blood moving in his body. Devil take
women who forced him to follow the king's highway in such weather! Ten
miles back they had passed a most promising inn. Stop? Not they!
Rochelle, Rochelle, and nothing but Rochelle!

"How lonely!" A woman had pushed aside the curtain and was peering
into the night. There was no light save that which came from the
pallor of the storm, dim and misty. "It has stopped snowing. But how
strange the air smells!"

"It is the sea . . . We are nearing the city. It is abominably cold."

"The sea, the sea!" The voice was rich and young, but heavy with
weariness. "And we are nearing Rochelle? Good! My confidence begins
to return. You must hide me well, Anne."

"Mazarin shall never find you. You will remain in the city till I take
leave of earthly affairs."

"A convent, Anne? Oh, if you will. But why Canada? You are mad to
think of it. You are but eighteen. You have not even known what love
is yet."

"Have you?"

There was a laugh. It was light-hearted. It was a sign that the
sadness and weariness which weighed upon the voice were ephemeral.

"That is no answer."

"Anne, have