man. And God keep me from that folly. You are
making me very unhappy!" She bent her head upon her arm.

"Oh, my vanished dream, do not weep on my account! You are not to
blame. I love you well. That is God's blame, not yours, since He
molded you, gave you a beautiful face, a beautiful mind, a beautiful
heart. Well, I will be silent. I will go about my affairs, laughing.
I shall write rollicking verses, fight a few duels, and sign a few
papers under which the ax lies hidden! . . . Do you know how well I
love you?" sinking beside her and taking her hand before she could
place it beyond his reach. He put a kiss on it. "Listen. If it means
anything toward your happiness and content of mind, I will promise to
be silent forever." Suddenly he dropped the hand and rose. "Your
presence is overpowering: I can not answer for myself. You were right.
We ought not to have met again."

"I must go," she said, also rising. She moved blindly across the room,
irresolutely. Seeing a door, she turned the knob and entered.

It was only after the door closed that Victor recollected. Paul and
she together in that room? What irony! He was about to rush after
madame, when his steps were arrested by a voice coming from the stairs.
The vicomte was descending.

"Ah, Monsieur de Saumaise," said the vicomte, "how fortunate to find
you alone!"

"Fortunate, indeed!" replied Victor. Here was a man upon whom to wreak
his wrath, disappointment and despair. Justice or injustice, neither
balanced on the scales of his wrath. He crossed over to the chimney,
stood with his back to the fire and waited.

The vicomte approached within a yard, stopped; twisted his mustache,
resting his left hand on his hip. His discerning inspection was soon
completed. He was fully aware of the desperate and reckless light in
the poet's eyes.

"Monsieur de Saumaise, you have this night offered me four distinct
affronts. Men have died for less than one."

"Ah!" Victor clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.

"At the Hotel de Perigny you called me a fool when the Chevalier struck
me with his sword. I shall pass over that. The Chevalier was mad, and
we all were excited. But three times in this tavern you have annoyed
me. Your temperament, being that of a poet, at times gets the better
of you. My knowledge of this accounts for my patience."

"That is magnanimous, Monsieur," railingly.

"Were I not bound for a far country