keen sense," replied Victor.

"I am almost tempted to favor you. I could use a short rapier."

"Good!" said Victor. "There is plenty of room. I have not killed a
man since this year Thursday."

"And having killed me," replied the vicomte, rising, and there was a
smile on his lips, "you would be forced to seek out Monsieur le Comte
d'Herouville, a man of devastated estates and violent temper, the
roughest swordsman since Crillon's time; D'Herouville, whose greed is
as great and fierce as his love. Have you thought of him, my poet? Ah
well, something tells me that the time is not far distant when we shall
be rushing at each other's throats. For the present, a truce. You
love madame; so do I. She is free. We are all young. Win her, if you
can, and I will step aside. But until you win her . . . I wish you
good night. I am going for a tramp along the sea-walls. I beg of you
not to follow."

The echo of the slamming door had scarce died away when Victor, raging
and potent to do the vicomte harm, flung out after him. With his sword
drawn he looked savagely up and down the street, but the vicomte was
nowhere in sight. The cold air, however, was grateful to the poet's
feverish cheeks and aching eyes; so he strode on absently, with no
destination in mind. It was only when the Hotel de Perigny loomed
before him, with its bleak walls and sinister cheval-de-frise, that his
sense of locality revived. He raised a hand which cast a silent
malediction on this evil house and its master, swung about and hurried
back to the tavern, recollecting that Gabrielle and Paul were together.

"And all those dreams of her, they vanish like the hours. That hope,
that joyous hope, of calling her mine shall buoy me up no more. She
does not love me! God save me from another such unhappy night. We
have all been stricken with madness." He struck at the snow-drifts
with his sword. The snow, dry and dusty, flew up into his face.

Meanwhile, when madame entered the private assembly-room her eyes,
blurred with tears, saw only the half dead fire. With her hand she
groped along the mantel, and finding a candle, lit it. She did not
care where she was, so long as she was alone; alone with her unhappy
thoughts. She sat with her back toward the Chevalier, who had fallen
into a slight doze. Presently the silence was destroyed by a
hiccoughing sob. She had forced the end of her kerchief against her
lips to stifle the sound, but i