ay, glance at this suit of mine! I give it one month's service, and
then the Indian's clout. I can't wear those skins. Pah!"

"Examine this feather," the Chevalier requested.

"White heron, as I live! You are, then, about to seek the war-path?"
laughing.

"Or the path which leads to it. I am going a-courting."

"Ah!"

"Yes. Heigho! How would you like a pheasant, my poet, and a bottle of
Mignon's bin of '39?"

"Paris!" Victor smacked his lips drolly.

"Or a night at Voisin's, with dice and the green board?"

"Paris!"

"Or a romp with the girls along the quays?"

"Horns of Panurge! I like this mood."

"It's a man's mood. I am thinking of the chateau of oak and maple I
shall some day build along some river height. What a fireplace I shall
have, and what cellars! Somehow, Paris no longer calls to me."

"To me," said the poet, "it is ever calling, calling. Shall I see my
beloved Paris again? Who can say?"

"Mazarin will not live forever."

"But here it is so lonesome; a desert. And you will make a fine
seigneur, you with your fastidious tastes, love of fine clothes and
music. Look at yourself now! A silk shirt in tatters, tawdry
buckskin, a new hero's feather, and a dingy pair of moccasins. And you
are going a-courting. What, fortune?"

"'Tis all the same."

"So you love her?" quietly.

"Yes, lad, I love her; and I am determined to learn this day the worth
of loving."

"Take care," warned the poet.

"Victor, some day you will be going back to Paris. Tell them at court
how, of a summer's morn, Monsieur le Chevalier du Cevennes went forth
to conquest."

"Hark!" said Victor. "I hear a blackbird." He sorted his papers, for
he was writing. "I will write an ode on your venture. What shall I
call it?"

"Call it 'Hazards,' comrade; for this day I put my all in the leather
cup and make but a single throw. Who is madame?"

"Ask her," rather sharply.

"She is worthy of a man's love?"

"Worthy!" Victor half rose from his chair. "Worthy of being loved?
Yes, Paul, she is worthy. But are you sure that you love her?"

"I have loved her for two years."

"Two years," repeated the poet. "She is a strange woman."

"But you know her!"

"Yes, I know her; as we know a name and the name of a history."

"She comes from a good family?"

Victor laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, yes!"

"Do you know why she is here?"

"I thought I did, but I have found that I am as ignorant as yourself."