"There is a mad humor in me to-day. Wish me good luck and bid me be
gone."

"Good luck to you, Paul; good luck to you, comrade." And Victor's
smile, if forced, was none the less affectionate.

"And luck to your ode, my good poet. I go to find me a nosegay."

And when he was gone, Victor remained motionless in his chair. Two
years! Ah, Gabrielle, Gabrielle, was that quite fair? He thought of
all the old days, and a great wave of bitterness rushed over him. He
no longer heard the blackbird. The quill fell from his fingers, and he
laid his head upon his arms.

"I am tired," was all he said.

The Chevalier wended his way toward the Ursulines. His heart beat
furiously. Sometimes his feet dragged, or again they flew, according
to the fall or rise of his courage. The sight of a petticoat sent him
into a cold chill. He tramped here and there, in all places where he
thought possibly she might be found. Half the time he caught himself
walking on tiptoe, for no reason whatever. Dared he inquire for her,
send a fictitious note enticing her forth from her room? No, he dared
do neither; he must prowl around, waiting and watching for his
opportunity. Would she laugh, be indignant, storm or weep? Heaven
only knew! To attack her suddenly, without giving her time to rally
her forces,--formidable forces of wit and sarcasm!--therein lay his
hope.

"What a coward a woman can make of a man! I have known this woman two
years; I have danced and dined with her, made love, and here I can
scarce breathe! I am lost if she sees me in this condition, or finds a
weak spot. How I love her, love her! I have kissed the air she leaves
in passing by. Oh! I will solve this enchanting mystery. I have the
right now; I am rich, and young."

It will be seen that the gods favor those who go forward.

By the wall of the Ursulines stood a rustic bench, and upon this bench
sat madame. She was waiting for Anne, who was paying her usual morning
devotions under the guidance of the Mother Superior. Madame was not
very busy with her eyes, and the jeweled miniature which she held in
her hand seemed no longer to attract her. The odor of rose and
heliotrope pervaded the gently stirring air. From the convent garden
came the melting lilt of the golden oriole. By and by madame's gaze
returned to the miniature. For a brief space poppies burned in her
cheeks and the seed smoldered in her eyes. Then, as if the circlet of
gold and gem