a cornet's face for a
pilfered kiss; a drunken guardsman quarrels over an unduly heavy die.

"Count," said the vicomte to D'Herouville, "did you ever reckon what
you should do with those ten thousand livres which you were to receive
for that paper of signatures?"

At any other time this remark would have interested Victor.

D'Herouville, having concentrated his gaze upon the ragged soles of his
boots, saw no reason why he should withdraw it. He was weary of the
vicomte's banter. All he wanted was a sword and a clear sweep, with
this man opposing him.

"Now, if I had those livres," went on the vicomte, whose only object
was to hear the sound of his own voice, "and were at Voisin's, I should
order twelve partridge pies and twelve bottles of bordeaux."

"Bordeaux," said Victor, absently.

The Chevalier looked up, but seeing that he was not addressed, resumed
his dreams.

"Yes, my poet, bordeaux, red and friendly. And on top of that should
be a fish salad, with that wonderful vinegar and egg dressing which
Voisin alone knows how to make."

"And then?" urged Victor, falling into the grim humor of the thing.

"Then, two bottles of champagne." The vicomte stood up. He appeared
to be counting on his fingers. "That would make fourteen bottles."

"You would be drunk."

"Drunk as a fiddler on Saturday night. Now, I am going to promote my
character among these rascals by doing some medicine work myself." And
he burst forth sonorously in profanity, waving his hands and swaying
his body. He recalled every oath in his extensive camp vocabulary.
The expression on his face was sober, and Victor had a suspicion that
this exhibition was not all play. The savages regarded the vicomte as
one suddenly gone demented, till it dawned upon one of them that the
white man was committing a sacrilege, mocking the reverend medicine
man. He rose up behind the vicomte, reached over and struck him
roughly on the mouth. The vicomte wheeled like a flash. The Indian
folded his arms across his bronzed chest and looked the furious man
calmly in the eye. The vicomte presently dropped his balled fists,
shrugged, and sat down. It was the best and wisest thing he could do.

D'Herouville, roused from his apathy, laughed. "Eh, you laugh?" said
the vicomte, wiping his bloody lips. His eyes snapped wickedly.

"It is a habit I have," retorted D'Herouville, glancing boldly at the
Chevalier.

"Some day your habit will choke you to dea