the fallen man to his feet.

"Go along with you, Messieurs," said the Swiss enviously; "you are all
drunk."

"Go along yourself," said Georges, assuming a bacchanalian pose.

"What do you want?" asked the Swiss, laughing.

"To pass this gentleman out of the city," said Georges; "and here is
the order."

"Very good," replied the Swiss.

The Chevalier climbed into the saddle. Breton was to follow with the
personal effects. The barriers creaked, opened the way, and the
Chevalier passed forth. There was a cheering word or two, a waving of
hats, and then the barriers fell back into place. A quarter of a mile
away, having reached an elevation, the exile stopped his horse and
turned in the saddle. As he strained his bloodshot eyes toward the
city, the mask of intoxication fell away from his face, leaving it worn
and wretched. The snow lay everywhere, white, untrampled, blinding.
The pale yellow beams of the sun broke in brilliant flashes against the
windows of the Priory of Jacobins, while above the city, the still
sleeping city, rose long spiral threads of opal-tinted smoke.

Five years. And for what? Friendship. How simple to have told
Mazarin that he had loaned the cloak to Victor de Saumaise. A dozen
words. His head was throbbing violently and his throat was hot. He
took off his hat and the keen air of morning cooled his damp forehead.
Five years. He could see this year drag itself to its dismal end, and
another, and another, till five had come and gone, each growing
infinitely longer and duller and more hopeless. Of what use were youth
and riches without a Paris? Friendship? Was he not, as Mazarin had
pointed out, a fool for his pains? It was giving away five years of
life and love. A word? No. He straightened in the saddle, and the
fumes of wine receded from his brain, leaving a temporary clearness.
Yes, he was right, a hundred times right. Victor would have done the
same for him, and he could do no less for Victor. And there was
something fine and lofty in the sacrifice to him who until now had
never sacrificed so much as an hour from his worldly pleasures. It
appealed to all that was good in him, leaving a wholesomeness in his
heart that was tonic and elevating.

And yet . . . How strongly her face appeared before him! If only he
could have stayed long enough to explain to her, to convince her of his
loyalty; ah, then would this exile be a summer's rustication. He
fumbled at his thro