tal
poisons; and there is enough in my cup without that. And that poor
marquis; I believe I must have caused him some annoyance and chagrin."

"But what will you do?"

"What shall I do? Paris shall see me no more, nor France. I shall go
. . . Yes; thanks, Brother Jacques, thanks! I shall go to that France
across the sea and become . . . a grand seigneur, owning a hut in the
wilderness. Monsieur le Chevalier, lately a fop at court will become a
habitant of the forests, will wear furs, and seek his food by the aid
of a musket. It will be a merry life, Victor; no dicing, no tennis, no
women, no wine." The Chevalier rested his chin in his hands, staring
at the candle. "On Thursday next there will be a mask ball at the
Palais Royal; but the Chevalier du Cevennes will not be with his
company. He will be on the way to New France, with many another broken
soldier, to measure his sword against fortune's. And from the
camp-fires, lad, I shall conjure up women's faces, and choose among the
most patient . . . my mother's. Vanity!" suddenly. "But for vanity I
had not been here. Look, Victor; it was not wine, it was not madness.
It was vanity in the shape of a grey cloak, a grey cloak. Will you
call Major du Puys?"

"Paul, you can not mean it?"

"Frankly, can I remain in France? Have I not already put France behind
me?"

"And what's to become of me?" asked the poet.

"You? Why, you will shortly find Madame de Brissac, marry her, and
become a fine country gentleman. And when Mazarin becomes forgetful or
dies, you will return to Paris, your head secure upon your shoulders.
As for me, New France, and a fresh quill, and I will be a man yet,"
smiling. "And I give you the contents of my rooms at the Candlestick."

"What! live among these ghosts of happy times? I could not!"

"Well, I will give them to Mignon, then. There is one who will miss
me. Will you call the major, or shall I?"

"I will call him, since you are determined."

"I shall take the grey cloak, too, lad. I will wear that token of
vanity into rags. Faith, I have not looked at it once since I loaned
it to you."

"And the unknown?"

"When we come to the end of a book, my poet, we lay it down. What
woman's love could surmount this birth of mine, these empty pockets? I
have still some reason; that bids me close the book. Yonder, from what
I have learned, they are in need of men's arms and brains, not
ancestry, noble birth. And there is