rom the musketeers, and some from the
prince's troops. And that little Italian who played the lute so well!
Do you recall him? I can see them now, calling Mademoiselle Pauline to
bring Voisin's old burgundy." The Chevalier continued his reminiscence
in silence, forgetting time and place, forgetting Victor, who was
gazing at him with an expression profoundly sad.

The poet mused for a moment, then tiptoed from the room. An idea had
come to him, but as yet it was not fully developed.

"Should I have said 'good night'? Good night, indeed! What mockery
there is in commonplaces! That idea of mine needs some thought." So,
instead of going to bed he sat down on one of the chimney benches.

A sleepy potboy went to and fro among the tables, clearing up empty
tankards and breakage. Maitre le Borgne sat in his corner, reckoning
up the day's accounts.

Suddenly Victor slapped his thigh and rose. "Body of Bacchus and horns
of Panurge! I will do it. Mazarin will never look for me there. It
is simple." And a smile, genuine and pleasant, lit up his face. "I
will forswear Calliope and nail my flag to Clio; I will no longer write
poetry, I will write history and make it."

He climbed to his room, cast off his hostler's livery and slid into
bed, to dream of tumbling seas, of vast forests, of mighty rivers . . .
and of grey masks.

Promptly at seven he rejoined the Chevalier. Breton was packing a
large portmanteau. He had gathered together those things which he knew
his master loved.

"Monsieur," said the lackey, holding up a book, "this will not go in."

"What is it?" indifferently.

"Rabelais, Monsieur."

"Keep it, lad; I make you a present of it. You have been writing,
Victor?"

Victor was carelessly balancing a letter in his hand. "Yes. A
thousand crowns,--which I shall own some day,--that you can not guess
its contents," gaily.

"You have found Madame de Brissac and are writing to her?" smiling.

For a moment Victor's gaiety left him. The Chevalier's suggestion was
so unexpected as to disturb him. He quickly recovered his poise,
however. "You have lost. It is a letter to my good sister, advising
her of my departure to Quebec. Spain is too near Paris, Paul."

"You, Victor?" cried the Chevalier, while Breton's face grew warm with
regard for Monsieur de Saumaise.

"Yes. Victor loves his neck. And it will be many a day ere
monseigneur turns his glance toward New France in quest."

"But suppo