a man to move his diaphragm? You know nothing about the
paper, then?"

"Madame de Brissac knows where it is," was the startling declaration.
"I ask you again, Messieurs, have you seen her?"

"She is in Rochelle," said the vicomte. How many men, he wondered, had
been trapped, by madame's eyes?

"Where is she?" eagerly.

"He lies!" thought Victor. "He knows madame has no paper."

"Where she is just now I do not know."

"She is to sail for Quebec at one o'clock," said the poet.

There was admiration in the vicomte's glance. To send the count on a
wild-goose chase to Quebec while madame sauntered leisurely toward
Spain! It was a brilliant stroke, indeed.

"What boat?" demanded D'Herouville.

"The Saint Laurent," answered the vicomte, playing out the lie.

Victor's glance was sullen.

"Wait a moment, man!" cried the vicomte, catching the count's cloak.
"You can not mean to go running after madame in this fashion. You will
compromise her. Besides, I have some questions to ask. What about De
Brissac's play-woman?"

"Died in prison six days ago. She poisoned herself before they
examined her." The count looked longingly toward the door.

"What! Poisoned herself? Then she must have loved that hoary old
sinner!" The vicomte's astonishment was genuine.

The chilling smile which passed over the count's face was sinister. "I
said she poisoned herself, advisedly."

"Oho!" The vicomte whistled, while Victor drew back.

"Now, Messieurs, will you permit me to go? It is high time you both
were on the way to Spain." D'Herouville stamped his foot impatiently.

"And you will go to Quebec?" asked the vicomte.

"Certainly."

"Well then, till Monsieur de Saumaise and I see you on board. We are
bound in that direction."

"You?" taken aback like a ship's sail.

"Why not, Monsieur," said Victor, a bit of irony in his tones, "since
you yourself are going that way?"

"You took me by surprise." The count's eye ran up and down the poet's
form. He moved his shoulders suggestively. "Till we meet again,
then." And he left them.

"My poet," said the vicomte, "that was a stroke. Lord, how he will
love you when he discovers the trick! What a boor he makes of himself
to cover his designs! Here is a bag of trouble, and necessity has
forced our hands into it. For all his gruffness and seeming
impatience, D'Herouville has never yet made a blunder or a mistake.
Take care."

"Why do you warn me?" Victor w