as full to the lips with rage.

"Because, hang me, I like your wit. Monsieur, there is no need of you
and me cutting each other's throats. Let us join hands in cutting
D'Herouville's. And there's the Chevalier; I had forgotten him. He
and D'Herouville do not speak. I had mapped out three dull months on
the water, and here walks in a comedy of various parts. Let us try a
pot of canary together. You ought to change that livery of yours.
Somebody will be insulting you and you will be drawing your sword."

Victor followed the vicomte to a table. After all, there was something
fascinating about this man, with that devil-may-care air of his, his
banter and his courage. So he buried a large part of his animosity,
and accepted the vicomte's invitation.

All within the tavern was marked by that activity which precedes a
notable departure. Seamen were bustling about, carrying bundles,
stores, ammunition, and utensils. Here and there were soldiers
polishing their muskets and swords and small arms. There was a calling
to and fro. The mayor of the city came in, full of Godspeed and cheer,
and following him were priests from the episcopal palace and wealthy
burghers who were interested in the great trading company. All
Rochelle was alive.

The vicomte, like all banterers, possessed that natural talent of
standing aside and reading faces and dissecting emotions. Three faces
interested him curiously. The Chevalier hid none of his thoughts; they
lay in his eyes, in the wrinkles on his brow, in the immobility of his
pose. How easy it was to read that the Chevalier saw nothing, save in
a nebulous way, of the wonderful panorama surrounding. He was with the
folly of the night gone, with Paris, with to-day's regrets for vanished
yesterday. The vicomte could see perfectly well that Victor's gaiety
was natural and unassumed; that the past held him but loosely, since
this past held the vision of an ax. The analyst passed on to Brother
Jacques, and received a slight shock. The penetrating grey eyes of the
priest caught his and held them menacingly.

"Ah!" murmured the vicomte, "the little Jesuit has learned the trick,
too, it would seem. He is reading my face. I must know more of this
handsome fellow whose blood is red and healthy. He comes from no such
humble origin as Father Chaumonot. Bah! and look at those nuns: they
are animated coffins, holding only dead remembrances and dried,
perfumeless flowers."

A stron