His eyes closed; he was very pale. "Do we not die
sometimes, Victor, while yet the heart and brain go on beating and
thinking?"

Victor grasped the Chevalier's hand. There are some friendships which
are expressed not by the voice, but by the pressure of a hand, a
kindling glance of the eye. Brother Jacques moved on. He saw that for
the present he had no part in these two lives.

"Look!" Victor cried, suddenly, pointing toward the harbor towers.

"Jehan?" murmured the Chevalier. "Good old soul! Is he waving his
hand, Victor? The sun . . . I can not see."

"Do you suppose your father . . ."

"Who?" calmly.

"Ah! Well, then, Monsieur le Marquis: do you suppose he has sent Jehan
to verify the report that you sail for Quebec?"

"I do not suppose anything, Victor. As for Monsieur le Marquis, I have
already ceased to hate him. How beautiful the sea is! And yet,
contemplate the horror of its rolling over your head, beating your life
out on the reefs. All beautiful things are cruel."

"But you are glad, Paul," affectionately, "that I am with you?"

"Both glad and sorry. For after a time you will return, leaving me
behind."

"Perhaps. And yet who can say that we both may not return, only with
fame marching on ahead to announce us in that wonderfully pleasing way
she has?"

"It is your illusions that I love, Victor: I see myself again in you.
Keep to your ballades, your chant-royals, your triolets; you will write
an epic whenever you lose your illusions; and epics by Frenchmen are
dull and sorry things. When you go below tell Breton to unpack my
portmanteau."

On the wharf nearest the vessel stood two women, hooded so as to
conceal their faces.

"There, Gabrielle; you have asked to see the Chevalier du Cevennes,
that is he leaning against the railing."

"So that is the Chevalier. And he goes to Quebec. In mercy's name,
what business has he there?"

"You are hurting my arm, dear. Victor would not tell me why he goes to
Quebec."

"Ah, if he goes out of friendship for Victor, it is well."

"Is he not handsome?"

"Melancholy handsome, after the pattern of the Englishman's Hamlet. I
like a man with a bright face. When does the Henri IV sail?" suddenly.

"Two weeks from to-morrow. To-morrow is Fools' Day."

"Why, then, do not those on yonder ship sail to-morrow instead of
to-day?"

"You were not always so bitter."

"I must have my jest. To-morrow may have its dupes as well as its
f