s."

Here Breton returned, followed by Victor, who carried a roll of paper
in his hand. Brother Jacques pressed the poet's arm affectionately.
He had grown to love this youth whose cheeriness and amiability never
left him.

"Paul, my boy," said Victor, when the priest had gone, "I have started
a ballade of double refrain."

"Is it gay, lad?" The Chevalier was glad to see his friend. There was
no mystery here; he could see to the bottom of this well.

"Not so gay as it might be, nor so melancholy as I strove to make it.
Frankly, I was a trifle homesick this morning. There was something in
the air which recalled to me the Loire in the springtime."

The Chevalier looked at Breton, who flushed. "Homesick, eh?" he said.
"Well, don't be ashamed of it, Victor; Breton here was moping but half
an hour ago over the hills of Perigny. And, truth to tell, so was I."

"Ha!" cried the poet with satisfaction, "that sounds like Paul of old."

"What are the games this afternoon?" asked the Chevalier. "Will there
be foils?"

"Yes." Victor straightened out his papers and cleared his voice.

"And you will take part?"

"Certainly."

"Does the vicomte enter the bouts?"

"He does. I daresay that we shall come together."

"I had rather you would decline," said the Chevalier.

"What! not to face him with the foils?"

"He is a better fencer than you, Victor; and to witness your defeat
would be no less a humiliation to me than to you. You can reasonably
decline."

"And have that boor D'Herouville laugh? No! Let him give me the
chance, and I will give him the back of my hand. Hang it, Paul, what
made you interfere?"

"I have a prior claim. You recollect it well enough. He spoke lightly
of the conduct of Mademoiselle de Longueville, and I threw a glass of
champagne in his face. You had best decline to measure swords with the
vicomte."

"Horns of Panurge! Some of these broken gentlemen doubt my ability.
Besides, I may learn something of the vicomte's strength. I wonder
what it is: when I am out of his presence I dislike him; when he
approaches me, my dislike melts in the air."

"Read me what you have written," resignedly.

"I have polished only the third stanza and the _envoi_. I will read
these to you; and tell me where it lacks smoothness."

"_Beatrice is vanished and with her her smiles;
Others shall kiss away Henriette's tears,
Others surrender to Marguerite's wiles:
Where is La Place wi