The Grey Cloak

"On my word of honor, he laughed at a jest of mine not half an hour

ago. Oh, we shall have him in his boots again ere we see land. If we

are a big family, as you say, Major, will you not always have a

fatherly eye upon my friend? He survives a mighty trouble. His heart

is like a king's purse, full of gold that rings sound and true. Only

give him a trial, and he will prove his metal. I know what lieutenants

and corporals are. Sometimes they take delight in pricking a fallen

lion. Let his orders come from you till he has served his time."

"And you?"

"I have nothing to ask for myself."

"Monsieur, no man need ask favors of me. Let him not shirk his duty,

and the Chevalier's days shall be as peaceful as may be. And if he

serves his time in the company, why, he shall have his parcel of land

on the Great River. I shall not ask you any questions. His past

troubles are none of my affairs. Let him prove a man. I ask no more

of him than that. Father Chaumonot has told me that Monsieur le

Marquis has given a thousand livres to the cause. The Chevalier will

stand in well for the first promotion."

"Thank you, Major. It is nine. I will go and compose verses till

noon."

"And I shall arrange for some games this afternoon, feats of strength

and fencing. I would that my purse were heavy enough to offer prizes."

"Amen to that."

The major watched the poet as he made for the main cabin. "So the

Chevalier has a heart of gold?" he mused. "It must be rich, indeed, if

richer than this poet's. He's a good lad, and his part in life will

have a fine rounding out."

Victor passed into the cabin and seated himself at the table in the

main cabin. Occasionally he would nod approvingly, or rumple the

feathery end of the quill between his teeth, or drum with his fingers

in the effort to prove a verse whose metrical evenness did not quite

satisfy his ear. There were obstacles, however, which marred the

sureness of his inspiration. First it was the face of madame as he had

seen it, now here, now there, in sunshine, in cloud. Was hers a heart

of ice which the warmth of love could not melt? Did she love another?

Would he ever see her again? Spain! Ah, but for the Chevalier he

might be riding at her side over the Pyrenees. The pen moved

desultorily. Line after line was written, only to be rejected. The

envoi first took shape. It is a peculiar habit the poet has of

sometimes putting on the cupola before laying the foundation of his

house of fancy. Victor read over slowly what he had written: "Prince, where is the tavern's light that cheers?

Where is La Place with its musketeers,

Golden nights and the May-time breeze?

And where are the belles of the balconies?"