Ah, the golden nights, indeed! What were they doing yonder in Paris?

Were they all alive, the good lads in his company? And how went the

war with Spain? Would the ladies sometimes recall him in the tennis

courts? With a sigh he dipped the quill in the inkhorn and went on.

The truth is, the poet was homesick. But he was not alone in this

affliction.

Breton was sitting by the port-hole in his master's berthroom. He was

reading from his favorite book. Time after time he would look toward

the bunk where the Chevalier lay dozing. Finally he closed the book

and rose to gaze out upon the sea. In fancy he could see the hills of

Périgny. The snow had left them by now. They were green and soft,

rolling eastward as far as the eye could see. Old Martin's daughter

was with the kine in the meadows. The shepherd dog was rolling in the

grass at her feet. Was she thinking of Breton, who was on his way to a

strange land, who had left her with never a good by to dull the edge of

separation? He sobbed noiselessly. The book slipped from his fingers

to the floor, and the noise of it brought the Chevalier out of his

gentle dreaming.

"Is it you, lad?"

"Yes, Monsieur Paul," swallowing desperately.

"What is the matter?"

"I was thinking how the snow has left the hills of Périgny. I can see

my uncle puttering in the gardens at the château. Do you remember the

lilacs which grew by the western gates? They will soon be filling the

park with fragrance. Monsieur will forgive me for recalling?"

"Yes; for I was there in my dreams, lad. I was fishing for those

yellow perch by the poplars, and you were baiting my hooks."

"Was I, Monsieur?" joyfully. "My mother used to tell me that it was a

sign of good luck to dream of fishing. Was the water clear?"

"As clear as Monsieur le Cure's emerald. Do you remember how he used

to twist it round and round when he visited the château? It was a fine

ring. The Duchesse d'Aiguillon gave it to him, so he used to tell us.

'Twas she who founded the Hôtel Dieu at Quebec, where we are going."

"Yes; and in the month of May, which is but a few days off, we used to

ride into Cévennes to the mines of porphyry and marbles which . . .

which . . ." Breton stopped, embarrassed.

"Which I used to own," completed the Chevalier. "They were quarries,

lad, not mines. 'Golden days, that turn to silver, then to lead,'

writes Victor. Eh, well! Do you know how much longer we are to remain

upon this abominable sea? This must be something like the eighteenth

of April."




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