"That is a question I can not answer. To the best of my knowledge, no
one will succeed Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny."
"So this is what brought him over here? What brought you?"
"Friendship for him, an empty purse and a pocketful of ambition."
The answer pleased De Lauson, and he nodded. "That is all."
"Thank you, Monsieur."
"I shall keep you in mind . . . if you escape the gibbet."
Monsieur de Saumaise, in displaying his teeth, signified that the least
of his worries was the thought of the gibbet.
And so concluded the interview.
The Chevalier remained in his room all day, putting aside his food, and
staring beyond the river. His eyes were dull and the lids discolored
from sleeplessness. Victor waited for him to heap reproach upon him;
but never a word did the Chevalier utter. The only sign he gave of the
volcano raging and burning beneath the thin mask of calm was the
ceaseless knotting of the muscles of the jaw and the compressed lips.
When the poet broke forth, reviling his own conduct, the Chevalier
silenced him with a gesture of the hand.
"You are wasting your breath. What you have done can not be undone."
The tones of his voice were all on a dull level, cold and unimpassioned.
Victor was struck with admiration at the sight of such extraordinary
control; and he trembled to think of the whirlwind which would some day
be let loose.
"I will kill De Leviston the first opportunity," he said.
The Chevalier arose. "No, lad; the man who told him. He is mine!"
Victor sought out Brother Jacques for advice; but Brother Jacques's
advice was similar to the Chevalier's and the governors.
So the day wore on into evening, and only then did the Chevalier
venture forth. He wandered aimlessly about the ramparts, alone, having
declined Victor's company, and avoiding all whom he saw. He wanted to
be alone, alone, forever alone. Longingly he gazed toward the
blackening forests. Yonder was a haven. Into those shadowy woods he
might plunge and hide himself, built him a hut, and become lost to
civilization, his name forgotten and his name forgetting. O fool in
wine that he had been! To cut himself off from the joys and haunts of
men in a moment of drunken insanity! He had driven the marquis with
taunts and gibes; he had shouted his ignoble birth across a table; and
he expected, by coming to this wilderness, to lose the Nemesis he
himself had set upon his heels! What a fool! What a fool! He had
cast out his heart for the rooks and the daws. Wherever he might go,
the world would go also, and the covert smile . . . and the covert
smile . . . God, how apart from all mankind he seemed this night. But
for Victor he would have sought the woods at once, facing the Iroquois
fearlessly. He must remain, to bow his head before the glances of the
curious, the head that once was held so high; accept rebuffs without
murmur, stand aside, step down, and follow. If a man laughed at him,
he must turn away: his sword could no longer protect him. How his lips
thirsted for the wine-cup, for one mad night, and then . . . oblivion!
An outcast! What would be his end? O the long years! For him there
should be no wifely lips to kiss away the penciled lines of care; the
happy voices of children would never make music in his ears. He was
alone, always and ever alone!