The Grey Cloak

"Madame, are you not truly a poet?"

The vicomte stood at her side, his hat under his arm. "I daresay," he

went on, "that many a night while you were crossing the sea you stood

by the railing and watched the pathway of the moon. How like destiny

it was! You could not pass that ribbon of moonshine nor could it pass

you, but ever and ever it walked and abided with you. Well, so it is

with destiny."

"And when the clouds come, Monsieur le Vicomte, and shut out the moon,

there is, then, a cessation to destiny?"

"You are not only a poet, Madame," he observed, his fingers straying

over his mustache. "You have eclipsed my metaphor nicely, I will

admit."

"And this preamble leads . . . ?"

"I have something of vital importance to tell you; but it can not be

told here. Will you do me the honor and confidence, Madame, to follow

me to the château?"

"How vital is this information?" the chill in her voice becoming

obvious and distinct.

"I was speaking of destiny, Madame; what I have to say pertinently

concerns yours."

Madame trembled and her brow became moist. "Where do you wish me to go

with you, Monsieur?"

"Only into a deserted council chamber, where, if doubt or fear disturbs

you, you have but to cry to bring the whole regiment tumbling about my

ears."

"Proceed, Monsieur; I am not afraid."

"I go before only to show you the way, Madame."

He turned, and madame, casting a regretful glance at the planets which

were beginning to blaze in the firmament, followed him. She was at

once disturbed and curious. This man, brilliant and daring though she

knew him to be, always stirred a vague distrust. He had never done

aught to give rise to this inward antagonism; yet a shadowy instinct, a

half-slumbering sense, warned her against him. D'Hérouville she hated

cordially, for he had pursued her openly; but this man walking before

her, she did not hate him, she feared him. There had been nights at

the hôtel in Paris when she had felt the fiery current of his glance,

but he had never spoken; many a time she had read the secret in his

eyes, but his lips had remained mute. She understood this tact, this

diplomacy which, though it chafed her, she could not rebuke. Thus, he

was more or less a fragment of her thoughts, day after day. Ah, that

mad folly, that indescribable impulse, which had brought her to New

France instead of Spain! Eh well, the blood of the De Rohans and De

Montbazons was in her veins, and the cool of philosophy was never

plentiful in that blood. She was to learn something to-night, if only

the purpose of this man who loved and spoke not.