"Monsieur Paul," said Breton gaily, "do we return to France on the

Henri IV?"

"No, lad; nor on many a ship to come and go."

Breton's heart contracted. "But Monsieur le Marquis . . . ?"

"Will return alone. Go with him, lad; you are homesick. Go and marry

old Martin's daughter, and be happy. It would be wrong for me to rob

you of your youth's right."

"But you, Monsieur?"

"I shall remain here. I have my time to serve. After that, France,

maybe . . . or become a grand seigneur."

The Chevalier put on his hat. He had an idle hour.

Breton choked back the sob. "I will remain with you, Monsieur, for the

present. I was wondering where in the world that copy of Rabelais had

gone. I had not seen it since we left the ship Saint Laurent." The

lad patted the book with a fictitious show of affection.

"Possibly in the hurry of bringing it here you dropped it, and some

one, seeing my name in it, has returned it."

"Never to see France again?" murmured Breton, alone. "Ah, if only I

loved her less, or Monsieur Paul not so well!" Even Breton had his

tragedy.

The Chevalier perched himself upon one of the citadel's parapets. The

southwest wind was tumbling the waters of the river and the deep blues

of the forests seemed continually changing in hues. Forces within him

were at war. He was uneasy. That his father had fought D'Hérouville

on his account there could be no doubt. What a sorry world it was,

with its cross-purposes, its snarled labyrinths! The last meeting with

his father came back vividly; and yet, despite all the cutting, biting

dialogue of that interview, Monsieur le Marquis had taken up his cause

unasked and had gone about it with all the valor of his race. He was

chagrined, angered. Had the old days been lived rightly and with

reason; had there been no ravelings, no tangles, no misunderstandings,

life would have run smoothly enough. Had this strange old man, whom

fate had made his father, come with repentance, but without mode of

expression, without tact? Three thousand miles; 'twas a long way when

a letter would have been sufficient. But the cruelty of that lie, and

the bitterness of all these weeks! If his thrusts that night had been

cruel, he knew that, were it all to be done over again, he should not

moderate a single word. The lie, the abominable lie! One does not

forgive such a lie, at least not easily. And yet that duel! He would

have given a year of his life to see that fight as Brother Jacques

described it. It was his blood; and whatever pits and chasms yawned

between, the spirit of this blood was common. Perhaps some day he

could forgive.




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