At seven the storm had passed. Around the mess-table sat the men,
eating. Victor had thrown his grey cloak over the back of his chair.
Occasionally his glance wandered toward madame and Anne. Brother
Jacques sat opposite, and the vicomte sat at his side. As they left
the table to circle round the fire in the living-room, Victor forgot
his cloak, and the vicomte threw it around his own shoulders, intending
to follow the poet and join him in a game of dominoes. A spurt of
flame crimson-hued his face and flashed over the garment.
Brother Jacques started, his mouth agape.