The Grey Cloak

"Gabrielle . . . Gabrielle!" he murmured. His head fell back loosely.

He was dead. Gallant poet!

Madame's flesh seemed turned into marble; she could not move, but

leaned against the wall, her arms half extended on each side.

"See, Madame," said the vicomte; "see what love does! . . . It is

sudden. But do not worry; I too, have said my little part . . . not

very well, either." He steadied himself by catching hold of the table.

The blood gushed from his wound, soaking his leg, and forming a pool on

the clay. "Why, he was worth more than them all, for all he scribbled

verses. Bah! I have come the ragged way, and by the ragged way I go.

. . . It is a pity: either men should be born blind or women without

beauty. The devil of the priests is in it all. And this is what love

does!"

The door darkened again, and the Chevalier, Nicot, Father Chaumonot and

four soldiers came in hurriedly. The Chevalier was first. With a cry

he dropped beside Victor.

"Lad, lad!" he cried in anguish. "Speak to me, lad!" He touched the

poet's hands, and rose. Like an angry lion he faced the vicomte.

"Ha!" said the vicomte, rousing from the numbness which was stealing

away his senses. "So it is you? I had each hair on your head separate

and standing; and but for a kiss you would now be mad. To have come

all this way and to have stopped a moment too long! That is what they

call irony. But I would give my soul to ten Jesuit hells could I meet

you once again with the sword. You have always plucked the fruit out

of my grasp. We walked together, but the sun was always on you and the

cloud on me. Ah, well, your poet is dead . . . and I had no real

enmity toward him. . . . He was your friend. He will write no more

ballades, and rondeaux, and triolets; eh, Madame? . . . Well, in a

moment," as if he heard a voice calling. He balanced himself with

difficulty.

Life returned to madame. Sobbing she sank beside Victor, calling to

him wildly, fondled his head, shook his warm but nerveless hands,

kissed his damp forehead, her tears falling on his yellow hair.

"He is gone!" she said piteously. "Victor is dead; he will not speak.

Poor boy, poor boy!"

They were strong men; the tender quick of pity had grown thick. Yet

they turned away. Father Chaumonot raised her gently.

"Yes, my daughter, he is dead. God will deal kindly with him, brave

boy."

"Dead . . . as I shall soon be." The vicomte's dulling eyes roved from

one face to another till they rested on madame. "He will sing no more;

he will not fly southward this winter, nor next. Ah, Madame, will you

forget that kiss? I believe not. Listen: . . . I did not kiss simply

your lips; 'twas your memory. Ever shall that kiss stand between you

and your lover's lips."