The roisterers went their devious ways, sobered and subdued. So deep
was their distraction that the watch passed unmolested. Usually a rout
was rounded out and finished by robbing the watch of their staffs and
lanterns; by singing in front of the hôtel of the mayor or the
episcopal palace; by yielding to any extravagant whim suggested by
mischief. But to-night mischief itself was quiet and uninventive. Had
there been a violent death among them, the roisterers would have
accepted the event with drunken philosophy. The catastrophe of this
night, however, was beyond their imagination: they were still-voiced
and horrified. The Chevalier du Cévennes, that prince of good fellows
. . . was a nobody, a son of the left hand! Those who owed the
Chevalier money or gratitude now recollected with no small satisfaction
that they had not paid their indebtedness. Truly adversity is the
crucible in which the quality of friendship is tried.
On the way to the Corne d'Abondance the self-made victim of this
night's madness and his friend exchanged no words. There was nothing
to be said. But there was death in the Chevalier's heart; his chin was
sunken in his collar, and he bore heavily on Victor's arm; from time to
time he hiccoughed. Victor bit his lips to repress the sighs which
urged against them.
"Where do you wish to go, Paul?" he asked, when they arrived under the
green lantern and tarnished cherubs of the tavern.
"Have I still a place to go?" the Chevalier asked. "Ah well, lead on,
wherever you will; I am in your keeping."
So together they entered the tavern.
"Maître," said Victor to le Borgne, "is the private assembly in use?"
"No, Monsieur; you wish to use it?"
"Yes; and see that no one disturbs us."
In passing through the common assembly, Victor saw Du Puys and Bouchard
in conversation with the Jesuits. Brother Jacques glanced carelessly
in the Chevalier's direction, frowned at some thought, and turned his
head away. The Iroquois had fallen asleep in a chair close to the
fire. In a far corner Victor discovered the form of the Vicomte
d'Halluys; he was apparently sleeping on his arms, which were extended
across the table.
"Why do I dislike that man?" Victor asked in thought. "There is
something in his banter which strikes me as coming from a man consumed
either by hate or envy." He pushed the Chevalier into the private
assembly, followed and closed the door.
"Ah!" The Chevalier sank into a chair. "Three hours ago I was
laughing and drinking in this room. Devil take me, but time flies!"
"God knows, Paul," said Victor, brokenly, "what you have done this
night. You are mad, mad! What are you going to do? You have publicly
branded yourself as the illegitimate son of the marquis."