The vicomte, like all banterers, possessed that natural talent of

standing aside and reading faces and dissecting emotions. Three faces

interested him curiously. The Chevalier hid none of his thoughts; they

lay in his eyes, in the wrinkles on his brow, in the immobility of his

pose. How easy it was to read that the Chevalier saw nothing, save in

a nebulous way, of the wonderful panorama surrounding. He was with the

folly of the night gone, with Paris, with to-day's regrets for vanished

yesterday. The vicomte could see perfectly well that Victor's gaiety

was natural and unassumed; that the past held him but loosely, since

this past held the vision of an ax. The analyst passed on to Brother

Jacques, and received a slight shock. The penetrating grey eyes of the

priest caught his and held them menacingly.

"Ah!" murmured the vicomte, "the little Jesuit has learned the trick,

too, it would seem. He is reading my face. I must know more of this

handsome fellow whose blood is red and healthy. He comes from no such

humble origin as Father Chaumonot. Bah! and look at those nuns: they

are animated coffins, holding only dead remembrances and dried,

perfumeless flowers."

A strong and steady east wind had driven away all vestige of the storm.

The sea was running westward in long and swinging leaps, colorful,

dazzling, foam-crested. The singing air was spangled with frosty

brine-mist; a thousand flashes were cast back from the city windows;

the flower of the lily fluttered from a hundred masts. A noble vision,

truly, was the good ship Saint Laurent, standing out boldly against the

clear horizon and the dark green of the waters. High up among the

spars and shrouds swarmed the seamen. Canvas flapped and bellied as it

dropped, from arm to arm, sending the fallen snow in a flurry to the

decks. On the poop-deck stood the black-gowned Jesuits, the sad-faced

nuns, several members of the great company, soldiers and adventurers.

The wharves and docks and piers were crowded with the curious:

bright-gowned peasants, soldiers from the fort, merchants, and a

sprinkling of the noblesse. It was not every day that a great ship

left the harbor on so long and hazardous a voyage.

The Chevalier leaned against the railing, dreamily noting the white

faces in the sunshine. He was still vaguely striving to convince

himself that he was in the midst of some dream. He was conscious of an

approaching illness, too. When would he wake? . . . and where? A hand

touched his arm. He turned and saw Brother Jacques. There was a

kindly expression on the young priest's face. He now saw the Chevalier

in a new light. It was not as the gay cavalier, handsome, rich,

care-free; it was as a man who, suffering a mortal stroke, carried his

head high, hiding the wound like a Spartan.




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024