"Ah!" The Chevalier sank into a chair. "Three hours ago I was laughing and drinking in this room. Devil take me, but time flies!"
"G.o.d 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."
"It is true," simply.
"True or false, you have published it without cause or reason. Good G.o.d! and they will laugh at you; and I will kill all who laugh in my presence. What madness!" Victor flung his hat on the table, strode the length of the room, beating his hands and rumpling his hair.
"How you go on, Victor!" said the Chevalier with half a smile. "And you love me still?"
"And will, to the latest breath in my body. I know of no other man I love so wholly as I love you."
"I would lose two marquisates rather than be without this knowledge."
"But oh! what have you done? To-morrow . . . What will you do to-morrow?"
"To-morrow? A bottle of wine, lad; and wherefore to-morrow?
To-morrow? There will always be a tomorrow. The world began on one and will end on one. So give me wine, bubbling with lies, false promises, phantom happiness, mockery and despair. Each bottle is but lies; and yet how well each bottle tells them! Wine, Victor; do you hear me? I must never come sober again; in drunkenness, there lies oblivion. What! shall I come sober . . . to feel, to care? . . . to hear them laugh? No, no! See!" brushing his forehead, beaded with moisture; "I am sweating gall, lad. G.o.d!" striking the table with his fist; "could you but look within and see the l.u.s.t to kill, the d.a.m.nation and despair! Woe to him whom I hear laugh! And yet . . . he will be within his rights. Whenever men tire of torturing animals, nature gives them a cripple or a b.a.s.t.a.r.d to play with. And look! I am calm, my hand no longer shakes."
Victor leaned against the chimney, haggard of face, silent of tongue.
The Chevalier took out a letter and held it close to the candle-light.
He sighed. Victor saw that he was not looking at the letter, but through it and beyond. Some time pa.s.sed.
"And, Victor, I was going back to Paris to-morrow, to life and to love.
Within this scented envelope a woman has written the equivalent of "I love you!" as only a loving woman can write it. How quickly the candle would eat it! But shall I destroy it? No. Rather let me keep it to remind myself what was and what might have been. Far away from here I shall read it again and again, till it crumbles in my hand and scatters into dust." He hid the letter in his doublet and drew forth a miniature. Like a ruddy ember it lay in his hand. "Paris! O prince of cities, there lies upon your stones the broken cup which held my youth!" The yellow of the candle and the red of the fire gave a singularly rich tone to his face, from which the dullness of intoxication was suddenly gone.
"Paul, you are breaking my heart," cried Victor, choking. His poet"s soul, and only such as his, could comprehend how full was the Chevalier"s cup of misery.
"Only women"s hearts break, lad, and then in verse. Shall I weep? No.
Let me laugh; for, my faith, it is laughable. I brought it on myself.
Fate led me to the precipice, and I myself jumped over. Yesterday I had pride, I was heir to splendid estates, with forty thousand livres the year to spend. To-night . . . Let me see; the vicomte owes me fifty pistoles. It will be a start in life . . . And much have I snuffed besides candles to-night! By all means, let me laugh."
This irony overcame Victor, who sat down, covered his face, and wept noiselessly.
"You weep? And I . . . I am denied the joy of cursing."
"But what made you speak? In G.o.d"s name, what possessed you to publish this misfortune?"
"On my word, Victor, I do not know. Wine, perhaps; perhaps anger, madness, or what you will. I know only this: I could not help myself.
Poor fool! Yes, I was mad. But he roused within me all the disgust of life, and it struck me blind. But regret is the cruelest of mental poisons; and there is enough in my cup without that. And that poor marquis; I believe I must have caused him some annoyance and chagrin."
"But what will you do?"
"What shall I do? Paris shall see me no more, nor France. I shall go . . . Yes; thanks, Brother Jacques, thanks! I shall go to that France across the sea and become . . . a grand seigneur, owning a hut in the wilderness. Monsieur le Chevalier, lately a fop at court will become a habitant of the forests, will wear furs, and seek his food by the aid of a musket. It will be a merry life, Victor; no dicing, no tennis, no women, no wine." The Chevalier rested his chin in his hands, staring at the candle. "On Thursday next there will be a mask ball at the Palais Royal; but the Chevalier du Cevennes will not be with his company. He will be on the way to New France, with many another broken soldier, to measure his sword against fortune"s. And from the camp-fires, lad, I shall conjure up women"s faces, and choose among the most patient . . . my mother"s. Vanity!" suddenly. "But for vanity I had not been here. Look, Victor; it was not wine, it was not madness.
It was vanity in the shape of a grey cloak, a grey cloak. Will you call Major du Puys?"
"Paul, you can not mean it?"
"Frankly, can I remain in France? Have I not already put France behind me?"
"And what"s to become of me?" asked the poet.
"You? Why, you will shortly find Madame de Brissac, marry her, and become a fine country gentleman. And when Mazarin becomes forgetful or dies, you will return to Paris, your head secure upon your shoulders.
As for me, New France, and a fresh quill, and I will be a man yet,"
smiling. "And I give you the contents of my rooms at the Candlestick."
"What! live among these ghosts of happy times? I could not!"
"Well, I will give them to Mignon, then. There is one who will miss me. Will you call the major, or shall I?"
"I will call him, since you are determined."
"I shall take the grey cloak, too, lad. I will wear that token of vanity into rags. Faith, I have not looked at it once since I loaned it to you."
"And the unknown?"
"When we come to the end of a book, my poet, we lay it down. What woman"s love could surmount this birth of mine, these empty pockets? I have still some reason; that bids me close the book. Yonder, from what I have learned, they are in need of men"s arms and brains, not ancestry, n.o.ble birth. And there is some good blood in this arm, however it may have come into the world." The Chevalier extended it across the table and the veins swelled upon the wrist and hand. "Seek the major, lad."
When the major entered the Chevalier stood up. "Monsieur," he said, "pardon me for interrupting you, but is it true that to-morrow you sail for Quebec?"
"The weather permitting," answered Du Puys, vaguely wondering why the Chevalier wished to see him. His shrewd glance traveled from the Chevalier to Victor, and he saw that they had been drinking.
"Thanks," said the Chevalier. "You are recruiting?"
"Yes, Monsieur. I have succeeded indifferently well."
"Is there room in your company for another recruit?"
"You have a friend who wishes to seek his fortune?" smiling grimly.
"I am speaking for myself. I wish to visit that country. Will you accept my sword and services?"
"You, Monsieur?" dumfounded. "You, a common trooper in Quebec? You are jesting!"
"Not at all. I shall never return to Paris."
"Monsieur le Comte . . ." began Du Puys.
The Chevalier raised his hand. "Not Monsieur le Comte; simply Monsieur le Chevalier du Cevennes; Cevennes for the sake of brevity."
"Monsieur, then, pardon a frank soldier. The life at Quebec is not at all suited to one who has been accustomed to the ease and luxury of court. There is all the difference in the world between De Guitaut"s company in Paris and Du Puy"s ragged band in Quebec. Certainly, a man as rich as yourself . . ."
"I have not a denier in my pockets," said the Chevalier, with a short laugh.
"Not at present, perhaps," replied Du Puys. "But one does not lose forty thousand livres in a night, and that, I understand, is your revenue."
"I lost them to-night," quietly.