After the
morrow all would he well; Gabrielle would be on the way to Spain, the
Chevalier on the way to New France. But to-night! Dupes and fools,
indeed! He stumbled on through the drifts. The green lantern at last:
was he too late? He rushed into the tavern, thence into the private
assembly, his rapier still in his hand. The cold air yet choked his
lungs, forcing him to breathe noisily and rapidly. He cast about a
nervous, hasty glance.
"You are alone, Paul?"
"Alone?" cried the Chevalier, astonished as much by the question as by
Victor's appearance. "Yes. Why not? . . . What have you been doing
with that sword?" suddenly.
"Nothing, nothing!" with energy. Victor sheathed the weapon. "A woman
entered here by mistake . . . ?"
"She is gone," indifferently. "She was a lady of quality, for I could
see that the odor of wine and the disorder of the room were distasteful
to her."
"She left . . . wearing her mask?" asked the poet, looking everywhere
but at the Chevalier, who was growing curious.
"Yes. Her figure was charming. That blockhead of a host! . . . to
have shown her in here!"
"She was in distress?"
"Evidently.
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