"It is fully one
o'clock; you will be wanting sleep."
"Sleep?" The ironist twisted his mouth. "It will be many a day ere
sleep makes contest with my eyes . . . unless it be cold and sinister
sleep. Sleep? You are laughing! Only the fatuous and the
self-satisfied sleep . . . and the dead. So be it." He took the tongs
and stirred the log, from which flames suddenly darted. "I wonder what
they are doing at Voisin's to-night?" irrelevantly. "There will be
some from the guards, some from the musketeers, and some from the
prince's troops. And that little Italian who played the lute so well!
Do you recall him? I can see them now, calling Mademoiselle Pauline to
bring Voisin's old burgundy." The Chevalier continued his reminiscence
in silence, forgetting time and place, forgetting Victor, who was
gazing at him with an expression profoundly sad.
The poet mused for a moment, then tiptoed from the room. An idea had
come to him, but as yet it was not fully developed.
"Should I have said 'good night'? Good night, indeed! What mockery
there is in commonplaces! That idea of mine needs some thought." So,
instead of going to bed he sat down on one of the chimney benches.
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