A sleepy potboy went to and fro among the tables, clearing up empty
tankards and breakage. Maitre le Borgne sat in his corner, reckoning
up the day's accounts.
Suddenly Victor slapped his thigh and rose. "Body of Bacchus and horns
of Panurge! I will do it. Mazarin will never look for me there. It
is simple." And a smile, genuine and pleasant, lit up his face. "I
will forswear Calliope and nail my flag to Clio; I will no longer write
poetry, I will write history and make it."
He climbed to his room, cast off his hostler's livery and slid into
bed, to dream of tumbling seas, of vast forests, of mighty rivers . . .
and of grey masks.
Promptly at seven he rejoined the Chevalier. Breton was packing a
large portmanteau. He had gathered together those things which he knew
his master loved.
"Monsieur," said the lackey, holding up a book, "this will not go in."
"What is it?" indifferently.
"Rabelais, Monsieur."
"Keep it, lad; I make you a present of it. You have been writing,
Victor?"
Victor was carelessly balancing a letter in his hand. "Yes. A
thousand crowns,--which I shall own some day,--that you can not guess
its contents," gaily.
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