"We shall close that page," said the poet, looking out of the window.
She would be in Spain. Ah well!"
"Monsieur," said Breton, "will you take this?"
The two friends turned. Breton was holding at arm's length a grey
cloak.
"The cloak!" cried Victor.
"Pack it away, lad," the Chevalier said, the lines in his face
deepening, "It will serve to recall to me that vanity is a futile
thing."
"The devil! but for my own vanity and miserable purse neither of us
would have been here." Victor made as though to touch the cloak, but
shrugged, and signified to Breton to put it out of sight.
When Breton had buckled the straps he exhibited a restlessness,
standing first on one foot, then on the other. He folded his arms,
then unfolded them, and plucked at his doublet. The Chevalier was
watching him from the corner of his eye.
"Speak, lad; you have something to say."
"Monsieur, I can not return to the hotel. Monsieur le Marquis has
forbidden me." Breton's eyes filled with tears. It was the first lie
he had ever told his master.
"Have you any money, Victor?" asked the Chevalier, taking out the fifty
pistoles won from the vicomte and dividing them.
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