"What!" cried Victor in surprise; "you have a new feather in your hat?"
"Faith, lad," said the Chevalier, "the old plume was a shabby one. But
I have not destroyed it; too many fond remembrances cling to it. How
often have I doffed that plume at court, in the gardens, on the
balconies and on the king's highways! And who would suspect, to look
at it now, that it had ever dusted the mosaics at the Vatican? And
there have been times when I flung it on the green behind the
Luxembourg, my doublet beside it."
"Ah, yes; we used to have an occasional affair." And Victor nodded as
one who knew the phrase. "But a new feather here? Who will notice it?
Pray, glance at this suit of mine! I give it one month's service, and
then the Indian's clout. I can't wear those skins. Pah!"
"Examine this feather," the Chevalier requested.
"White heron, as I live! You are, then, about to seek the war-path?"
laughing.
"Or the path which leads to it. I am going a-courting."
"Ah!"
"Yes. Heigho! How would you like a pheasant, my poet, and a bottle of
Mignon's bin of '39?"
"Paris!" Victor smacked his lips drolly.
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