"
"Hark!" said Victor. "I hear a blackbird." He sorted his papers, for
he was writing. "I will write an ode on your venture. What shall I
call it?"
"Call it 'Hazards,' comrade; for this day I put my all in the leather
cup and make but a single throw. Who is madame?"
"Ask her," rather sharply.
"She is worthy of a man's love?"
"Worthy!" Victor half rose from his chair. "Worthy of being loved?
Yes, Paul, she is worthy. But are you sure that you love her?"
"I have loved her for two years."
"Two years," repeated the poet. "She is a strange woman."
"But you know her!"
"Yes, I know her; as we know a name and the name of a history."
"She comes from a good family?"
Victor laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, yes!"
"Do you know why she is here?"
"I thought I did, but I have found that I am as ignorant as yourself."
"There is a mad humor in me to-day. Wish me good luck and bid me be
gone."
"Good luck to you, Paul; good luck to you, comrade." And Victor's
smile, if forced, was none the less affectionate.
"And luck to your ode, my good poet. I go to find me a nosegay."
And when he was gone, Victor remained motionless in his chair.
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