He rose up behind the vicomte, reached over and struck him
roughly on the mouth. The vicomte wheeled like a flash. The Indian
folded his arms across his bronzed chest and looked the furious man
calmly in the eye. The vicomte presently dropped his balled fists,
shrugged, and sat down. It was the best and wisest thing he could do.
D'Herouville, roused from his apathy, laughed. "Eh, you laugh?" said
the vicomte, wiping his bloody lips. His eyes snapped wickedly.
"It is a habit I have," retorted D'Herouville, glancing boldly at the
Chevalier.
"Some day your habit will choke you to death."
D'Herouville's cheeks darkened. He returned to the contemplation of
his boots.
"Ten thousand livres!" The vicomte wiped his lips again, and became
quiet.
This was one evening among many of its like. The poet busied himself
with taking some of the burs from his hair and absently plucking them
to pieces. . . . And Paul had had an intrigue with Gabrielle which had
lasted nearly two years! And madame was unknown to him! What was her
purpose? Blind fool that he had been, with all his dreams. Ever was
he hearing the music of her voice, breathing the vague perfume of her
flowering lips, seeing the heavenly shadows in her eyes.
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