On the top of it Victor had carved his initials. The
Chevalier's eyes filled. Brave poet! Always ready with the jest,
light of heart and cheery, gentle and tender, brave as a lion, too.
Here was a man such as God intended all men to be. A beggar himself,
he gave his last crown to the beggar; undismayed, he would borrow from
his friend, paying the crown back in golden louis. How he loved the
lad! Only that morning he had romped about the mess-room like a boy
escaped from the school-room; imitated Mazarin, Uncle Gaston, the few
great councillors, and the royal actors themselves. Even the austere
visage of the Father Superior had relaxed and Du Puys had roared with
laughter. What was this sudden chill? Or was it his fancy? He
stepped into the open again, and found it warm.
"She will be here soon. It is after four. What can she have to say?"
Even as he spoke he heard a sound. It was madame, alone, and she was
hurrying along the path. A moment later and they stood together before
the threshold of the hut. There was mutual embarrassment which was
difficult to analyze. The exertion of the walk had filled her cheeks
with a color as brilliant as the bunch of maple leaves which she had
fastened at her throat.
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