The Chevalier was first. With a cry
he dropped beside Victor.
"Lad, lad!" he cried in anguish. "Speak to me, lad!" He touched the
poet's hands, and rose. Like an angry lion he faced the vicomte.
"Ha!" said the vicomte, rousing from the numbness which was stealing
away his senses. "So it is you? I had each hair on your head separate
and standing; and but for a kiss you would now be mad. To have come
all this way and to have stopped a moment too long! That is what they
call irony. But I would give my soul to ten Jesuit hells could I meet
you once again with the sword. You have always plucked the fruit out
of my grasp. We walked together, but the sun was always on you and the
cloud on me. Ah, well, your poet is dead . . . and I had no real
enmity toward him. . . . He was your friend. He will write no more
ballades, and rondeaux, and triolets; eh, Madame? . . . Well, in a
moment," as if he heard a voice calling. He balanced himself with
difficulty.
Life returned to madame. Sobbing she sank beside Victor, calling to
him wildly, fondled his head, shook his warm but nerveless hands,
kissed his damp forehead, her tears falling on his yellow hair.
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