He remained seated, lost in meditation. From time to
time he opened the paper and refolded it. The movement was purely
mechanical, and had no significance.
"Monsieur," said Breton timidly, "will you do me the honor to tell me
what has happened? Monsieur de Saumaise, the vicomte and Monsieur
d'Herouville; they are not with you?"
"Well, lad, perhaps it is due you;" and the Chevalier recounted a
simple story of what had befallen him.
"Ah, that brave Monsieur de Saumaise!" exclaimed Breton, tears in his
eyes. "And what became of the grey cloak, Monsieur?"
The Chevalier did not immediately reply.
"What became of it, Monsieur?"
"The Vicomte d'Halluys sleeps in it, lad. It is his shroud."
And not another word spoke the Chevalier to Breton that night. He sat
before the bright chimney: old scenes, old scenes, with the gay poet
moving blithely among them. Madame had heard the vicomte's insults,
but now there was nothing to explain to her. What should he do with
his useless life? There was no future; everything beyond was dark with
monotony. It was a cruel revenge madame had taken, but she had asked
his forgiveness, and he had forgiven.
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