The Grey Cloak Part 23

"Quebec?" The woman in the grey mask spun on her heels. "Monsieur, did I hear you say Quebec?"

"Yes, Madame la Comtesse."

The grey mask made a gesture of dissent. Presently she spoke.

"Monsieur, you have made a mistake. There is no Madame la Comtesse here."

Victor did not reply.

"Do you hear, Monsieur?"

"Yes, Madame. Our eyes and ears sometimes deceive us, but never the heart."

Madame flung out a hand in protest. "Never mind, Monsieur, what the heart says; it is not worth while."

Victor grew pale. There was a double meaning to this sentence. Anne eyed him anxiously.

A disturbance at the table caught Victor's ear. He saw that the vicomte and the others were proceeding toward the stairs. The vicomte was last to mount. At the landing he stopped, looked down at the group by the chimney, shrugged, and went on.

Maitre le Borgne came in from the kitchens. "If the ladies will follow me I will conduct them to their rooms. A fire is under way. The wines and brandy and sugar are on the table; and the warming-pan stands by the chimney."

"Anne," said madame, "go you to the room with the host. I will follow you shortly. I have something to say to Monsieur de Saumaise."

There was a decision in her tones which caused Victor to experience a chill not devoid of dread. If only he could read the face behind the mask!

Anne followed Maitre le Borgne upstairs. Victor and madame were alone.

He waited patiently for her to speak. She devoted some moments absently to crus.h.i.+ng with her boot the stray pieces of charred wood which littered the broad hearthstone.

"Victor," she said of a sudden, "forgive me!"

"Forgive you for what?"

"For innocently bringing this trouble upon you, for endangering your head."

"Oh, that is nothing. Danger is spice to a man's palate. But will you not remove your mask that I may look upon your face while you speak?"

There was a break in his voice. This unexpected meeting seemed to have taken the solids from under his feet.

"You have been drinking!" with agitation.

"I have been striving to forget. But wine makes us reckless, not forgetful." He rumpled his hair. "But will you not remove the mask?"

"Victor, you ought never to look upon my face again."

"Do you suppose that I could forget your face, a single contour or line of it?"

"I have been so thoughtless! Forgive me! It was my hope that many months should pa.s.s ere we met again. But fate has willed it otherwise.

I have but few words to say to you. I beg you to listen earnestly to them. It is true that in your company I have pa.s.sed many a pleasant hour. Your wit, your gossip, your excellent verses, and your unending gaiety dispelled many a cloud of which you knew nothing, nor shall know. When I fled from Paris there was a moment when I believed you to be guilty of that abominable crime. That grey cloak; I had seen you wear it. Forgive me for doubting so brave a gentleman as yourself. I have learned all. You never spoke of the Chevalier du Cevennes as being your comrade in arms. That was excessive delicacy on your part.

Monsieur, our paths must part to widen indefinitely."

"How calmly you put the cold of death in my heart!" The pa.s.sion in his voice was a pain to her. Well she knew that he loved her deeply, honestly, lastingly. "Gabrielle, you know that I love you. You are free."

"Love?" with voice metallic. "Talk not to me of love. If I have inspired you with an unhappy pa.s.sion, forgive me, for it was done without intent. I have played you an evil turn." She sank on one of the benches and fumbled, with the strings of her mask.

"So: the dream vanishes; the fire becomes ashes. Is it really you, Gabrielle? Has not the wine turned the world upside-down, brought you here only in fancy? This night is truly some strange dream. I shall wake to-morrow in Paris. I shall receive a note from you, bidding me bring the latest book. The Chevalier will dine with his beautiful unknown . . . Gabrielle, tell me that you love no one," anger and love and despair alternately changing his voice, "yes, tell me that!"

"Victor, I love no man. And G.o.d keep me from that folly. You are making me very unhappy!" She bent her head upon her arm.

"Oh, my vanished dream, do not weep on my account! You are not to blame. I love you well. That is G.o.d's blame, not yours, since He molded you, gave you a beautiful face, a beautiful mind, a beautiful heart. Well, I will be silent. I will go about my affairs, laughing.

I shall write rollicking verses, fight a few duels, and sign a few papers under which the ax lies hidden! . . . Do you know how well I love you?" sinking beside her and taking her hand before she could place it beyond his reach. He put a kiss on it. "Listen. If it means anything toward your happiness and content of mind, I will promise to be silent forever." Suddenly he dropped the hand and rose. "Your presence is overpowering: I can not answer for myself. You were right.

We ought not to have met again."

"I must go," she said, also rising. She moved blindly across the room, irresolutely. Seeing a door, she turned the k.n.o.b and entered.

It was only after the door closed that Victor recollected. Paul and she together in that room? What irony! He was about to rush after madame, when his steps were arrested by a voice coming from the stairs.

The vicomte was descending.

"Ah, Monsieur de Saumaise," said the vicomte, "how fortunate to find you alone!"

"Fortunate, indeed!" replied Victor. Here was a man upon whom to wreak his wrath, disappointment and despair. Justice or injustice, neither balanced on the scales of his wrath. He crossed over to the chimney, stood with his back to the fire and waited.

The vicomte approached within a yard, stopped; twisted his mustache, resting his left hand on his hip. His discerning inspection was soon completed. He was fully aware of the desperate and reckless light in the poet's eyes.

"Monsieur de Saumaise, you have this night offered me four distinct affronts. Men have died for less than one."

"Ah!" Victor clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.

"At the Hotel de Perigny you called me a fool when the Chevalier struck me with his sword. I shall pa.s.s over that. The Chevalier was mad, and we all were excited. But three times in this tavern you have annoyed me. Your temperament, being that of a poet, at times gets the better of you. My knowledge of this accounts for my patience."

"That is magnanimous, Monsieur," railingly.

"Were I not bound for a far country I might call you to account."

"It is possible, then?"

"Braver men than you find it to their benefit to respect this sword of mine."

"Then you have a sword?"

The vicomte laughed. It was real laughter, unfeigned. He was too keen a banterer himself not to appreciate this gift in the poet. "What a lively lad you are!" he exclaimed. "But four affronts make a long account for a single night."

"I am ready now and at all times to close the account."

"Do you love Paris?" asked the vicomte, adding his mite to the bantering.

"Not so much as I did."

"Has not Roch.e.l.le become suddenly attractive?"

"Roch.e.l.le? I do not say so."