He snapped the buckles on his shoes, while Breton drew from its worn
scabbard the Chevalier's campaign rapier, long and flexile, dreaded by
many and respected by all, and thrust it into the new scabbard, "Ah, Monsieur," said Breton, stirred by that philosophy which, one
gathers from a first reading of Plutarch, "a man is a deal like a
sword. If he be good and true, it matters not into what kind of
scabbard he is thrust."
"Aye, lad; but how much more confidence a handsome scabbard gives a
man! Even a sword, dressed well, attracts the eye; and, heart of mine,
what other aim have we poor mortals than to attract?"
"Madame Boisjoli makes out her charges at twelve louis, including the
keep of the horses."
"That is reasonable, considering my absence. Mignon is an excellent
woman."
"The Vicomte d'Halluys did not come as he promised with the eight
hundred pistoles he lost to you at vingt-et-un."
"Ah!" The Chevalier studied the pattern in the rug. "Eh, well, since
I had no pistoles, I have lost none. I was deep in wine, and so was
he; doubtless he has forgotten. The sight of me will recall his
delinquency."
"That is all of the debts and credits, Monsieur."
"The gossip, then, while I trim my nails. Paris can not have stood
still like the sun of Joshua's time, simply because I was not here."
"Beaufort has made up with Madame de Montbazon."
"Even old loves can become new loves. Go on."
Breton recounted the other important court news, while the Chevalier
nodded, or frowned, as the news affected him.
"Mademoiselle Catharine . . ."
"Has that woman been here again?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"You attended her down the stairs?"
"I did, but she behaved coarsely and threatened not to cease coming
until you had established her in the millinery."
The Chevalier roared with laughter. "And all I did was to kiss the
lass and compliment her cheeks. There's a warning for you, lad."
Breton looked aggrieved. His master's gallantries never ceased to
cause him secret unrest.
"Yesterday your quarterly remittance from Monsieur le Marquis, your
father, arrived."
"Was there a letter?" with subdued eagerness.
"There was nothing but the gold, Monsieur," answered Breton, his eyes
lowered. How many times during the past four years had his master
asked this question, always to receive the same answer?
The Chevalier's shoulders drooped. "Who brought it?"
"Jehan," said the lackey.
"Had he anything to say?"
"Very little. Monsieur le Marquis has closed the chateau in Périgny
and is living at the hôtel in Rochelle."
"He mentions my name?"
"No, Monsieur."
The Chevalier crossed the room and stood by one of the windows. It was
snowing ever so lightly. The snow-clouds, separating at times as they
rushed over the night, discovered the starry bowl of heaven. Some
noble lady's carriage passed surrounded by flaring torches. But the
young man saw none of these things. A sense of incompleteness had
taken hold of him. The heir to a marquisate, the possessor of an
income of forty thousand livres the year, endowed with health and
physical beauty, and yet there was a flaw which marred the whole. It
was true that he was light-hearted, always and ever ready for a rout,
whether with women or with men, whether with wine or with dice; but
under all this brave show there was a canker which ate with subtile
slowness, but surely. To be disillusioned at the age of sixteen by
one's own father! To be given gold and duplicate keys to the
wine-cellars! To be eye-witness of Roman knights over which this
father had presided like a Tiberius!