"Paul, you are breaking my heart," cried Victor, choking. His poet's
soul, and only such as his, could comprehend how full was the
Chevalier's cup of misery.
"Only women's hearts break, lad, and then in verse. Shall I weep? No.
Let me laugh; for, my faith, it is laughable. I brought it on myself.
Fate led me to the precipice, and I myself jumped over. Yesterday I
had pride, I was heir to splendid estates, with forty thousand livres
the year to spend. To-night . . . Let me see; the vicomte owes me
fifty pistoles. It will be a start in life . . . And much have I
snuffed besides candles to-night! By all means, let me laugh."
This irony overcame Victor, who sat down, covered his face, and wept
noiselessly.
"You weep? And I . . . I am denied the joy of cursing."
"But what made you speak? In God's name, what possessed you to publish
this misfortune?"
"On my word, Victor, I do not know. Wine, perhaps; perhaps anger,
madness, or what you will. I know only this: I could not help myself.
Poor fool! Yes, I was mad. But he roused within me all the disgust of
life, and it struck me blind. But regret is the cruelest of mental
poisons; and there is enough in my cup without that. And that poor
marquis; I believe I must have caused him some annoyance and chagrin."
"But what will you do?"
"What shall I do? Paris shall see me no more, nor France. I shall go
. . . Yes; thanks, Brother Jacques, thanks! I shall go to that France
across the sea and become . . . a grand seigneur, owning a hut in the
wilderness. Monsieur le Chevalier, lately a fop at court will become a
habitant of the forests, will wear furs, and seek his food by the aid
of a musket. It will be a merry life, Victor; no dicing, no tennis, no
women, no wine." The Chevalier rested his chin in his hands, staring
at the candle. "On Thursday next there will be a mask ball at the
Palais Royal; but the Chevalier du Cévennes will not be with his
company. He will be on the way to New France, with many another broken
soldier, to measure his sword against fortune's. And from the
camp-fires, lad, I shall conjure up women's faces, and choose among the
most patient . . . my mother's. Vanity!" suddenly. "But for vanity I
had not been here. Look, Victor; it was not wine, it was not madness.
It was vanity in the shape of a grey cloak, a grey cloak. Will you
call Major du Puys?"
"Paul, you can not mean it?"
"Frankly, can I remain in France? Have I not already put France behind
me?"
"And what's to become of me?" asked the poet.