"I challenged the vicomte, and he refused to fight."
"On my account?" sternly. "You did wrong."
"I can not change the heat of my blood," carelessly.
"No; but you can lose it, and at present it is very precious to me. He
refused? The vicomte has sound judgment."
"Oh, he and I shall be killing each other one of these fine days; but
not wholly on your account, Paul," gloom wrinkling his brow, as if the
enlightening finger of prescience had touched it. "It is fully one
o'clock; you will be wanting sleep."
"Sleep?" The ironist twisted his mouth. "It will be many a day ere
sleep makes contest with my eyes . . . unless it be cold and sinister
sleep. Sleep? You are laughing! Only the fatuous and the
self-satisfied sleep . . . and the dead. So be it." He took the tongs
and stirred the log, from which flames suddenly darted. "I wonder what
they are doing at Voisin's to-night?" irrelevantly. "There will be
some from the guards, some from the musketeers, and some from the
prince's troops. And that little Italian who played the lute so well!
Do you recall him? I can see them now, calling Mademoiselle Pauline to
bring Voisin's old burgundy." The Chevalier continued his reminiscence
in silence, forgetting time and place, forgetting Victor, who was
gazing at him with an expression profoundly sad.
The poet mused for a moment, then tiptoed from the room. An idea had
come to him, but as yet it was not fully developed.
"Should I have said 'good night'? Good night, indeed! What mockery
there is in commonplaces! That idea of mine needs some thought." So,
instead of going to bed he sat down on one of the chimney benches.
A sleepy potboy went to and fro among the tables, clearing up empty
tankards and breakage. Maître le Borgne sat in his corner, reckoning
up the day's accounts.
Suddenly Victor slapped his thigh and rose. "Body of Bacchus and horns
of Panurge! I will do it. Mazarin will never look for me there. It
is simple." And a smile, genuine and pleasant, lit up his face. "I
will forswear Calliope and nail my flag to Clio; I will no longer write
poetry, I will write history and make it."
He climbed to his room, cast off his hostler's livery and slid into
bed, to dream of tumbling seas, of vast forests, of mighty rivers . . .
and of grey masks.
Promptly at seven he rejoined the Chevalier. Breton was packing a
large portmanteau. He had gathered together those things which he knew
his master loved.
"Monsieur," said the lackey, holding up a book, "this will not go in."
"What is it?" indifferently.
"Rabelais, Monsieur."
"Keep it, lad; I make you a present of it. You have been writing,
Victor?"