The Supper

"Monsieur du Cévennes," said D'Hérouville, just before supper that
first night of their arrival on Canadian soil, "I see that you are not
quite strong enough to keep the engagement. This day two weeks: will
that be agreeable?"

"It will; though I should be better pleased to fix the scene for
to-morrow morning."

D'Hérouville raised a deprecating hand. "I should not like to have it
said that I took advantage of a man's weakness. Of course, if you wish
absolutely to force it . . ."

The Chevalier looked thoughtfully at his pale hands. "I shall take
advantage of your courtesy, Monsieur le Comte."

"How polite men are when about to cut each other's throats!" The
Vicomte d'Halluys adjusted his baldric and entered the great
dining-hall of the Château Saint Louis.

He and D'Hérouville sat side by side.

"Vicomte, you have never told me why the Chevalier is here. Why should
he leave France, he, who possessed a fortune, who had Mazarin's favor,
and who had all the ladies at his feet?"

"Ask him when you meet him," answered the vicomte, testing the
governor's burgundy.

"And will you pay me those ten thousand livres which you wagered
against my claims for madame's hand?"

The vicomte took a sip of the wine. There was no verbal answer, but
his eyes spoke.

"Quebec promises to afford a variety," commented d'Hérouville, glancing
to where the Chevalier sat.

"It is quite probable," affably returned the vicomte. "This is good
wine for a wilderness like this. To be sure, it comes from France; I
had forgotten."