“Madame, are you not truly a poet?”

The vicomte stood at her side, his hat under his arm.  “I daresay,” he went on, “that many a night while you were crossing the sea you stood by the railing and watched the pathway of the moon.  How like destiny it was!  You could not pass that ribbon of moonshine nor could it pass you, but ever and ever it walked and abided with you.  Well, so it is with destiny.”

“And when the clouds come, Monsieur le Vicomte, and shut out the moon, there is, then, a cessation to destiny?”

“You are not only a poet, Madame,” he observed, his fingers straying over his mustache.  “You have eclipsed my metaphor nicely, I will admit.”

“And this preamble leads . . . ?”

“I have something of vital importance to tell you; but it can not be told here.  Will you do me the honor and confidence, Madame, to follow me to the chateau?”

“How vital is this information?” the chill in her voice becoming obvious and distinct.

“I was speaking of destiny, Madame; what I have to say pertinently concerns yours.”

Madame trembled and her brow became moist.  “Where do you wish me to go with you, Monsieur?”

“Only into a deserted council chamber, where, if doubt or fear disturbs you, you have but to cry to bring the whole regiment tumbling about my ears.”

“Proceed, Monsieur; I am not afraid.”

“I go before only to show you the way, Madame.”

He turned, and madame, casting a regretful glance at the planets which were beginning to blaze in the firmament, followed him.  She was at once disturbed and curious.  This man, brilliant and daring though she knew him to be, always stirred a vague distrust.  He had never done aught to give rise to this inward antagonism; yet a shadowy instinct, a half-slumbering sense, warned her against him.  D’Herouville she hated cordially, for he had pursued her openly; but this man walking before her, she did not hate him, she feared him.  There had been nights at the hotel in Paris when she had felt the fiery current of his glance, but he had never spoken; many a time she had read the secret in his eyes, but his lips had remained mute.  She understood this tact, this diplomacy which, though it chafed her, she could not rebuke.  Thus, he was more or less a fragment of her thoughts, day after day.  Ah, that mad folly, that indescribable impulse, which had brought her to New France instead of Spain!  Eh well, the blood of the De Rohans and De Montbazons was in her veins, and the cool of philosophy was never plentiful in that blood.  She was to learn something to-night, if only the purpose of this man who loved and spoke not.

“In here, Madame,” said the vicomte, courteously, “if you will do me that honor.”

A glance told madame that she had been in this room before.  Did they burn candles every night in here, or had the vicomte, relying upon a woman’s innate curiosity, lighted these candles himself?  Her gaze, traveling along the oak table, discovered a few particles of burnt paper.  Her face grew warm.