Again the Chevalier’s attention was drawn toward the mutilated hand.

“The pastimes of savages, Monsieur,” Brother Jacques said grimly, holding out his hand for inspection:  “the torture of the pipe, which I stood but poorly.  Well, my brother, I am outward bound, and Rouen is far away.  The night is beautiful, for the wind will drive away the snow-clouds and the stars will shine brightly.  Peace be with you.”

“I wish you well, Monsieur,” returned the Chevalier politely.

Then Brother Jacques left the Candlestick, mounted his mule, and rode away, caring as little as the Chevalier whether or not their paths should cross again.

“Monsieur le Marquis!” murmured the Chevalier, staring at the empty bowl.  “So the marquis, my father, gives to the Church?  That is droll.  Now, why does the marquis give to the Church?  He has me there.  Bah! and this priest’s eyes.  Ah!” as he saw Madame Boisjoli returning, followed by Charlot who carried the smoking supper; “here is something that promises well.”

“Brother Jacques is gone?” said madame, her eyes roving.

“Yes.”  The Chevalier sat down at a table.

“Monsieur Paul?” timidly.

“Well, Mignon?” smiling.  Mignon was certainly good to look at.

“Did you notice Brother Jacques’s eyes?”

“Do you mean to say that you, too, observed them?” with a shade of annoyance.  Vanity compelled him to resent this absurd likeness.

“Immediately.  It was so strange.  And what a handsome priest!” slyly.

“Shall I call him back, Mignon?” laughing.

Madame exhibited a rounded shoulder.

“Bah with them all, Mignon, priests, cardinals, and journeys.”  And half an hour later, having demolished all madame had set before him, besides sharing the excellent chambertin, the Chevalier felt the man made whole again.  The warmth of the wine turned the edge of his sterner thoughts; and at ten minutes to eight he went forth, a brave and gallant man, handsome and gaily attired, his eyes glowing with anticipating love, blissfully unconscious of the extraordinary things which were to fall to his lot from this night onward.

The distance from the Candlestick was too short for the need of a horse, so the Chevalier walked, lightly humming an old chanson of the reign of Louis XIII, among whose royal pastimes was that of shaving his courtiers: 

“Alas, my poor barber, What is it makes you sad?” “It is the grand king Louis, Thirteenth of that name.”

He swung into the Rue Dauphin and mounted the Pont Neuf, glancing idly below at the ferrymen whose torches threw on the black bosom of the Seine long wavering threads of phantom fire.  The snow-clouds had passed over, and the stars were shining; the wind was falling.  The quays were white; the Louvre seemed but a vast pile of ghostly stones.  The hands of the clock in the quaint water-tower La Samaritaine