and is living at the hôtel in Rochelle."

"He mentions my name?"

"No, Monsieur."

The Chevalier crossed the room and stood by one of the windows. It was
snowing ever so lightly. The snow-clouds, separating at times as they
rushed over the night, discovered the starry bowl of heaven. Some
noble lady's carriage passed surrounded by flaring torches. But the
young man saw none of these things. A sense of incompleteness had
taken hold of him. The heir to a marquisate, the possessor of an
income of forty thousand livres the year, endowed with health and
physical beauty, and yet there was a flaw which marred the whole. It
was true that he was light-hearted, always and ever ready for a rout,
whether with women or with men, whether with wine or with dice; but
under all this brave show there was a canker which ate with subtile
slowness, but surely. To be disillusioned at the age of sixteen by
one's own father! To be given gold and duplicate keys to the
wine-cellars! To be eye-witness of Roman knights over which this
father had presided like a Tiberius!

The Duchesse de Montbazon had been in her youth a fancy of the marquis,
his father. Was it not a fine stroke of irony to decide that this son
of his should marry the obscure daughter of madame?--the daughter about
whom very few had ever heard? Without the Chevalier's sanction,
miniatures had been exchanged. When the marquis presented him with
that of Mademoiselle de Montbazon, together with his desires, he had
ground the one under foot without glancing at it, and had laughed at
the other as preposterous. Since that night the marquis had ceased to