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?"
Victor was carelessly balancing a letter in his hand. "Yes. A thousand crowns,—which I shall own some day,—that you can not guess its contents," gaily.
"You have found Madame de Brissac and are writing to her?" smiling.
For a moment Victor's gaiety left him. The Chevalier's suggestion was so unexpected as to disturb him. He quickly recovered his poise, however. "You have lost. It is a letter to my good sister, advising her of my departure to Quebec. Spain is too near Paris, Paul."
"You, Victor?" cried the Chevalier, while Breton's face grew warm with regard for Monsieur de Saumaise.
"Yes. Victor loves his neck. And it will be many a day ere monseigneur turns his glance toward New France in quest."