"To me," said the poet, "it is ever calling, calling. Shall I see my beloved Paris again? Who can say?"
"Mazarin will not live forever."
"But here it is so lonesome; a desert. And you will make a fine seigneur, you with your fastidious tastes, love of fine clothes and music. Look at yourself now! A silk shirt in tatters, tawdry buckskin, a new hero's feather, and a dingy pair of moccasins. And you are going a-courting. What, fortune?"
"'Tis all the same."
"So you love her?" quietly.
"Yes, lad, I love her; and I am determined to learn this day the worth of loving."
"Take care," warned the poet.
"Victor, some day you will be going back to Paris. Tell them at court how, of a summer's morn, Monsieur le Chevalier du Cévennes went forth to conquest."
"Hark!" said Victor. "I hear a blackbird." He sorted his papers, for he was writing. "I will write an ode on your venture. What shall I call it?"
"Call it 'Hazards,' comrade; for this day I put my all in the leather cup and make but a single throw. Who is madame?"