The youth lifted his head, disclosing an embarrassed smile. "Yes, Monsieur. I have the ill-luck to be that very person."
"Then I am doubly glad to meet you. While in Paris I heard your praises sung not infrequently."
The poet held up a protesting hand. "You overwhelm me, Monsieur. If I write an occasional ballade, it is for the mere pleasure of writing, and not because I seek notoriety such as Voiture enjoyed when in favor."
"I like that ballade of yours on 'Henri at Cahors.' It has the true martial ring to it that captivates the soldier."
"Thanks, Monsieur; from a man like you such praise is poisonously sweet. Can you direct me to the Hotel de Périgny? I must see the Chevalier to-night."
"I will myself show you the way," said Du Puys, standing. "But wait a while. The Chevalier usually spends the evening here."
"Drinking?"
"Drinking and dicing."
Victor rose just as a small uproar occurred in the hallway. The door opened and a dozen cavaliers and officers came crowding in. All made for the fire, stamping and jostling and laughing. The leader, his eyes bloodshot and the lower lids puffed and discolored, threw his hat to the ceiling and caught it on his boot.
"Maître—ho!" he cried. "Bring us the bowl, the merry bowl, the jolly and hot bowl. The devil himself must hunt for cheer to-night. How it blows!"