"Fool!" cried Victor, seizing the vicomte's hand; "can you not see that he is mad? He would kill you!"
"Curse it, he is striking me with his sword!"
"He is mad!"
"Well, well, Master Poet; I can wait. What a night!"
It had ceased snowing; the world lay dimly white. The roisterers flocked down the steps to the street. One fell into a drift and lay there sobbing.
"What now?" asked the vicomte.
"I am sorry," said the inebriate.
"The devil! The Chevalier has a friend here," laughed the vicomte, assisting the roisterer to his feet. "Come along, Saumaise."
"I shall wait."
"As you please;" and the vicomte continued on.