It is simple." And a smile, genuine and pleasant, lit up his face.

"I will forswear Calliope and nail my flag to Clio; I will no longer write poetry, I will write history and make it." He climbed to his room, cast off his hostler's livery and slid into bed, to dream of tumbling seas, of vast forests, of mighty rivers.

.

.
and of grey masks.
Promptly at seven he rejoined the Chevalier.

Breton was packing a large portmanteau.