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.