New France! How many a ruined gamester, hearing these words, lifted his head, the fires of hope lighting anew in his burnt-out eyes? How many a fallen house looked longingly toward this promised land? New France! Was not the name itself Fortune's earnest, her pledge of treasures lightly to be won? The gamester went to his garret to dream of golden dice, the fallen noble of rehabilitated castles, the peasant of freedom and liberty. Even the solemn monk, tossing on his pallet, pierced with his gaze the grey walls of his monastery, annihilated the space between him and the fruitful wilderness, and saw in fancy the building of great cities and cathedrals and a glittering miter on his own tonsured head.

In that day there was situate in the Rue du Palais, south of the harbor, an inn which was the delight of all those mariners whose palates were still unimpaired by the brine of the seven seas, and whose purses spoke well of the hazards of chance. Erected at the time when Henri II and Diane de Poitiers turned the sober city into one of licentious dalliance, it had cheered the wayfarer during four generations. It was three stories high, constructed of stone, gabled and balconied, with a roof which resembled an assortment of fanciful noses. Here and there the brown walls were lightened by patches of plaster and sea-cobble; for though the buildings in the Rue du Palais had stood in the shelter of the walls and fortifications, few had been exempt from Monseigneur the Cardinal's iron compliments to the Huguenots.

Swinging on an iron bar which projected from the porticoed entrance, and supported by two grimacing cherubs, once daintily pink, but now verging on rubicundity, a change due either to the vicissitudes of the weather or to the close proximity to the wine-cellars,—was a horn of plenty, the pristine glory of which had also departed. This invitation often excited the stranger's laughter; but the Rochellais themselves never laughed at it, for to them it represented a familiar object, which, however incongruous or ridiculous, is always dear to the human heart. At night a green lantern was attached to the horn. At the left of the building was a walled court pierced by a gate which gave entrance to the stables. For not only the jolly mariners found pleasure at the Corne d'Abondance. The wild bloods of the town came thither to riot and play, to junket and carouse. The inn had seen many a mad night, and on the stone flooring lay written many an invisible epitaph.

The host himself was a man of note, one Jean le Borgne, whose cousin was the agent of D'Aunay in the Tour-D'Aunay quarrel over Acadia in New France. He had purchased the inn during the year '29, and since that time it had become the most popular in the city; and as a result of his enterprise, the Pomme de Pin, in the shadow of the one remaining city gate, Porte de la Grosse-Horloge, had lost the patronage of the nobility. Maitre le Borgne recognized the importance of catering more to the jaded palate than to the palate in normal condition; hence, his popularity. In truth, he had the most delectable vintages outside the governor's cellars; they came from Bordeaux, Anjou, Burgundy, Champagne, and Sicily. His cook was an excommunicated monk from Touraine, a province, according to the merry Vicar of Meudon, in which cooks, like poets, were born, not bred. His spits for turning a fat goose or capon were unrivaled even in Paris, whither his fame had gone through a speech of the Duc de Rohan, who said, shortly after the siege, that if ever he gained the good graces of Louis, he would come back for that monk.

What a list he placed before the gourmand! There were hams boiled in sherry or madeira with pistachios, eels, reared in soft water and fed on chickens' entrails and served with anchovy paste and garlic, fried stuffed pigs' ears, eggs with cocks' combs, dormice in honey, pigeons with mushrooms, crabs boiled in sherry, crawfish and salmon and lobster, caviar pickled in the brine of spring-salt, pheasants stuffed with chestnuts and lambs' hearts, grainless cheeses, raisins soaked in honey and brandy, potted hare, chicken sausages, mutton fed on the marshes, boars boned and served whole and stuffed with oysters,—a list which would have opened the eyes of such an indifferent eater as Lucullus!

There was a private hall for the ladies and the nobly born; but the common assembly-room was invariably chosen by all those who were not accompanied by ladies. The huge fireplace, with high-backed benches jutting out from each side of it, the quaint, heavy bowlegged tables and chairs, the liberality of lights, the continuous coming and going of the brilliantly uniformed officers stationed at Fort Louis, the silks and satins of the nobles, the soberer woolens of the burghers and seamen, all combined to give the room a peculiar charm and color. Thus, with the golden pistole of Spain, the louis and crown and livre of France, and the stray Holland and English coins, Maitre le Borgne began quickly to gorge his treasure-chests; and no one begrudged him, unless it was Maitre Olivet of the Pomme de Pin.

Outside the storm continued. The windows and casements shuddered spasmodically, and the festive horn and cherubs creaked dismally on the rusted hinges. The early watch passed by, banging their staffs on the cobbles and doubtless cursing their unfortunate calling. Two of them carried lanterns which swung in harmony to the tread of feet, causing long, weird, shadowy legs to race back and forth across the sea-walls. The muffled stroke of a bell sounded frequently, coming presumably from the episcopal palace, since the historic bell in the Hotel de Ville was permitted no longer to ring.

Inside the tavern it was warm enough. Maitre le Borgne, a short, portly man with a high benevolent crown, as bald as the eggs he turned into omelets, stood somewhat back from the roaring chimney, one hand under his ample apron-belt, the other polishing his shining dome. He was perplexed. Neither the noise of the storm nor the frequent clatter of a dish as it fell to the floor disturbed him. A potboy, rushing past with his arms full of tankards, bumped into the landlord; but not even this aroused him. His gaze wandered from the right-hand bench to the left-hand bench, and back again, from the nut-brown military countenance of Captain Zachary du Puys, soldier of fortune, to the sea-withered countenance of Joseph Bouchard, master of the good ship Saint Laurent, which lay in the harbor.

"A savage!" said the host.

The soldier lowered his pipe and laughed. "Put your fears aside, good landlord. You are bald; it will be your salvation."

"Still," said the mariner, his mouth serious but his eyes smiling, "still, that bald crown may be a great temptation to the hatchet. The scalping-knife or the hatchet, one or the other, it is all the same."

"Eye of the bull! does he carry his hatchet?" gasped the host, cherishing with renewed tenderness the subject of their jests. "And an Iroquois, too, the most terrible of them all, they say. What shall I do to protect my guests?"

Du Puys and Bouchard laughed boisterously, for the host's face, on which was a mixture of fear and doubt, was as comical as a gargoyle.

"Why not lure him into the cellar and lock him there?" suggested Bouchard.

"But my wines?"

"True. He would drink them. He would also eat your finest sausages. And, once good and drunk, he would burn down the inn about your ears." Bouchard shook his head.

"Our Lady!"

"Or give him a bed," suggested Du Pays.

"What! a bed?"

"Surely, since he must sleep like other human beings."

"With an eye open," supplemented Bouchard. "I would not trust an Iroquois, saving he was dead and buried in consecrated ground." And he wagged his head as if to express his inability to pronounce in words his suspicions and distrust.

"And his yell will congeal the blood in thy veins," said Du Puys; "for beside him the Turk doth but whisper. I know; I have seen and fought them both."

Maitre le Borgne began to perspire. "I am lost! But you, Messieurs, you will defend yourselves?"

"To the death!" both tormentors cried; then burst into laughter.

This laughter did not reassure Maitre le Borgne, who had seen Huguenots and Catholics laughing and dying in the streets.

"Ho, Maitre, but you are a droll fellow!" Bouchard exclaimed. "This Indian is accompanied by Fathers Chaumonot and Jacques. It is not impossible that they have relieved La Chaudiere Noire of his tomahawk and scalping-knife. And besides, this is France; even a Turk is harmless here. Monsieur the Black Kettle speaks French and is a devout Catholic."

"A Catholic?" incredulously.

"Aye, pious and abstemious," with a sly glance at the innkeeper, who was known to love his wines in proportion to his praise of them.

"The patience of these Jesuits!" the host murmured, breathing a long sigh, such as one does from whose shoulders a weight has been suddenly lifted. "Ah, Messieurs, but your joke frightened me cruelly. And they call him the Black Kettle? But perhaps they will stay at the episcopal palace, that is, if the host from Dieppe arrives to-night. And who taught him French?"

"Father Chaumonot, who knows his Indian as a Turk knows his Koran."

"And does his Majesty intend to make Frenchmen of these savages?"

"They are already Frenchmen," was the answer. "There remains only to teach them how to speak and pray like Frenchmen."

"And he will be quiet and docile?" ventured the inn-keeper, who still entertained some doubts.

"If no one offers him an indignity. The Iroquois is a proud man. But I see Monsieur Nicot calling to you; Monsieur Nicot, whose ancestor, God bless him! introduced this weed into France;" and Du Puys refilled his pipe, applied an ember, took off his faded baldric and rapier, and reclined full length on the bench. Maitre le Borgne hurried away to attend to the wants of Monsieur Nicot. Presently the soldier said: "Shall we sail to-morrow, Master Mariner?"

"As the weather wills." Bouchard bent toward the fire and with the aid of a pair of tongs drew forth the end of a broken spit, white with heat. This he plunged into a tankard of spiced port; and at once there arose a fragrant steam. He dropped the smoking metal to the floor, and drank deeply from the tankard. "Zachary, we shall see spring all glorious at Quebec, which is the most beautiful promontory in all the world. Upon its cliffs France will build her a new and mighty Paris. You will become a great captain, and I shall grow as rich as our host's cousin."

"Amen; and may the Holy Virgin speed us to the promised land." Du Puys blew above his head a winding cloud of smoke. "A brave race, these black cassocks; for they carry the Word into the jaws of death. Ad majorem Dei gloriam. There was Father Jogues. What privations, what tortures he endured! And an Iroquois sank a hatchet into his brain. I have seen the Spaniard at his worst, the Italian, the Turk, but for matchless cruelty the Iroquois has no rival. And this cunning Mazarin promises and promises us money and men, while those who reckon on his word struggle and die. Ah well, monseigneur has the gout; he will die of it."

"And this Marquis de Perigny; will not Father Chaumonot waste his time?" asked the mariner.

"Who can say? The marquis is a strange man. He is neither Catholic nor Huguenot; he fears neither God nor the devil. He laughs at death, since to him there is no hereafter. Yet withal, he is a man of justice and of many generous impulses. But woe to the man who crosses his path. His peasants are well fed and clothed warmly; his servants refuse to leave him. He was one of the gayest and wildest courtiers in Paris, a man who has killed twenty men in duels. There are two things that may be said in his favor; he is without hypocrisy, and is an honest and fearless enemy. Louis XIII was his friend, the Duc de Rohan his comrade. He has called Gaston of Orleans a coward to his face.

"He was one of those gallants who, when Richelieu passed an edict concerning the loose women of the city, placed one in the cardinal's chamber and accused him of breaking his own edict. Richelieu annulled the act, but he never forgave the marquis for telling the story to Madame de Montbazon, who in turn related it to the queen. The marquis threw his hat in the face of the Duc de Longueville when the latter accused him of receiving billets from madame. There was a duel. The duke carried a bad arm to Normandy, and the marquis dined a week with the governor of the Bastille. That was the marquis's last affair. It happened before the Fronde. Since then he has remained in seclusion, fortifying himself against old age. His hotel is in the Rue des Augustines, near the former residence of Henri II.

"The marquis's son you have seen—drunk most of the time. Happy his mother, who died at his birth. 'Tis a pity, too, for the boy has a good heart and wrongs no one but himself. He has been sent home from court in disgrace, though what disgrace no one seems to know. Some piece of gallantry, no doubt, which ended in a duel. He and his father are at odds. They seldom speak. The Chevalier, having money, drinks and gambles. The Vicomte d'Halluys won a thousand livres from him last night in the private assembly."

"Wild blood," said Bouchard, draining his tankard. "France has too much of it. Wine and dicing and women: fine snares the devil sets with these. How have you recruited?"

"Tolerably well. Twenty gentlemen will sail with us; mostly improvident younger sons. But what's this turmoil between our comrade Nicot and Maitre le Borgne?" sliding his booted legs to the floor and sitting upright.

Bouchard glanced over his shoulder. Nicot was waving his arms and pointing to his vis-a-vis at the table, while the innkeeper was shrugging and bowing and spreading his hands.

"He leaves the table," cried Nicot, "or I leave the inn."

"But, Monsieur, there is no other place," protested the maitre; "and he has paid in advance."

"I tell you he smells abominably of horse."

"I, Monsieur?" mildly inquired the cause of the argument. He was a young man of twenty-three or four, with a countenance more ingenuous than handsome, expressive of that mobility which is inseparable from a nature buoyant and humorous.

"Thousand thunders, yes! Am I a gentleman, and a soldier, to sit with a reeking stable-boy?"

"If I smell of the horse," said the young man, calmly helping himself to a quarter of rabbit pie, "Monsieur smells strongly of the ass."

Whereupon a titter ran round the room. This did not serve to mollify the anger of the irascible Nicot, whose hand went to his sword.

"Softly, softly!" warned the youth, taking up the carving knife and jestingly testing the edge with his thumb-nail.

Some one laughed aloud.

"Monsieur Nicot, for pity's sake, remember where you are!" Maitre le Borgne pressed back the soldier.

"Ah! it is Monsieur Nicot who has such a delicate nose?" said the youth banteringly. "Well, Monsieur Nicot, permit me to finish this excellent pie. I have tasted nothing half so good since I left Paris."

"Postilion!" cried Nicot, pushing Le Borgne aside.

"Monsieur," continued the youth imperturbably, "I am on the king's service."

Several at the tables stretched their necks to observe the stranger. A courier from the king was not an everyday event in Rochelle. De Puys rose.

"Pah!" snorted Nicot; "you look the groom a league off. Leave the table."

"All in good time, Monsieur. If I wear the livery of a stable-boy, it is because I was compelled by certain industrious gentlemen of the road to adopt it in exchange for my own. The devil! one does not ride naked in March. They left me only my sword and papers and some pistoles which I had previously hidden in the band of my hat. Monsieur, I find a chair; I take it. Having ordered a pie, I eat it; in fact, I continue to eat it, though your displeasure causes me great sorrow. Sit down, or go away; otherwise you will annoy me; and I warn you that I am something terrible when I am annoyed." But the good nature on his face belied this statement.

"Rascal, I will flog you with the flat of my sword!" roared Nicot; and he was about to draw when a strong hand restrained him.

"Patience, comrade, patience; you go too fast." Du Puys loosened Nicot's hand.

The young man leaned back in his chair and twirled the ends of his blond mustache. "If I were not so tired I could enjoy this comedy. Horns of Panurge! did you Huguenots eat so many horses that your gorge rises at the smell of one?"

"Monsieur, are you indeed from the king?" asked Du Puys courteously. The very coolness of the stranger marked him as a man of importance.

"I have that honor."

"May I be so forward as to ask your name?"

"Victor de Saumaise, cadet in her Majesty's Guards, De Guitaut's company."

"And your business?"

"The king's, Monsieur; horns of Panurge, the king's! which is to say, none of yours." This time he pushed back his chair, stood upon his feet and swung his sword in place. "Is this once more a rebel city? And are you, Monsieur, successor to Guibon, the mayor, or the governor of the province, or some equally distinguished person, to question me in this fashion? I never draw my sword in pothouses; I simply dine in them; otherwise I should be tempted to find out why a gentleman can not be left in peace."

"Your reply, Monsieur," returned Du Puys, coloring, "would be entirely just were it not for the fact that a messenger from Paris directly concerns me. I am Captain Zachary du Puys, of Fort Louis, Quebec."

"Indeed, Captain," said De Saumaise, smiling again, "that simplifies everything. You are one of the gentlemen whom I am come to seek."

"Monsieur," said the choleric Nicot, "accept my apologies; but, nevertheless, I still adhere to the statement, that you smell badly of wet horses." He bowed.

"And I accept the apology and confess to the impeachment."

"And besides," said Nicot, naively, "you kicked my shin cruelly."

"What! I thought it was the table-leg! It is my turn to apologise. You no longer crave my blood?"

"No, Monsieur," sadly. Every one laughed.

Maitre le Borgne, wiped his perspiring forehead and waited for the orders which were likely to follow this amicable settlement of the dispute; and bewailed not unwisely. Brawls were the bane of his existence, and he did his utmost to prevent them from becoming common affairs at the Corne d'Abondance. He trotted off to the cellars, muttering into his beard. Nicot and the king's messenger finished their supper, and then the latter was led to one of the chimney benches by Du Puys, who was desirous of questioning him.

"Monsieur," began De Saumaise, "I am told that I bear your commission as major." He produced a packet which he gave to the captain.

"I am perfectly aware of that. It was one of Mazarin's playful devices. I was to have had it while in Paris; and his Eminence put me off for no other reason than to worry me. Ah, well, he has the gout."

"And he has also the money," laughed Victor; "and may he never rid himself of the one till he parts from the other. But I congratulate you, Major; and her Majesty and Father Vincent de Paul wish you well in your perilous undertaking. Come; tell me about this wonderful New France. Is it true that gold is picked up as one would pick up sand?"

"By the Hundred Associates, traders, and liquor dealers," grimly.

"Alas! I had hopes 'twere picked up without labor. The rings on my purse slip off both ends, as the saying goes."

"Why not come to Quebec? You have influence; become a grand seigneur."

"Faith, I love my Paris too well. And I have no desire to wear out my existence in opening paths for my descendants, always supposing I leave any. No, no! There is small pleasure in praying all day and fighting all night. No, thank you. Paris is plenty for me." Yet there was something in the young man's face which spoke of fear, a nervous look such as one wears when caught in the toils of secret dread.

"Still, life at court must have its pinches, since his Majesty sleeps between ragged sheets. What kind of money-chest does this Mazarin possess that, engulfing all the revenues of France, the gold never reaches high enough to be taken out again?"

"With all his faults, Mazarin is a great minister. He is a better financier than Richelieu was. He is husbanding. Louis XIV will become a great king whenever Mazarin dies. We who live shall see. Louis is simply repressed. He will burst forth all the more quickly when the time comes."

"Is it true that her Majesty is at times attacked by a strange malady?"

"A cancer has been discovered growing in her breast."

Du Puys opened his commission and ran over it. He studied the lean, slanting chirography of the prime minister and stroked his grizzled chin. His thought went back to the days when the handsome Buckingham threw his pearls into an admiring crowd. "Woman and the world's end," he mused. "Who will solve them?"

"Who indeed!" echoed Victor, resting his chin on the knuckles of his hand. "Monsieur, you have heard of the Chevalier du Cevennes?"

"Aye; recently dismissed from court, stripped of his honors, and exiled in disgrace."

"I am here to command his immediate return to Paris," and De Saumaise blinked moodily at the fire.

"And what brought about this good fortune?"

"His innocence and another man's honesty."

"Ah!"

"Monsieur, you are a man of experience; are there not times when the best of us are unable to surmount temptation?"

"Only his Holiness is infallible."

"The Chevalier was unjustly exiled for a crime he knew nothing about. He suffered all this ignominy to save a comrade in arms, whom he believed to be guilty, but who was as innocent as himself. Only a week ago this comrade became aware of what had happened. Even had he been guilty he would not have made profit from his friend's generosity. It was fine of the chevalier; do you not agree with me?"

"Then the Chevalier is not all bad?" said Du Puys.

"No. But he is the son of his father. You have met the Marquis de Perigny?"

"Only to pass him on the streets. But here comes the host with the punch. What shall the toast be?"

"New France."

"My compliments on your good taste."

And they bowed gravely to each other, drinking in silence. The youth renewed his gaze at the fire, this time attracted by the chimney soot as it wavered above the springing flames, now incandescent, now black as jet, now tearing itself from the brick and flying heavenward. Sometimes the low, fierce music of the storm could be heard in the chimney. Du Puys, glancing over the lid of his pewter pot, observed the young man kindly.

"Monsieur," he asked, "are you related to the poet De Saumaise?"

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 Perigny? 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.

"Maitre—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!"

"In the private assembly, Messieurs," said the host caressingly; "in the private assembly. All is ready but the hot water." And respectfully, though determinedly, as one would guide a flock of sheep, he turned the roisterers toward the door that led into the private assembly-room. He had just learned that the Jesuits had arrived and that there was no room for them at the episcopal palace, and that they were on their way to the Corne d'Abondance. He did not desire them to form a poor opinion as to the moral character of the establishment. He knew the temper of these wild bloods; they were safer by themselves.

All the arrivals passed noisily into the private assembly: all save the leader, who was seen suddenly to steady himself after the manner of a drunken man trying to recover his dignity.

"Victor?" he cried in dismay.

"Paul?" frankly joyous.

In a moment they had embraced and were holding each other off at arm's length.



CHAPTER VI

AN ACHATES FOR AN AENEAS

"What are you doing here?" demanded the Chevalier roughly.

"Paul," sadly, "you are drunk."

"So I am," moodily. "How long ago since I was sober? Bah! every pore in my body is a voice that calls loudly for wine. Drunk? My faith, yes! You make me laugh, Victor. When was I ever sober? As a boy I used to fall asleep in the cellars of the chateau. But you . . . What are you doing here in Rochelle?"

"I am here to command your immediate return to Paris."

"Paris? Body of Bacchus! but it is fine gratitude on your part to accept this mission. So his Eminence thinks that I shall be safer in the Bastille? What a compliment!"

"No, Paul. He wishes simply to exonerate you and return to you your privileges. Ah! how could you do it?"

"Do what?" sinking upon one of the benches and striving to put together his wine-befuddled thoughts.

"Take the brunt of a crime you supposed I had done?"

"Supposed? Come, now; you are laughing!"

"Word of honor: supposed I had done. It was not till a week ago that I learned what you had done. How I galloped back to Paris! It was magnificent of you; it was fine."

"But you? And that cloak which I lent to you?"

"Well, I was as little concerned as you, which I proved to Mazarin. I was at my sister's wedding at Blois. Your grey cloak was stolen from my room the day before De Brissac met his violent end. My lad, Hector, found the cloak in a tavern. How, he would not say. He dared not keep it, so sent it to the Candlestick in care of another lad. He understood that its disappearance might bring harm to you. I trounced him well for his carelessness in permitting the cloak to be stolen."

"This is all very unusual. Stolen, from you?" bewildered.

"Yes."

"And it was not you?"

"Am I a killer of old men? No, Paul. De Brissac and I were on excellent terms. You ought to know me better. I do not climb into windows, especially when the door is always open for me. I am like my sword, loyal, frank, and honest; we scorn braggart's cunning, dark alleys, stealth; we look not at a man's back but into his face; we prefer sunshine to darkness. And listen," tapping his sword: "he who has done this thing, be he never so far away, yet shall this long sword of mine find him and snuff his candle out."

"Good lad, forgive! I am drunk, atrociously drunk; and I have been drunk so long!" The Chevalier swept the hair out of his eyes. "Have you an enemy? Have I?"

"Enemies, enemies? If you but knew how I have searched my memory for a sign of one! The only enemy I could find was . . . myself. Here is your signet-ring, the one you pawned at Fontainebleau. You see, Mazarin went to the bottom of things."

The Chevalier slipped the ring on his finger, twirled it, and remained silent.

"Well?" said Victor, humorously.

"You never told me about Madame de Brissac." The Chevalier held the beryl of the ring toward the light and watched the flames dance upon its surface.

"Why should I have told you? I knew how matters stood between you and madame; it would have annoyed you. It was not want of confidence, Paul; it was diffidence. Are you sober enough to hear all about it now?"

"Sober? Well, I can listen." The Chevalier was but half awake mentally; he still looked at Victor as one would look at an apparition.

"So. Well, then," Victor began, "once upon a time there lived a great noble. He was valiant in wars and passing loves. From the age of eighteen to sixty, Mars nor Venus had withheld their favors. He was a Henri IV without a crown."

"Like that good father of mine," said the Chevalier, scowling.

"His sixtieth birthday came, and it was then he found that the garden of pleasure, that had offered so many charming flowers for his plucking, had drawn to its end. Behind, there were only souvenirs; before, nothing but barren fields. Suddenly he remembered that he had forgotten to marry. A name such as his must not sink into oblivion. He must have a wife, young and innocent. He did not seek love; in this his heart was as a cinder on a dead hearth. He desired an ornament to grace his home, innocence to protect his worldly honor. Strange, how these men who have tasted all fruits, the bitter and the sweet, should in their old age crave the companionship of youth and innocence. So he cast about. Being rich, he waived the question of any dowry save beauty and birth. A certain lady-in-waiting, formerly, to the queen, solved the problem for him. In a month her daughter would leave her convent, fresh and innocent as the dews of morning."

"O rare poet!" interrupted the Chevalier, with a droll turn of the head.

"This pleased the noble greatly. Men who have never found their ideals grow near-sighted at sixty. The marriage was celebrated quietly; few persons had ever heard of Gabrielle de Montbazon. Monsieur le Comte returned to Paris and reopened his hotel. But he kept away from court and mingled only with those who were in disfavor. Among his friends he wore his young wife as one would wear a flower. He evinced the same pride in showing her off as he would in showing off a fine horse, a famous picture, a rare drinking-cup. Madame was at first dazzled; it was such a change from convent life. He kept wondrous guard over her the first year. He never had any young companions at the hotel; they were all antique like himself. Paul, there is something which age refuses to understand. Youth, like a flower, does not thrive in dusty nooks, in dark cellars."

"How about mushrooms? They grow in cellars; and the thought of them makes my mouth water."

"Paul, you are unkind to laugh."

"Have I not told you that I am drunk? Go on."

"Well, then, youth is like a flower; it must have air and sunshine, the freedom of its graceful stem. Nature does not leap from May to December. The year culminates in the warm breath of summer. Youth culminates in the sunshine of love. The year bereft of summer is less mournful than youth deprived of love. So. A young girl, married to a man old enough to be her grandsire, misses the glory of her summer, the realization of her convent dreams. Gradually she comprehends that she has been cheated, cruelly cheated. What happens? She begins by comparing her husband who is old to the gallants who are young. This is but natural."

"And exciting," interpolated the Chevalier.

"By and by, the world as contrived by man shows her many loopholes through which she may pass without disturbing her conscience. Ah, but these steps are so imperceptible that one does not perceive how far one goes till one looks back to find the way closed. Behold the irony of fate! During the second year Monsieur le Comte falls in love with one of Scudery's actresses, and, commits all sorts of follies for her sake. Ah well, there were gallants enough. And one found favor in madame's eyes; at least, so it seemed to him. In the summer months they promenaded the gardens of La Place Royale, on the Cours de la Reine, always at dusk. When it grew colder this gallant, who was of a poetical turn of mind, read her verses from Voiture, Malherbe, or Ronsard . . ."

"Not to mention Saumaise," said the Chevalier.

"He was usually seated at her feet in her boudoir. Sometimes they discussed the merits of Ronsard, or a novel by the Marquis d'Urfe. On my word of honor, Paul, to kiss her hand was the limit of my courage. She fascinated; her eyes were pitfalls; men looked into them but to tumble in. Gay one moment, sad the next; a burst of sunshine, a cloud!"

"What! you are talking about yourself?" asked the Chevalier. "Poet that you are, how well you tell a story! And you feared to offend me? I should have laughed. Is she pretty?"

"She is like her mother when her mother was twenty: the handsomest woman in Paris, which is to say, in all France."

"And you love her?"

"So much as that your poet's neck is very near the ax," lowly.

"Eh? What's that?"

The poet glanced hastily about. There was no one within hearing. "I asked Mazarin for this mission simply because I feared to remain in Paris and dare not now return. Your poet put his name upon a piece of paper which might have proved an epic but which has turned out to be pretty poor stuff. This paper was in De Brissac's care; was, I say, because it was missing the morning after his death. To-morrow, a week or a month from now, Mazarin will have it. And . . ." Victor drew his finger across his throat.

"A conspiracy? And you have put your name to it, you, who have never been more serious than a sonnet? Were you mad, or drunk?"

"They call it madness. Madame's innocent eyes drew me into it. I've only a vague idea what the conspiracy is about. Not that madame knew what was going on. Politics was a large word to her, embracing all those things which neither excited nor interested her. Lord love you, there were a dozen besides myself, madame's beauty being the magnet."

"And the plot?"

"Mazarin's abduction and forced resignation, Conde's return from Spain and Gaston's reinstatement at court."

"And your reward?"

"Hang me!" with a comical expression, "I had forgotten all about that end of it. A captaincy of some sort. Devil take cabals! And madame, finding out too late what had been going on, and having innocently attached her name to the paper, is gone from Paris, leaving advice for me to do the same. So here I am, ready to cross into Spain the moment you set out for Paris. Mazarin has taken it into his head to imitate Richelieu: off with the head rather than let the state feed the stomach."

"So that is why De Beaufort, thinking me to be the guilty man, sought me out and demanded the paper? My faith, this grows interesting. But oh! wise poet, did you not hear me tell you never to sign your name to anything save poetry?"

"It might have been a poem . . . I wonder whither madame has flown? By the way, Mademoiselle de Longueville gave me a letter to give to you. It is unaddressed. I promised to deliver it to you."

The Chevalier took the letter and opened it carelessly; but no sooner did he recognize the almost illegible but wholly aristocratic pothooks than a fit of trembling seized him. The faint odor of vervain filled his nostrils, and he breathed quickly.

"Forgive! How could I have doubled so gallant a gentleman! You have asked me if I love you. Find me and put the question again. I leave Paris indefinitely. France is large. If you love me you will find me. You complain that I have never permitted you to kiss me. Read. In this missive I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times. Diane."

A wild desire sprang into the Chevalier's heart to mount and ride to Paris that very night. The storm was nothing; his heart was warm, sending a heat into his cheeks and a sparkle into his dull eyes.

"Horns of Panurge! you weep?" cried Victor jestingly. "Good! You are maudlin. What is this news which makes you weep?"

"Ah, lad," said the Chevalier, standing, "you have brought me more than exoneration; you have brought me life, life and love. France is small when a beloved voice calls. I shall learn who she is, this glorious creature. A month and I shall have solved the enchantment. Victor, I have told you of her. Sometimes it seems that I must wake to find it all a dream. For nearly a year she has kept me dangling in mid air. She is as learned as Aspasia, as holding as Calypso, as fascinating as Circe. She is loveliness and wisdom; and I love her madly."

"And you will return to-morrow ?" asked Victor regretfully.

"To-morrow! Blessed day! Back to life and love! . . . Forgive me, lad; joy made me forget! I will see you safely in Spain."

Victor brooded for a space. "Horns of Panurge! Could I but lay my hands upon that paper!"

"No moping, lad. The bowl awaits; trouble shall smother in the cup. We shall make this night one for memory. I have a chateau in the Cevennes, and it shall be yours till all this blows over. Ah!"

The door leading to the private assembly opened. On the threshold stood a man of thirty-three or four, his countenance haughty and as clean cut as a Greek medallion. The eyes were large and black, the brows slanting and heavy, the nose high-bridged and fierce, the chin aggressive. There lay over all this a mask of reckless humor and gaiety. It was the face of a man who, had he curbed his desires and walked with circumspection, would have known enduring greatness as a captain, as an explorer, as a theologian. Not a contour of the face hut expressed force, courage, daring, immobility of purpose.

"Hurrah, Chevalier!" he cried; "the bowl will soon be empty."

"The Vicomte d'Halluys?" murmured Victor. "Paul, there is another gentleman bound for Spain. We shall have company."

"What? The astute vicomte, that diplomat?"

"Even so. The Vicomte d'Halluys, wit, duelist, devil-may-care, spendthrift. Ho, Vicomte!" the poet called.

"Saumaise?" cried the man at the door, coming forward.

"Go in, Paul," said the poet; "I want a word with him."

The Chevalier passed into the private assembly. The vicomte and the poet looked into each other's eyes for a moment. The vicomte slapped his thigh and laughed.

"Hang me from a gargoyle on Notre Dame," he broke forth, "if it isn't the poet!"

"The same," less hilariously.

"I thought you had gone to Holland?"

"I can talk Spanish," replied Victor, "but not a word of Dutch. And you? Is it Spain?"

"Nay; when the time comes I'm for New France. I have some property there; a fine excuse to see it. What a joke! How well it will read in Monsieur Somebody's memoirs! What is new?"

"Mazarin has not yet come into possession of that paper. Beaufort will see to that, so far as it lies in his power. I am all at sea."

"And I soon shall be! Come on, then. We are making a night of it." And the vicomte caught the poet by the arm and dragged him into the private assembly.

Around a huge silver bowl sat a company of roisterers, all flushed with wine and the attendant false happiness. Long clay pipes clouded the candle-light; there was the jingle of gold and the purr of shuffling cards; and here and there were some given to the voicing of ribald songs. To Victor this was no uncommon scene; and it was not long before he had thrown himself with gay enthusiasm into this mad carouse.

Shortly after the door had closed upon the company of merry-makers and their loud voices had resolved into untranslatable murmurs, three men came into the public room and ranged themselves in front of the fire. The close fitting, long black cassocks, the wide-brimmed hats looped up at the sides, proclaimed two of them to belong to the Society of Jesus. The third, his body clothed in nondescript skins and furs, his feet in beaded moccasins, his head hatless and the coarse black hair adorned with a solitary feather from a heron's wing and glistening with melting snow, the color of his skin unburnished copper, his eyes black, fierce, restless,—all these marked the savage of the New World. Potboys, grooms, and guests all craned their necks to get a glimpse of this strange and formidable being of whom they had heard such stories as curdled the blood and filled the night with troubled dreams. A crowd gathered about, whispering and nodding and pointing. The Iroquois beheld all this commotion with indifference not unmixed with contempt. When he saw Du Puys and Bouchard pressing through the crowd, his lips relaxed. These were men whom he knew to be men and tried warriors. After greeting the two priests, Du Puys led them to a table and directed Maitre le Borgne to bring supper for three. The Iroquois, receiving a pleasant nod from Father Chaumonot, took his place at the table. And Le Borgne, pale and trembling, took the red man's order for meat and water.

"Ah, Captain," said Chaumonot, "it is good to see you again."

"Major, Father; Major."

"You have received your commission, then?"

"Finally."

"Congratulations! Will you direct me at once to the Hotel de Perigny? I must see the marquis to-night, since we sail to-morrow."

"As soon as you have completed your supper," said Du Puys. Then lowering his voice: "The marquis's son is in yonder room."

"Then the marquis has a son?" said Brother Jacques, with an indescribable smile. "And by what name is he known?"

"The Chevalier du Cevennes."

Strange fires glowed in the young Jesuit's eyes. He plucked at his rosary. "The Chevalier du Cevennes: the ways of God are inscrutable."

"In what way, my son?" asked Chaumonot.

"I met the Chevalier in Paris." Brother Jacques folded his arms and stared absently at his plate.



CHAPTER VII

THE PHILOSOPHY OF MONSIEUR LE MARQUIS DE PERIGNY

The Hotel de Perigny stood in the Rue des Augustines, diagonally opposite the historic pile once occupied by Henri II and Diane de Poitiers, the beautiful and fascinating Duchesse de Valentinois of equivocal yet enduring fame. It was constructed in the severe beauty of Roman straight lines, and the stains of nearly two centuries had discolored the blue-veined Italian marble. A high wall inclosed it, and on the top of this wall ran a miniature cheval-de-frise of iron. Nighttime or daytime, in mean or brilliant light, it took on the somber visage of a kill-joy. The invisible hand of fear chilled and repelled the curious: it was a house of dread. There were no gardens; the flooring of the entire court was of stone; there was not even the usual vine sprawling over the walls.

Men had died in this house; not always in bed, which is to say, naturally. Some had died struggling in the gloomy corridors, in the grand salon, on the staircase leading to the upper stories. In the Valois's time it had witnessed many a violent night; for men had held life in a careless hand, and the master of fence had been the law-giver. Three of the House of Perigny had closed their accounts thus roughly. The grandsire and granduncle of the present marquis, both being masters of fence, had succumbed in an attempt to give law to each other. And the apple of discord, some say, had been the Duchesse de Valentinois. The third to die violently was the ninth marquis, father of the present possessor of the title. History says that he died of too much wine and a careless tongue. Thus it will be seen that the blood in the veins of this noble race was red and hot.

Children, in mortal terror, scampered past the hotel; at night sober men, when they neared it, crossed the street. Few of the Rochellais could describe the interior; these were not envied of their knowledge. It had been tenanted but twice in thirty years. Of the present generation none could remember having seen it cheerful with lights. The ignorant abhor darkness; it is the meat upon which their superstition feeds. To them, deserted houses are always haunted, if not by spirits at least by the memory of evil deeds.

The master of this house of dread was held in awe by the citizens to whom he was a word, a name to be spoken lowly, even when respect tinctured the utterance. Stories concerning the marquis had come from Paris and Perigny, and travel, the good gossip, had distorted acts of mere eccentricity into deeds of violence and wickedness. The nobility, however, did not share the popular belief. They beheld in the marquis a great noble whose right to his title ran back to the days when a marquisate meant the office of guarding the marshes and frontiers for the king. Besides, the marquis had been the friend of two kings, the lover of a famous beauty, the husband of the daughter of a Savoy prince. These three virtues balanced his moral delinquencies. To the popular awe in which the burghers held him there was added a large particle of distrust; for during the great rebellion he had served neither the Catholics nor the Huguenots; neither Richelieu, his enemy, nor De Rohan, his friend. Catholics proclaimed him a Huguenot, Huguenots declared him a Catholic; yet, no one had ever seen him attend mass, the custom of good Catholics, nor had any heard him pray in French, the custom of good Huguenots. What then, being neither one nor the other? An atheist, whispered the wise, a word which was then accepted in its narrowest cense: that is to say, Monsieur le Marquis had sold his soul to the devil.

Perigny, it is not to be denied, was a sinister sound in the ears of a virtuous woman. To the ultra-pious and the bigoted, it was a letter in the alphabet of hell. Yet, there was in this grim chain of evil repute one link which did not conform with the whole. The marquis never haggled with his tradesmen, never beat his servants or his animals, and opened his purse to the poor with more frequency than did his religious neighbors. Those who believed in his total wickedness found it impossible to accept this incongruity.

For ten years the hotel had remained in darkness; then behold! but a month gone, a light was seen shining from one of the windows. The watch, upon investigation, were informed that Monsieur le Marquis had returned to the city and would remain indefinitely. After this, on several occasions the hotel was lighted cheerfully enough. Monsieur le Marquis's son entertained his noble friends and the officers from Fort Louis. There was wine in plenty and play ran high. The marquis, however, while he permitted these saturnalia, invariably held aloof. It was servants' hall gossip that the relations existing between father and son were based upon the coldest formalities. Conversation never went farther than "Good morning, Monsieur le Marquis" and "Good morning, Monsieur le Comte." The marquis pretended not to understand when any referred to his son as the "Chevalier du Cevennes." It was also gossiped that this noble house was drawing to its close; for the Chevalier had declined to marry, and was drinking and gaming heavily; and to add to the marquis's chagrin, the Chevalier had been dismissed from court, in disgrace,—a calamity which till now had never fallen upon the House of Perigny.

The marquis was growing old. As he sat before the fire in the grand salon, the flickering yellow light playing over his features, which had a background of moving, deep velvet-brown shadows, he might have been the theme of some melancholy whim by Rubens, a stanza by Dante. His face was furrowed like a frosty road. Veins sprawled over his hands which rested on the arms of his chair, and the knuckles shone like ivory through the drawn transparent skin. The long fingers drummed ceaselessly and the head teetered; for thus senility approaches. His lips, showing under a white mustache, were livid and fallen inward. The large Alexandrian nose had lost its military angle, and drooped slightly at the tip: which is to say, the marquis no longer acted, he thought; he was no longer the soldier, but the philosopher. The domineering, forceful chin had the essentials of a man of justice, but it was lacking in that quality of mercy which makes justice grand. Over the Henri IV ruff fell the loose flesh of his jaws. Altogether, it was the face of a man who was practically if not actually dead. But in the eyes, there lay the life of the man. From under jutting brows they peered as witnesses of a brain which had accumulated a rare knowledge of mankind, man's shallowness, servility, hypocrisy, his natural inability to obey the simplest laws of nature; a brain which was set in motion always by calculation, never by impulse. They were grey eyes, bold and fierce and liquid as a lion's. None among the great had ever beaten them down, for they were truthful eyes, almost an absolute denial of the life he had lived. But truth to the marquis was not a moral obligation. He was truthful as became a great noble who was too proud and fearless of consequences to lie. In his youth he had been called Antinous to Henri's Caesar; but there is a certain type of beauty which, if preyed upon by vices, becomes sardonic in old age.

At his elbow stood a small Turkish table on which were a Venetian bell and a light repast, consisting of a glass of weakened canary and a plate of biscuits spread sparingly with honey. Presently the marquis drank the wine and struck the bell. Jehan, the marquis's aged valet, entered soon after with a large candelabrum of wax candles. This he placed on the mantel. Even with this additional light, the other end of the salon remained in semi-darkness. Only the dim outline of the grand staircase could be seen.

Over the mantel the portrait of a woman stood out clearly and definitely. It represented Madame la Marquise at twenty-two, when Marie de Medicis had commanded the young Rubens to paint the portrait of one of the few women who had volunteered to share her exile. Madame lived to be only twenty-four, happily.

"Jehan, light the chandelier," said the marquis. His voice, if high, was still clear and strong. "Has Monsieur le Comte ventured forth in this storm?"

"Yes, Monsieur; but he left word that he would return later with a company of friends."

"Friends?" The marquis shrugged. "Is that what he calls them? When do these grasping Jesuits visit me?"

"At eight, Monsieur. They are due this moment, unless they have failed to make the harbor."

"And they bring the savage? Good. He will interest me, and I am dying of weariness. I shall see a man again. Arrange some chairs next to me, bring a bottle of claret, and a thousand livres from the steward's chest. And listen, Jehan, let Monsieur le Comte's servant give orders to the butler for his master. I forbid you to do it."

"Yes, Monsieur," and Jehan proceeded to light the chandelier, the illumination of which brought out distinctly the tarnished splendor of the salon. Jehan retired.

The marquis, to steady his teetering head, rested his chin on his hands, which were clasped over the top of his walking-stick. Occasionally his eyes roved to the portrait of his wife, and a melancholy, unreadable smile broke the severe line of his lips.

"A beautiful woman," he mused aloud, "though she did not inspire me with love. Beauty: that is the true religion, that is the shrine of worship, as the Greeks understood it; beauty of woman. Woman was born to express beauty, man to express strength. We detest weakness in a man, and a homely woman is a crime. And so De Brissac passed violently? And his oaths of vengeance were breaths on a mirror. Ah well, I had ceased to hate him these twenty years. Did he love yonder woman, or was his fancy like mine, ephemeral? And he married Mademoiselle de Montbazon? That is droll, a kind of tentative vengeance."

His eyes closed and he fell into a dreaming state. Like all men who have known eventful but useless lives, the marquis lived in the past. The future held for him nothing cut pain and death, and his thought seldom went forth to meet it. Day after day he sat alone with his souvenirs, unmindful of the progress about him, indifferent.

When the valet returned with the wine and the livres, he placed three chairs within easy distance of the marquis, and waited to learn what further orders his master had in mind.

The marquis opened his eyes. "When Messieurs the Jesuits come, show them in at once. The hypocrites come on a begging errand. After I have humiliated them, I shall give them money, and they will say, 'Absolvo te.' It is simple. And they will promise to pray for the repose of my soul when I am dead. My faith, how easy it is to gain Heaven! A thousand livres, a prayer mumbled in Latin, and look! Heaven is for the going. The thief and the murderer, the fool and the wise man, the rich and the beggared, how they must jostle one another in the matter of precedence! Poor Lucifer! Who will lend Lucifer a thousand livres and an 'Absolvo te'?"

Jehan crossed himself, for he was a pious Catholic.

"Hypocrite!" snarled the marquis; "Have I not forbidden you this mummery in my presence? Begone!"

The Swiss clock on the mantel had chimed the first quarter after eight ere the marquis was again disturbed. He turned in his seat to witness the entrance of his unwelcome guests. He smiled, but not pleasantly.

"Be seated, Messieurs," he said, waving his hand toward the chairs, and eying the Iroquois with that curiosity with which one eyes a new species of animal. Next his gaze fell upon Brother Jacques, whose look, burning and intense, aroused a sense of impatience in the marquis's breast. "Monsieur," he said peevishly, "have not the women told you that you are too handsome for a priest?"

"If so, Monsieur," imperturbably, "I have not heard." And while a shade of color grew in his cheeks, Brother Jacques's look was calm and undisturbed.

"And you are Father Chaumonot?" said the marquis turning to the elder. His glance discovered a finely modeled head, a high benevolent brow, eyes mild and intelligent, a face marred neither by greed nor by cunning; not handsome, rather plain, but wholesome, amiable, and with a touch of those human qualities which go toward making a man whole. There was even a suspicion of humor in the fine wrinkles gathered around the eyes. The marquis pictured this religious pioneer in the garb of a soldier. "You would be a man but for that robe," he said, when his scrutiny was brought to an end.

"I pray God that I may be a man for it."

The marquis laughed. He loved a man of quick reply. "What do you call him?" indicating the Indian, whose dark eyes were constantly roving.

"The Black Kettle is his Indian name; but I have baptized him as Dominique."

"Tell him for me that he is a man."

"My son," said Chaumonot, speaking slowly in French, "the white chief says that you are a man."

The Iroquois expanded under this flattery. "The white chief has the proud eye of the eagle."

"Devil take me!" cried the marquis; "but it seems that he talks very good French!"

"It took some labor," replied Chaumonot; "but he was quick to learn, and he is of great assistance to me."

"Is he a Catholic?" curiously.

"Aye, and proud to be."

The marquis signified his astonishment by wagging his head. "I should like to see this Indian at mass; it must be very droll."

"Monsieur," said Chaumonot, passing over the marquis's questionable irony, "will you permit me to tell you a short story before approaching the subject of my visit?"

"Rabelaisian?" maliciously.

"No; not a monstrous story, but one relative to an act of kindness which took place many years ago."

"Well, if I am not interested I shall interrupt you," said the marquis. He swept his hand toward the wine, but the priests and the Iroquois respectfully declined. "Proceed."

"Once upon a time," began Chaumonot, his eyes directed toward the bronze console which supported the mantel, "there lived a lad whose father was a humble vine-dresser. At the age of ten he was sent to Chatillon, where he lived with his uncle, a priest, who taught him Latin and Holy history. This did not prevent him from yielding to the persuasion of one of his companions to run off to Beaune, where the two proposed to study music under the Fathers of Oratory. To provide funds for the journey, he stole a dozen livres from his uncle, the priest. Arriving at Beaune, he became speedily destitute. He wrote home to his mother for money. She showed the letter to his father, who ordered him home. Stung by the thought of being branded a thief in his native town, he resolved not to return, but in expiation to set out forthwith on a pilgrimage to Rome. Tattered and penniless, he took the road to Rome. He was proud, this boy, and at first refused to beg; but misery finally forced his pride to its knees, and his hand stretched forth from door to door. He slept in open fields, in cowsheds, in haystacks, occasionally finding lodging in a convent. Thus, sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of wandering vagabonds, he made his way through Savoy and Lombardy in a pitiable condition of destitution and disease. At length he arrived at Ancona, where the thought occurred to him of visiting the Holy House of Loretto, and of applying for succor of the Holy Virgin. Patience, Monsieur; only a moment more."

The marquis, leaning on his cane, was distorting his lips and wrinkling his eyebrows.

"The lad's hopes were not disappointed. He had reached the renowned shrine, knelt, paid his devotions, when, as he issued from the chapel door, he was accosted by an elegant cavalier, who was having some difficulty with a stirrup. He asked the wretched boy to hold the horse, and for this service gave him five Spanish pistoles of gold."

The expression on the marquis's face was now one of animation.

"Is it possible! I recall the episode distinctly. I was on the way to my marriage."

"Well, Monsieur le Marquis, I have never forgotten that service. I have always treasured that act of kindness. For those five pistoles renewed life, took me to my journey's end, and eventually led me into the Society of Jesus. I have always desired the pleasure of meeting you and thanking you personally." Chaumonot's face beamed.

"Be not hasty with your thanks. I have forgotten the purpose I had in mind when I gave you those pistoles. Ah well, I will leave you with the illusion that it was an act of generosity. And as I remember, you were a pitiful looking young beggar." Turning to Brother Jacques, the marquis said: "Have I ever done you a service?"

"No, Monsieur le Marquis; you have never done me a service." There was a strange irony beneath the surface of these words. Chaumonot did not notice it, but the marquis, who was a perfect judge of all those subtile phases of conversation, caught the jangling note; and it caused him to draw together his brows in a puzzled frown.

"Have I ever met you till now?" he asked.

"Not that I know of, Monsieur." The tone was gentle, respectful.

"There is something familiar about your face;" and the marquis stared into space; but he could not conjure up the memory he sought. He had seen this handsome priestly face before. Where?

Brother Jacques's features were without definite expression.

Presently the marquis roused himself from the past. "I received your letter in regard to funds. How is it that you came to me?"

"You have gained the reputation of being liberal."

"I have several reputations," said the marquis dryly. "But why should I give you a thousand livres? That is a good many."

"Oh, Monsieur, give what you like; only that sum was suggested by me because it is the exact amount needed in our work."

"But I am out of sympathy with your projects and your religion, especially your religion. I am neither a Catholic nor a Huguenot. Religion which seeks political domination is not a religion, but a party. And what are Catholicity and Huguenotism but political factions, with a different set of prayers? Next to a homely woman, there is nothing I detest so much as politics. I have no religion."

"It would be a great joy," said Chaumonot, "to bring about your conversion."

"You have heard of Sisyphus, who was condemned eternally to roll a stone up a hill? Well, Monsieur, that would be a simple task compared with an attempt to convert me to Catholicism. I believe in three things: life, pleasure, and death, because I know them to exist."

"And pain, Monsieur?" said Brother Jacques softly.

"Ah well, and pain," abstractedly. "But as to Heaven and hell, bah! Let some one prove to me that there exists a hereafter other than silence; I am not unreasonable. People say that I am an infidel, an atheist. I am simply a pagan, even more of a pagan than the Greeks, for they worshiped marble. Above all things I am a logician; and logic can not feed upon suppositions; it must have facts. Why should I be a Catholic, to exterminate all the Huguenots; a Huguenot, to annihilate all the Catholics? No, no! Let all live; let each man worship what he will and how. There is but one end, and this end focuses on death, unfeeling sod, and worms. Shall I die to-morrow? I enjoyed yesterday. And had I died yesterday, I should now be beyond the worry of to-morrow. I wish no man's death, because he believes not as I believe. I wish his death only when he has wronged me . . . or I have wronged him. I do not say to you, 'Monsieur, be a heretic'; I say merely, permit me to be one if I choose. And what is a soul?" He blew upon the gold knob of his stick, and watched the moisture evaporate.

"Thought, Monsieur; thought is the soul. Can you dissect the process of reason? Can you define of what thought consists? No, Monsieur; there you stop. You possess thought, but you can not tell whence it comes, or whither it goes when it leaves this earthly casket. This is because thought is divine. When on board a ship, in whom do you place your trust?" Chaumonot's eyes were burning with religious zeal.

"I trust the pilot, because I see him at the wheel. I speak to him, and he tells me whither we are bound. I understand your question, and have answered it. You would say, 'God is the pilot of our souls.' But what proof? I do not see God; and I place no trust in that which I can not see. Thought, you say, is the soul. Well, then, a soul has the ant, for it thinks. What! a Heaven and a hell for the ant? Ah, but that would be droll! I own to but one goddess, and she is chastening. That is Folly! She is a liberal creditor. How bravely she lends us our excesses! When we are young, Folly is a boon companion. She opens her purse to us, laughing. But let her find that we have overdrawn our account with nature, then does Folly throw aside her smiling mask, become terrible with her importunities, and hound us into the grave. I am paying Folly, Monsieur," exhibiting a palsied hand. "I am paying in precious hours for the dross she lent me in my youth."

Chaumonot could not contain his indignation against this fallacious reasoning. He knew that his words might lose him a thousand livres; nevertheless he said bravely: "Monsieur le Marquis, it is such men as yourself who make the age what it is; it is philosophy such as yours that corrupts and degenerates. It is wrong, I say, a thousand times wrong. Being without faith, you are without a place to stand on; you are without hope; you live in darkness, and everything before you must be hollow, empty, joyless. You think, yet deny the existence of a soul! Folly has indeed been your god. Oh, Monsieur, it is frightful!" And the zealot rose and crossed himself, expecting a fiery outburst and instant dismissal. He could not repress a sigh. A thousand livres were a great many.

But the marquis acted quite contrary to his expectations. He astonished the good man by laughing and pounding the floor with his cane.

"Good!" he cried. "I like a man of your kidney. You have an opinion and the courage to support it. You are still less a Jesuit than a man. Brother Jacques here might have acquiesced to all my theories rather than lose a thousand livres."

"You are wrong, Monsieur," replied Brother Jacques quietly. "I should go to further lengths of disapprobation. I should say that Monsieur le Marquis's philosophy is the cult of fools and of madmen, did I not know that he was simply testing our patience when he advanced such impossible theories."

"What! two of them?" sarcastically. "I compliment you both upon risking my good will for an idea."

Chaumonot sighed more deeply. The marquis motioned him to his chair.

"Sit down, Monsieur; you have gained my respect. Frankness in a Jesuit? Come; what has the Society come to that frankness replaces cunning and casuistry? Bah! There never was an age but had its prude to howl 'O these degenerate days!' Corrupt and degenerate you say? Yes; that is the penalty of greatness, richness, and idleness. It began with the Egyptians, it struck Rome and Athens; it strikes France to-day. Yesterday we wore skins and furs, to-day silks and woolens, to-morrow . . . rags, mayhap. But listen: human nature has not changed in these seven thousand years, nor will change. Only governments and fashions change . . . and religions."

There was a pause. Chaumonot wondered vaguely how he could cope with this man who was flint, yet unresponsive to the stroke of steel. Had the possibility of the thousand livres become nothing? Again he sighed. He glanced at Brother Jacques, but Brother Jacques was following the marquis's lead . . . sorting visions in the crumbling, glowing logs. As for the Indian, he was admiring the chandelier.

"Monsieur," said Brother Jacques, breaking the silence, but not removing his gaze from the logs, "it is said that you have killed many men in duels."

"What would you?" complacently. "All men fight when need says must. I never fought without cause, just or unjust. And the Rochellais have added a piquant postscript that for every soul I have despatched . . ."

"You speak of soul, Monsieur?" interrupted Chaumonot.

"A slip of the tongue. What I meant to say was, that for every life I've sent out of the world, I've brought another into it," with a laugh truly Rabelaisian.

Brother Jacques's hands were attacked by a momentary spasm. Only the Indian witnessed this sign of agitation; but the conversation was far above his learning and linguistic resources, and he comprehended nothing.

"Well, Monsieur Chaumonot," said the marquis, who was growing weary of this theological discussion, "Here are your livres in the sum of one thousand. I tell you frankly that it had been my original intention to subject you to humiliation. But you have won my respect, for all my detestation of your black robes; and if this money will advance your personal ambitions, I give it to you without reservation." He raised the bag and cast it into Chaumonot's lap.

"Monsieur," cried the good man, his face round with delight, "every night in yonder wilderness I shall pray for the bringing about of your conversion. It will be a great triumph for the Church."

"You are wasting your breath. I am not giving a thousand livres for an 'Absolvo te.' Perhaps, after all," and the marquis smiled maliciously, "I am giving you this money to embarrass Monsieur du Rosset, the most devout Catholic in Rochelle. I have heard that he has refused to aid you."

"I shall not look into your purpose," said Chaumonot.

"Monsieur," said Brother Jacques musically, "I am about to ask a final favor."

"More livres?" laughing.

"No. There may come a time when, in spite of your present antagonism, you will change your creed, and on your death-bed desire to die in the Church. Should that time ever come, will you promise me the happiness of administering to you the last sacraments?"

For some time the marquis examined the handsome face, the bold grey eyes and elegant shape of this young enthusiast, and a wonder grew into his own grey eyes.

"Ah well, I give you my promise, since you desire it. I will send for you whenever I consider favorably the subject of conversion. But supposing you are in America at the time?"

"I will come. God will not permit you to die, Monsieur, before I reach your bedside." The young Jesuit stood at full height, his eyes brilliant, his nostrils expanded, his whole attitude one of religious fervor . . . so Chaumonot and the marquis thought.

At this moment the Chevalier and his company of friends arrived; and they created some noise in making their entrance. To gain the dining-hall, where they always congregated, the company had to pass through the grand salon. The Chevalier had taught his companions to pay no attention to the marquis, his father, nor to offer him their respects, as the marquis had signified his desire to be ignored by the Chevalier's friends. So, led by De Saumaise, who was by now in a most genial state of mind, the roisterers trailed across the room toward the dining-hall, laughing and grumbling over their gains and losses at the Corne d'Abondance. The Chevalier, who straggled in last, alone caught the impressive tableau at the other end of the salon; the two Jesuits and the Indian, their faces en silhouette, a thread of reflected fire following the line of their profiles, and the white head of the marquis. When the young priest turned and the light from the chandelier fell full upon his face, the Chevalier started. So did Brother Jacques, though he quickly assumed a disquieting calm as he returned the Chevalier's salutation.

"What is he doing here?" murmured the Chevalier. "Devil take him and his eyes;" and passed on into the dining-hall.

When the Jesuits and their Indian convert departed, the marquis resumed his former position, his chin on his hands, his hands resting on his cane. From time to time he heard loud laughter and snatches of song which rose above the jingle of the glasses in the dining-hall.

"I am quite alone," he mused, with a smile whimsically sad.



CHAPTER VIII

THE LAST ROUT

Time doled out to the marquis a lagging hour. There were moments when the sounds of merriment, coming from the dining-hall, awakened in his breast the slumbering canker of envy,—envy of youth, of health, of the joy of living. They were young in yonder room; the purse of life was filled with golden metal; Folly had not yet thrown aside her cunning mask, and she was still darling to the eye. Oh, to be young again; that light step of youth, that bold and sparkling glance, that steady hand,—if only these were once more his! Where was all the gold Time had given to him? Upon what had he expended it, to have become thus beggared? To find an apothecary having the elixir of eternal youth! How quickly he would gulp the draft to bring back that beauty which had so often compelled the admiration of women, a Duchesse de Montbazon, a Duchesse de Longueville, a Princesse de Savoie, among the great; a Margot Bourdaloue among the obscure!

Margot Bourdaloue. . . . The marquis closed his eyes; the revelry dissolved into silence. How distinctly he could see that face, sculptured with all the delicacy of a Florentine cameo; that yellow hair of hers, full of captive sunshine; those eyes, giving forth the velvet-bloom of heartsease; those slender brown hands which defied the lowliness of her birth, and those ankles the beauty of which not even the clumsy sabots could conceal! He knew a duchess whose line of blood was older than the Capets' or the Bourbons'. Was not nature the great Satirist? To give nobility to that duchess and beauty to that peasant! Margot Bourdaloue, a girl of the people, of that race of animals he tolerated because they were necessary; of the people, who understood nothing of the poetry of passing loves; Margot Bourdaloue, the one softening influence his gay and careless life had known.

Sometimes in the heart of swamps, surrounded by chilling or fetid airs, a flower blossoms, tender and fragrant as any rose of sunny Tours: such a flower Margot had been. Thirty years; yet her face had lost to him not a single detail; for there are some faces which print themselves so indelibly upon the mind that they become not elusive like the memory of an enhancing melody or an exquisite poem, but lasting, like the sense of life itself. And Margot, daughter of his own miller—she had loved him with all the strength and fervor of her simple peasant heart. And he? Yes, yes; he could now see that he had loved her as deeply as it was possible for a noble to love a peasant. And in a moment of rage and jealousy and suspicion, he had struck her across the face with his riding-whip.

What a recompense for such a love! In all the thirty years only once had he heard from her: a letter, burning with love, stained and blurred with tears, lofty with forgiveness, between the lines of which he could read the quiet tragedy of an unimportant life. Whither had she gone, carrying that brutal, unjust blow? Was she living? . . . dead? Was there such a thing as a soul, and was the subtile force of hers compelling him to regret true happiness for the dross he had accepted as such? Soul? What! shall the atheist doubt in his old age?

For more than half an hour the marquis barred from his sight the scene surrounding, and wandered in familiar green fields where a certain mill-stream ran laughing to the sobbing sea; closed his ears to the shouts of laughter and snatches of ribald song, to hear again the nightingale, the stir of grasses under foot, the thrilling sweetness of the voice he loved. When he recovered from his dream he was surprised to find that he had caught the angle of his wife's eyes, those expressive and following eyes which Rubens left to posterity; and he saw in them something which was new-born: reproach.

"Yes," said the marquis, as if replying to this spirit of reproach; "yes, if there be souls, yours must hover about me in reproach; reproach not without its irony and gladness; for you see me all alone, Madame, unloved, unrespected, declining and forgotten. But I offer no complaint; only fools and hypocrites make lamentation. And I am less to this son of yours than the steward who reckons his accounts. Where place the blame? Upon these shoulders, Madame, stooped as you in life never saw them. I knew not, conceited gallant that I was, that beauty and strength were passing gifts. What nature gives she likewise takes away. Who would have dreamed that I should need an arm to lean on? Not I, Madame! What vanity we possess when we lack nothing! . . ."

From the dining-hall there came distinctly the Chevalier's voice lifted in song. He was singing one of Victor's triolets which the poet had joined to music:

"When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe, I drink the wine from her radiant eyes; And we sit in a casement made for two When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe With a Bacchante's love for a Bacchic brew! Then kiss the grape, for the midnight flies When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe, And I the wine from her radiant eyes!"

"Madame, he sings well," said the marquis, whimsically. "What was it the Jesuits said? . . . corrupt and degenerate? Yes, those were the words. 'Tis true; and this disease of idleness is as infectious as the plague. And this son of mine, he is following the game path through which I passed . . . to this, palsy and senility! Oh, the subtile poisons, the intoxicating Hippocrenes I taught him how to drink! And now he turns and casts the dregs into my face. But as I said, I make no plaint; I do not lack courage. A pleasant pastime it was, this worldly lessoning; but I forgot that he was partly a reproduction of his Catholic mother; that where I stood rugged he would fall; that he did not possess ardor that is without fire, love that is without sentiment. . . ."

A maudlin voice took up the Chevalier's song . . .

"When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe With a Bacchante's love for a Bacchic brew!"

"Reparation, Madame?" went on the marquis. "Such things are beyond reparation. And yet it is possible to save him. But how? Behold! you inspire me. I will save him. I will pardon his insolence, his contempt, his indifference, which, having my bone, was bred in him. Still, the question rises: for what shall I save him? Shall he love a good woman some day? Mayhap. So I will save him, not for the Church, but for the possible but unknown quantity."

There was a chorus, noisy and out of all harmony. At the end there came a crash, followed by laughter. Some convivial spirit had lost his balance and had fallen to the floor, dragging with him several bottles.

Without heeding these sounds, the marquis continued his monologue. "Yes, I will save him. But not with kindly words, with promises, with appeals; he would laugh at me. No, Madame; human nature such as his does not stir to these when they come from the lips of one he does not hold in respect. The shock must be rude, penetrating. I must break his pride. And on what is pride based if not upon the pomp of riches? I will take away his purse. What was his antipathy to Mademoiselle de Montbazon? . . . That would be droll, upon honor! I never thought of that before;" and he indulged in noiseless laughter.

The roisterers could be heard discussing wagers, some of which concerned horses, scandals, and women. Ordinarily the marquis would have listened with secret pleasure to this equivocal pastime; but somehow it was at this moment distasteful to his ears.

"My faith! but these Jesuits have cast a peculiar melancholy over me; this frog's blood of mine would warm to generous impulses! . . . I wonder where I have seen that younger fanatic?" The marquis mused a while, but the riddle remained elusive and unexplained. He struck the bell to summon Jehan. "Announce to Monsieur le Comte my desire to hold speech with him, immediately."

"With Monsieur le Comte?" cried Jehan.

"Ass! must I repeat a command?"

Jehan hurried away, nearly overcome by surprise.

"A toast!" said the Vicomte d'Halluys: "the Chevalier's return to Paris and to favor!"

The roisterers filled their glasses. "To Paris, Chevalier, to court!"

"To the beautiful unknown," whispered the poet into his friend's ear.

"Thanks, Messieurs," said the Chevalier. "Paris!" and a thousand flashes of candle-light darted from the brimming glasses.

The scene was not without its picturesqueness. The low crockery shelves of polished mahogany running the length of the room and filled with rare porcelain, costly Italian glass, medieval silver, antique flagons, loving-cups of gold inlaid with amber and garnets; a dazzling array of candlesticks; a fireplace of shining mosaics; the mahogany table littered with broken glass, full and empty bottles, broken pipes, pools of overturned wine, shredded playing cards, cracked dice, and dead candles; somber-toned pictures and rusted armor lining the walls; the brilliant uniforms of the officers from Fort Louis, the laces and satins of the civilians; the flushed faces, some handsome, some sodden, some made hideous by the chisel and mallet of vice: all these produced a scene at once attractive and repelling.

"Vicomte," said the Chevalier, "we are all drunk. Let us see if there be steady hands among us. I make you a wager."

"On what?"

"There are eight candles on your side of the table, eight on mine. I will undertake to snuff mine in less time than it takes you to snuff yours. Say fifty pistoles to make it interesting."

"Done!" said the vicomte.

Perhaps Victor was the soberest man among them, next to the vicomte, who had jestingly been accused of having hollow bones, so marvelous was his capacity for wine and the art of concealing the effects. Several times the poet had crossed the vicomte's glance as it was leveled in the Chevalier's direction. Each time the vicomte's lips had been twisted into a half smile which was not unmixed with pitying contempt. Somehow the poet did not wholly trust the vicomte. Genius has strange instincts. While Victor admired the vicomte's wit, his courage, his recklessness, there was a depth to this man which did not challenge investigation, but rather repelled it. What did that half smile signify? Victor shrugged. Perhaps it was all his imagination. Perhaps it was because he had seen the vicomte look at Madame de Brissac . . . as he himself had often looked. Ah well, love is a thing over which neither man nor woman has control; and perhaps his half-defined antagonism was based upon jealousy. There was some satisfaction to know that the vicomte's head was in no less danger than his own. He brushed aside these thoughts, and centered his interest in the game which was about to begin.

The vicomte drew his sword, and accepted that of Lieutenant de Vandreuil of the fort, while the Chevalier joined to his own the rapier of his poet-friend. Both the vicomte and the Chevalier held enviable reputations as fancy swordsmen. To snuff a candle with a pair of swords held scissorwise is a feat to be accomplished only by an expert. Interest in the sport was always high; and to-night individual wagers as to the outcome sprang up around the table. "Saumaise," said the vicomte, "will you hold the watch?"

"With pleasure, Vicomte," accepting the vicomte's handsome time-piece. "Messieurs, it is now twenty-nine minutes after ten; promptly at thirty I shall give the word, preceding it with a one-two-three. Are you ready?"

The contestants nodded. Several seconds passed, in absolute silence.

"One-two-three—go!"

The Chevalier succeeded in snuffing his candles three seconds sooner than the vicomte. The applause was loud. Breton was directed to go to the cellars and fetch a dozen bottles of white chambertin.

"You would have won, Vicomte," said the Chevalier, "but for a floating wick."

"Your courtesy exceeds everything," returned the vicomte, bowing with drunken exaggeration.

The doors slid back, and Jehan appeared on the threshold.

"Monsieur le Comte," he said, "Monsieur le Marquis, your father, desires to speak to you." Jehan viewed the scene phlegmatically,

"What!" The Chevalier set down his glass. His companions did likewise. "You are jesting, Jehan."

"No, Monsieur. This moment he commanded me to approach you."

"The marquis wishes to speak to me, you say?" The Chevalier looked about him to see how this news affected his friends. They were exchanging blank inquiries. "Tell Monsieur le Marquis that I will be with him presently."

"Now, Monsieur; pardon me, but he wishes to see you now."

"The devil! Messieurs, accept my excuses. My father is old and is doubtless attacked by a sudden chill. I will return immediately."

At the Chevalier's entrance the marquis did not rise; he merely turned his head. The Chevalier approached his chair, frowning.

"Monsieur," said the son, "Jehan has interrupted me to say that you desired to speak to me. Are you ill?"

"Not more than usual," answered the marquis dryly, catching the sarcasm underlying the Chevalier's solicitude. "It is regarding a matter far more serious and important than the state of my health. I am weary, Monsieur le Comte; weary of your dissipations, your carousals, your companions; I am weary of your continued disrespect."

"Monsieur, you never taught me to respect you," quietly, the flush gone from his cheeks.

The marquis nodded toward his wife's portrait, as if to say: "You see, Madame?" To his son he said: "If you can not respect me as your father, at least you might respect my age."

"Ah; honest age is always worthy of respect. But is yours honest, Monsieur? Have you not aged yourself?"

The marquis grew thoughtful at the conflict in view. "Monsieur, when I asked you to marry Mademoiselle de Montbazon, I forgot to say that she was not my daughter, but legally and legitimately the daughter of her father, the Duc de Montbazon."

This curious turn threw the Chevalier into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. The marquis waited patiently.

"I had no such thought. But your suggestion, had it occurred, might naturally have appealed to me. The supposition would not have been unreasonable."

"The lad is a wit!" cried the marquis, in mock admiration.

The Chevalier bowed. "Monsieur, if my presence at your hotel is not agreeable to you, I will leave at once. It is a small matter where I spend the night, as I return to court to-morrow."

"Ah! And what brought about this good fortune which has returned you to her Majesty's graces?" The marquis never mentioned Mazarin.

"The cause would scarcely interest you, Monsieur," coldly. The roisterers were becoming hilarious once more, and the Chevalier grew restive.