"Is that you, Chevalier? Do you recollect the coin? I am a generous debtor. I am paying you a hundred for one. Madame and I shall soon be on the way to Montreal. Remember her kindly. And you will tarry here till they find you, eh?"

"Vicomte, you were a brave man once. Be brave again. Do not torture me like this. Take your sword and run it through my heart, and I shall thank you."

Somberly the vicomte gazed down at him. He drowned the glimmer of pity in the thought of how this man had thwarted him in the past. "What!" he said, "spoil the comedy with a death-scene? I am too much of an artist, Monsieur. I had rather you should live." He went back into the hut. "The Chevalier grows restive, like an audience which can not see what is going on behind the curtain. Will you give me a kiss of your own volition, or must I use force again? It is like sin; the first step leads to another."

Madame stood passive. She would have killed this man with laughter on her lips had a knife been in her hand. He came toward her again. She strove to put the table between. He laughed, leaping the table lightly. She fled to the door, but ere she had taken a dozen steps he was in front of her. The Chevalier heard all these sounds. He prayed to God to end his miseries quickly.

"One more kiss, and we take the river, you and I. We will find some outcast priest to ease your conscience. The kisses will not be so fresh after that."

Far away came a call, but the vicomte did not hear it. He was too busy feasting his eyes. He had forgotten.

"So be it," he said. "This kiss shall last a full breath. Then we must be on the way."

A shadow darkened the doorway.

"Monsieur, here is a kiss for you, cold with death."

Madame cried out in joy. The vicomte whirled around, with an oath, his sword in his hand. Victor, pale but serene and confident, stood between him and freedom.



CHAPTER XXXII

THE ENVOI OF A GALLANT POET

Brother Jacques had done a wise thing. On the morning after the vicomte's singular confession, he had spoken a few words to the Black Kettle. From that hour the vicomte made no move that was not under the vigilant eye of the Onondaga. Wherever he went the Black Kettle followed with the soundless cunning of his race. Thus he had warned the settlement of what was going on at the hunting hut. Victor, having met him on his way up the trail, was first to arrive upon the scene.

"The poet!" said the vicomte airily. He was, with all his lawlessness, a gallant man. "Did I not prophesy that some day we should be at each other's throats?"

"Gabrielle," Victor said, "help is close at hand. I can keep this man at bay. If I should die, Gabrielle . . . you will not forget me?"

"How affecting! I am almost moved to tears!" mocked the vicomte.

"Well, Monsieur, let us go about our work without banter. There is no edict here, no meddling priests, only you and I. Engage!" Bare-headed he stood, scarce but a youth, no match ordinarily for the seasoned swordsman before him. But madame saw the courage of Bayard in his frank blue eyes. She turned her face toward the wall and wept. "Have patience, Paul," Victor called; "they will liberate you soon."

"So." The vicomte stretched out his arm. "Well, my writer of rondeaux, I have but little time to spare. As the fair Juliet says, 'I must be gone and live, or stay and die.' I can not fight the settlement which will soon be about my ears. You first, then your friend. I should scorn to separate, either on earth or in hades, such loving Orestes and Pylades. Madame, that kiss has cost me the joy of having your presence for the time being. Here shall the poet die, at his beloved's feet! Which is very fine." His blade darted out toward Victor's throat, and the last battle was begun. The vicomte was fighting for his liberty, and the poet was fighting to kill. They were almost evenly matched, for the vicomte was weary from his contest with D'Herouville and the Chevalier. For many years madame saw this day in her dreams.

The blades clashed; there was the soft pad-pad of feet, the involuntary "ah!" when the point was nicely avoided; there were lunges in quart, there were cuts over and under, thrusts in flanconade and tierce, feint and double-feint, and sudden disengagements. The sweat trickled down the vicomte's face; Victor's forehead glistened with moisture. Suddenly Victor stooped; swift as the tongue of an adder his blade bit deeply into the vicomte's groin, making a terrible wound. The vicomte caught his breath in a gasp of exquisite pain.

. . . Death! The skull and the hollow eyes stared him in the face. He was dying! But before Victor could recover and guard the vicomte lunged, and his point came out dully red between Victor's shoulder-blades. The lad stood perfectly still. There was a question on his face rather than a sign of pain. His weapon clanged upon the hardened clay of the floor. He took a step toward madame, tottered, and fell at her feet. He clutched the skirts of her Indian garb and pressed it convulsively to his bleeding lips.

"Gabrielle . . . Gabrielle!" he murmured. His head fell back loosely. He was dead. Gallant poet!

Madame's flesh seemed turned into marble; she could not move, but leaned against the wall, her arms half extended on each side.

"See, Madame," said the vicomte; "see what love does! . . . It is sudden. But do not worry; I too, have said my little part . . . not very well, either." He steadied himself by catching hold of the table. The blood gushed from his wound, soaking his leg, and forming a pool on the clay. "Why, he was worth more than them all, for all he scribbled verses. Bah! I have come the ragged way, and by the ragged way I go. . . . It is a pity: either men should be born blind or women without beauty. The devil of the priests is in it all. And this is what love does!"

The door darkened again, and the Chevalier, Nicot, Father Chaumonot and four soldiers came in hurriedly. The Chevalier was first. With a cry he dropped beside Victor.

"Lad, lad!" he cried in anguish. "Speak to me, lad!" He touched the poet's hands, and rose. Like an angry lion he faced the vicomte.

"Ha!" said the vicomte, rousing from the numbness which was stealing away his senses. "So it is you? I had each hair on your head separate and standing; and but for a kiss you would now be mad. To have come all this way and to have stopped a moment too long! That is what they call irony. But I would give my soul to ten Jesuit hells could I meet you once again with the sword. You have always plucked the fruit out of my grasp. We walked together, but the sun was always on you and the cloud on me. Ah, well, your poet is dead . . . and I had no real enmity toward him. . . . He was your friend. He will write no more ballades, and rondeaux, and triolets; eh, Madame? . . . Well, in a moment," as if he heard a voice calling. He balanced himself with difficulty.

Life returned to madame. Sobbing she sank beside Victor, calling to him wildly, fondled his head, shook his warm but nerveless hands, kissed his damp forehead, her tears falling on his yellow hair.

"He is gone!" she said piteously. "Victor is dead; he will not speak. Poor boy, poor boy!"

They were strong men; the tender quick of pity had grown thick. Yet they turned away. Father Chaumonot raised her gently.

"Yes, my daughter, he is dead. God will deal kindly with him, brave boy."

"Dead . . . as I shall soon be." The vicomte's dulling eyes roved from one face to another till they rested on madame. "He will sing no more; he will not fly southward this winter, nor next. Ah, Madame, will you forget that kiss? I believe not. Listen: . . . I did not kiss simply your lips; 'twas your memory. Ever shall that kiss stand between you and your lover's lips."

"It is true," she said brokenly. "You had a wicked heart, Monsieur. You, you have brought about all this misery. You have wantonly cast a shadow upon my life."

"Have I done that? Well, that is something . . . something."

"I forgive you."

"Eh? I am growing deaf!" He reeled toward the door, and the men made way for him. "I am growing blind, besides." He braced himself against the jamb of the door. "My faith! it is a pretty world. . . . I regret to leave it." He stared across the lake, but he could see nothing. A page of his youth came back.

"Monsieur," said Chaumonot, "you have many sins upon your soul. Shall I give you absolution?"

"Absolution?" The vicomte's lips grimaced; it might have been an attempt to smile. "Absolution for me? Where is Brother Jacques? That would be droll. . . . Those eyes! Absolution? That for your heaven," snapping his fingers, "and that for your hell. I know. It is all silence. There is nothing. I wonder. . . ." His knees suddenly refused to support the weight of his body. He raised himself upon his hands. The trees were merging together; the lake was red and blurred. "Gabrielle, Gabrielle, I loved you after my own fashion! . . . The devil take that grey cloak!" And the vicomte's lawless soul went forth.

The men took the three bodies and placed them in the canoes. They were somewhat rough with the vicomte's.

"Gently, my brothers," said Nicot. "He was a rascal, but he was a man."

Madame and the Chevalier were alone. To both of them it seemed as though years had passed. Madame was weary. She would have liked to lie down and sleep . . . forever. The Chevalier brushed his eyes. He was a man. Weeping over death and in pity was denied him. At present he was incapable of accepting the full weight of the catastrophe. His own agony was too recent. Everything was vague and dreamy. His head ached painfully from the blow he had received in the fight.

"What did he do to you?" he asked, scarce knowing what he said.

"He kissed me; kissed me on the mouth, Monsieur." She wiped her lips again. "It is of no use. It will always be there."

"You are Madame de Brissac?"

"Yes." The hopelessness of her tone chilled him.

"And you loved Victor?"

Her head drooped. She was merely tired; but he accepted this as an affirmative answer.

"It would have been well, Madame, had I died in his place."

"Let us go," she said; "they are calling."

That was all.

Victor lay in the living-room of the fort. A shroud covered all but his face. A little gold crucifix, belonging to Father Chaumonot, lay against his lips. Candles burned at his head and at his feet. There was quiet in his breast, peace on his boyish face.

"Come, Anne," said madame softly.

"Let me watch," said Anne. "I have always loved him."

They buried Victor under the hill, at the foot of a kingly pine where a hawk had builded his eery home. A loving hand had carved upon the tree these words: "Here lies Victor de Saumaise, a brave and gallant Frenchman, a poet, a gentleman, and soldier. He lived honorably and he died well." Close to the shores of the lake they buried the vicomte and the last of the D'Herouvilles. But only a roll of earth tells where they lie. Thus, a heart of sunshine and two hearts of storm repose in the eternal shadow, in peace, in silence. The same winds whisper mournfully above them, or sing joyously, or breathe in thunder. The heat of summer and the chill of winter pass and repass; the long grasses grow and die; the sun and the moon and the throbbing stars spread light upon these sepulchers. Two hundred and fifty years have come and gone, yet do they lie as on that day. After death, inanimation; only the inanimate is changeless.



CHAPTER XXXIII

HOW GABRIELLE DIANE DE MONTBAZON LOVED

How Brother Jacques, the Chevalier, Madame de Brissac and Anne de Vaudemont, guided by the Black Kettle, reached Quebec late in November, passing through a thousand perils, the bitter cold of nights and the silence of days more terrifying than the wolf's howl or the whine of the panther whose jaws dripped with the water of hunger, is history, as is the final doom of the Onondaga mission, which occurred early the following year. What became of the vicomte's confederates is unknown.

All throughout the wild journey the Chevalier's efforts were directed toward keeping up the lagging spirits of the women, who found it easier to despair than to hope. Night after night he sat beside them during his watch, always giving up his place reluctantly. That his constant cheeriness had its effect there is no doubt; for before they came within sight of the chateau madame had smiled twice.

They arrived in Quebec late in the afternoon. Immediately Anne entered the Ursulines, to come forth again only when a nun.

Breton fell upon his ragged knees in thanksgiving. The sight of his gaunt, bearded master filled him with the keenest joy, for this master of his had been given up as dead.

"And Monsieur le Marquis?" was the Chevalier's first question.

"He lives."

Early that evening Breton came to the Chevalier, who was dreaming before his fire.

"Monsieur Paul, but I have found such a remarkable paper in my copy of Rabelais! Here it is."

The Chevalier glanced at it indifferently . . . and at once became absorbed. It was the list of the cabal which had cost the lives of four strong men. He remained seated, lost in meditation. From time to time he opened the paper and refolded it. The movement was purely mechanical, and had no significance.

"Monsieur," said Breton timidly, "will you do me the honor to tell me what has happened? Monsieur de Saumaise, the vicomte and Monsieur d'Herouville; they are not with you?"

"Well, lad, perhaps it is due you;" and the Chevalier recounted a simple story of what had befallen him.

"Ah, that brave Monsieur de Saumaise!" exclaimed Breton, tears in his eyes. "And what became of the grey cloak, Monsieur?"

The Chevalier did not immediately reply.

"What became of it, Monsieur?"

"The Vicomte d'Halluys sleeps in it, lad. It is his shroud."

And not another word spoke the Chevalier to Breton that night. He sat before the bright chimney: old scenes, old scenes, with the gay poet moving blithely among them. Madame had heard the vicomte's insults, but now there was nothing to explain to her. What should he do with his useless life? There was no future; everything beyond was dark with monotony. It was a cruel revenge madame had taken, but she had asked his forgiveness, and he had forgiven. Would she return to France in the spring? Would she become a nun? Would his father live or die, and would he send for him? The winter wind sang in the chimney and the windows shuddered. He looked out. It was the storm of the winds which bring no snow. Nine o'clock! How long the nights would be now, having no dreams!

There came presently a timorous knocking on the panels of the door. Only Breton heard it, and he rose silently to answer this delicate summons. He looked at his master. The Chevalier was deep in his melancholy recollections. It seemed to Breton that Quebec was filled with phantoms: he had listened to so many strange noises these lonely nights, waiting and hoping for his master's return. He was not sure that this gentle rapping was not a deception. Besides, it was past nine. Who could be calling this time of night? A trooper or an officer would have put the full weight of his fist against the door. He stopped and put his hand to his ear. The knocking came again. Breton opened the door quietly, and to his unbounded surprise a woman entered. She pointed toward the hall. Breton, comprehending that she wished to be alone with his master, tiptoed out; and the door closed.

The visitor stood with her back to the door, silent and motionless as a statue. A burning log crackled with a sharp report, and a thousand sparks flew heaven-ward. There were wonderful lights in this woman's eyes and a high color on her somewhat thin cheeks. A minute passed; and another ticked itself into eternity. The Chevalier sat upright and stirred restlessly. The paper of the cabal crackled in his hand. . . . What was it? he wondered. Something, he could not tell what, seemed drawing, drawing. He became vaguely conscious of a presence. He turned his head slowly.

"Madame?" He jumped to his feet, his hand bearing heavily upon the back of his chair. "Madame?" he repeated.

The great courage which had brought her here ebbed, and her hand stole toward the latch. Neither of them realized how long a time they faced each other, a wonder in his eyes, an unfamiliar glory in hers.

"Monsieur . . ." she began; but her throat contracted and grew hot. She could not bring another word to her lips. The glisten in her eyes dimmed for a moment, but the color on her cheeks deepened and spread to her throat and brow.

"Madame," he said, speaking first to disembarrass her, "here is something which belongs to you."

The outstretched arm and paper fascinated her. She did not move.

"It is yours, Madame. It is the list of the cabal. I was going to bring it to you in the morning." He forced a smile to his lips to reassure her.

Ah, those treacherous knees of hers! Where was her courage? Alas, for that magnanimous resolve! Whither had it flown? But as the firelight bathed his pale face and emphasized the grey hair and the red scar above one of his temples, both her courage and resolve came back. She walked slowly over to him and took the paper, approached the fire, sank, and eagerly scanned the parchment. She gave a cry of exultation, end thrust the evil thing into the flames.

"Burn!" she cried, clasping her hands. "Burn, burn, burn! And let all the inglorious past burn with you! Burn!"

It was almost hysterical; it was almost childish; but he thought he had never seen a more exquisite picture. And she was so soon to pass out of his life as completely as though she had never entered it. From somewhere she had obtained a blue velvet gown with slashed sleeves and flaring wrists, of a fashion easily fifty years old. On her hair sat a small round cap of the same material, with a rim of amber beads. Was it possible that, save for these past six hours, he had been this woman's companion for more than five weeks; that she had accepted each new discomfort and peril without complaint; that he had guarded her night after night in the lonely forests? A slender thread of golden flame encircled her throat, and disappeared below the ruffle of lace. Doubtless it was a locket; and perchance poor Victor's face lay close to that warmly beating heart. What evil star shone over him that day when he crushed her likeness beneath his foot without looking at it? He sighed. As the last black ash whirled up the gaping chimney she regained her height. She faced him.

"Four men have died because of that," waving her hand toward the fire; "and one had a great soul."

"Ah, Madame, not an hour passes that I do not envy his sleep."

"Monsieur, before this evil tide swept over us, I sent you a letter. Have you read it?" All her color was gone now, back to her fluttering heart.

"A letter? You sent me a letter?" He did not recall the episode at once.

"Yes." She was twisting her handkerchief.

It was this simple act which brightened his memory. He went over to his table. Her gaze, full of trouble and shame, followed him. Yes, there lay the letter; a film of dust covered it. He remembered.

"It was an answer," he said, smiling sadly. He did not quite understand. "It was an answer to my . . ."

"Give it to me, Monsieur; do not read it!" she begged, one hand pressing her heart, the other extended toward him appealingly.

"Not read it?" Her very agitation told him that there was something in the letter worth reading. He calmly tore it open and read the biting words, the scorn and contempt which she had penned that memorable day. The letter added nothing to the bitterness of his cup, only he was surprised at the quality of her wrath on that day. But what surprised him more was when she snatched it from his hands, rushed to the fire, and cast the letter into it. She watched it writhe and curl and crisp and vanish. He saw nothing in this action but a noble regret that she had caused him pain. Nevertheless, all was not clear to him.

Silence.

"Well, Madame?"

"I . . . I have brought you another!" Redder than ever her face flamed. The handkerchief was resolving itself into shreds.

"Another letter?" vaguely.

"No, no! Another . . . another answer!"

How still everything had suddenly grown to him! "Another answer? You have brought me another answer?" Then the wine of life rushed through his veins, and all darkness was gone. "Diane, Diane!" he cried, springing toward her.

"Yes, yes; always call me that! Never call me Gabrielle!"

"And Victor?"

Her hands were against his breast and she was pushing him back. "Oh, it is true that I loved him, as a woman would love a brave and gallant brother." A strand of hair fell athwart her eyes and she brushed it aside.

"But I?—I, whom you have made dance so sorrily?—but I?"

"To-night I saw you . . . I could see you," incoherently, "alone, bereft of the friend you loved and who loved you. . . . I thought of you as you faced them all that day! . . . How calm and brave you were! . . . You said that some day you would force me to love you. You said I was dishonest. I was, I was! But you could never force me to love you, because . . . because. . . ." With a superb gesture of abandon which swept aside all barriers, all hesitancies, all that hedging convention which compels a woman to be silent, she said: "If you do not immediately tell me that you still love me madly, I shall die of shame!"

"Diane!" He forced her hands from her burning face.

"Yes, yes; I love you, love you with all my soul; all, all! And I have come to you this night in my shame, knowing that you would never have come to me. Wait!" still pressing him back, for he was eager now to make up in this exquisite moment all he had lost. "Oh, I tried to hate you; lied to myself that I wanted nothing but to bring you to your knees and then laugh at you. For each moment I have made you suffer I have suffered an hour. Paul, Paul, can you love me still?"

He knelt, kissing her hands madly. "You are the breath of my life, the coming of morning after a long night of darkness. Love you? With my latest breath!"

"It was my heart you put your heel upon, for I loved you from the moment I saw your miniature. Paul!" She bent her head till her cheek rested upon his hair. "So many days have been wasted, so many days! I have always loved you. Look!" The locket lay in her hand. The face there was his own.

"And you come to me?" It was so difficult to believe. "Ah, but you heard what the vicomte said that day?" a shade of gloom mingling with the gladness on his face.

"I saw only you in the doorway, defending my honor with your life. I tried to tell you then that I loved you, but I could not."

"I am not worthy," he said, rising from his knees.

"I love you!"

"I have been a gamester."

"I love you!" The music in her voice deepened and vibrated. The strings of the harp of life gave forth their fullest sound.

"I have been a roisterer by night. I have looked into the bottom of many an unwise cup."

"Do you not hear me say that I love you? There is no past now, Paul; there is nothing but the future. Once, I promised in a letter that if you found me you might take what I had always denied you, my lips."

He put his arms around her and took from her glowing lips that fairest and most perfect flower which grows in the garden of love: the first kiss.

And there was no shadow between.



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE ABSOLUTION OF MONSIEUR LE MARQUIS DE PERIGNY

The Chateau Saint Louis shimmered in the November moonlight. It was a castle in dream. Solitude brooded over the pile as a mother broods over an empty cot. High above the citadel the gilded ball of the flagstaff glittered like a warm topaz. Below, the roofs of the warehouses shone like silver under gauze. A crooked black line marked the course of the icy river, and here and there a phantom moon flashed upon it. The quiet beauty of all this was broken by the red harshness of artificial light which gleamed from a single window in the chateau, like a Cyclopean eye. Stillness was within. If any moved about on this floor it was on tiptoe. Death stood at the door and peered into the darkest corners. For the Marquis de Perigny was about to start out upon that journey which has no visible end, which leaves no trail behind: men setting out this way forget the way back, being without desire.

Who shall plumb the depth of the bitterness in this old man's heart, as he lay among his pillows, his head moving feebly from side to side, his attenuated fingers plucking at the coverlet, his tongue stealing slowly along his cracked and burning lips. Fragments of his life passed in ragged panorama. His mind wandered, and again became keen with the old-time cynicism and philosophy, as a coal glows and fades in a fitful wind. In all these weeks he had left his bed but once . . . to find that his son was lost in the woods, a captive, perhaps dead. Too late; he had always been too late. He had turned the forgiving hand away. And how had he wronged that hand?

"Margot?" he said, speaking to a shadow.

Jehan rose from his chair and approached his master. His withered, leathery face had lost the power to express emotion; but his faded eyes sparkled suspiciously.

"Monsieur?" he said.

"What o'clock is it?" asked the marquis, irritably.

"It is midnight, Monsieur."

"Monsieur le Comte has not come in yet? With his sponging friends, I suppose; drinking and gaming at the Corne d'Abondance." Thus had the marquis spoken in the Rochelle days. "A sip of wine; I am cold." Jehan put his arm around the thin shoulders of his master and held the glass to the trembling lips. A hectic flush superseded the pallor, and the delusion was gone. The coal glowed. "It is you, Jehan? Well, my faithful henchman, you will have to continue the journey alone. My relays have given out. Go back to Perigny in the spring. I shall be buried here."

Jehan shivered. The earth would be very cold here.

"The lad was a prophet. He told me that I should die in bed like this, alone, without one of my blood near me at the end. He spoke of phantoms, too. . . . They are everywhere. And without the consolation of a friendly priest!"

"Monsieur, do you know me?"

"Why, yes, Jehan."

"Brother Jacques and Monsieur le Comte returned this day from the wilderness. I have seen them."

The marquis's hands became still. "Pride has filled my path with black pits. Jehan, after all, was it a dream?"

"What, Monsieur?"

"That duel with D'Herouville"

"It was no dream, Monsieur."

"That is well. I should, like to see Monsieur le Comte. He must be a man now."

"I will call him."

"Presently, presently. He forgave me. Only, I should like to have him know that my lips lied when I turned him away. Brother Jacques; he will satisfy my curiosity in the matter of absolution. Death? I never feared it; I do not now. However, I leave with some regret; there were things which I appreciated not in my pursuit of pleasure. Ah well, to die in bed, Jehan, was not among my calculations. But human calculations never balance in the sum total. I have dropped a figure on the route, somewhere, and my account is without head or tail. I recall a letter on the table. See if it is there, Jehan."

Jehan searched and found a letter under a book.

"What does it say?"

"'To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, to be delivered into his hands at my death'," Jehan read.

"From . . . from my son?"

"I do not know, Monsieur."

"Open it and read it."

"It is in Latin, Monsieur, a language unknown to me," Jehan carefully explained.

"Give it to me;" but the marquis's fingers trembled and shook and his eyes stared in vain. "My eyes have failed me, too. I can not distinguish one letter from another. Give it to Brother Jacques when he comes. He is a priest; they all read Latin."

"Then I shall send for him and Monsieur le Comte?"

"Wait till I am sure that I can stand the sight of him. Is Sister Benie without? Call her. She quiets me. Brother Jacques may come in half an hour; after him, Monsieur le Comte. I wish to have done with all things and die in peace."

So Jehan went in search of Sister Benie. When she came in her angelic face was as white as the collaret which encircled her throat, and the scar was more livid than usual. Alas, the marquis's mind had gone a-wandering again: the coal dimmed. She put her hand on his brow to still the wagging head.

"It was so long ago, Margot," he babbled. "It was all a mistake. . . . A fool plunges into all follies, but a wise man avoids what he can. I have been both the wise man and the fool. . . . And I struck you across the face with the lash? Ah, the poor scar!" He touched the scar with his hand, and she wavered. "I loved you. It is true. I did not know it then. You are dead, and you know that I loved you. Do you think the lad has really forgiven me for what I have done to him? . . . I am weary of the contest; Death sits on his horse outside the door."

She was praying, praying for strength to go through this ordeal.

"Where did you go, Margot?" he asked. "I searched for you; you were gone. Where did you go that day?"

Outside, in the corridor, Jehan was listening with eyes distended. And the marquis did not know, being out of his mind again!

"Hush, Henriot!" said Sister Benie. Tumult was in her heart. His icy hand closed over hers, which was scarce warmer; all the blood was in her heart. Her arms ached with longing to wrap this poor form to her breast. This was the supreme hour of her expiation.

"Henriot?" she called softly. "Henriot?" Thirty years of forgiveness and love thrilled in that name.

Jehan stole away. All this was not for his ears. Only God had the right to listen.

"Margot, are you still there? Henriot! I have not heard that name in thirty years."

She knew that delusion held him in its grasp, that he saw her only in fancy, else she must have flown.

"Can you forgive me, Margot? . . . I have no faith in women. . . . I have your letter still; in a casket at Perigny. It is yellow with age, and crumbles to the touch. Where did you go? After madame died I was lonely. . . . All, all are phantoms!" Then his delusion took another turn. He saw her no more. "Monsieur de Longueville, you lie when you say that I received billets from madame. I know a well-trodden place behind the Tuileries. Perhaps you will follow me? . . . Richelieu dead? What, then, will become of France, Jehan? Has Monsieur le Comte come in yet?"

There were no tears in her eyes. Those reservoirs had emptied and dried twenty years ago. But her heart cried. A new pain stabbed her, causing the room to careen. She kissed him on the forehead. It was all beyond her capacity for suffering. Her love belonged to God, not to man. To remain was to lose her reason. She would go before the delusion passed. In the corridor she would kneel and pray for this dark soul which was about to leap toward the Infinite. On the threshold she came face to face with Brother Jacques, whose pallor, if anything, exceeded her own. She stopped, undecided, hesitant. . . . Was it the color of his eyes?

"I have come, Sister, to give Monsieur le Marquis absolution." His tone was mild and reassuring. Stuck between his gown and his belt was the letter Jehan had given him to read. He had not looked at it yet. "Monsieur le Marquis has called for me."

"You have full powers?" uncertain and distressed. She did not like the fever in his eyes.

"I am fully ordained. I may not perform mass because of my mutilation, though I am expecting a dispensation from his Holiness the pope." He held out his hand, and her distrust subsided at the sight of those reddened stumps. "You are standing in my way, Sister. Seek Monsieur le Chevalier, if you will be so kind. He is in the citadel."

She moved to one side, and he passed into the room. When he reached the bedside, he turned. Sister Benie dropped her gaze, stepped into the corridor, and softly closed the door. Brother Jacques and the marquis were alone. The mask of calm fell from the priest's countenance, leaving it gloomy and haggard. But the fever in his eyes remained unchanged.

"It is something that you have forgiven me, Margot," the marquis murmured. His fancy had veered again. His eyes were closed; and Brother Jacques could see the shadow of the iris beneath the lids.

"Margot?" Brother Jacques trembled. "He wanders! Will he regain lucidity?"

A quarter of an hour passed. The moonbeam on the wall moved perceptibly. Once Brother Jacques pulled forth the letter and glanced again at the address. It was singular. It recalled to him that night when this old man had pressed D'Herouville to the wall. "To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, to be delivered into his hands at my death." The priest wondered whose death this meant. He did not replace the letter in his belt, but slipped it into the pocket of his robe, thoughtlessly.

"Paul? . . . Ah! it is Brother Jacques. Curse these phantoms which recur again and again. But my son," eagerly; "he is well? He is uninjured? He will be here soon?"

"Yes, my father."

"Once you asked me to call you if ever I changed my mind regarding religion. I will test this absolution of yours."

"Presently."

"Eh?"

"I said presently, my father."

"Father? . . . You say father?"

"Yes. But a moment gone you spoke of Margot Bourdaloue."

"What is that to you?" cried the marquis, raising himself on an elbow, though the effort cost him pain.

"She was my mother," softly.

The marquis fell back among his pillows. The gnawing of a mouse behind the wall could be heard distinctly. Brother Jacques was conscious of the sound.

"My mother," he repeated.

"You lie, Jesuit!"

"Not at this hour, my father."

"Son of Margot Bourdaloue, you! . . . Ah!" The marquis rose again, leaning on both arms. "Have you come to mock my death-bed?"

"Truth is not mockery."

"Away, lying Jesuit!"

The priest stooped. "Look well into my face, Monsieur; look well. Is there not something there to awaken your memory?" Brother Jacques brought his face within a span of the marquis's. "Look!"

"The eyes, the eyes! . . . Margot, a son? . . . What do you want?" The marquis moistened his lips.

"To make your last hour something like the many I have lived. Where is the woman you wronged and cast aside, my mother?"

The marquis's arms gave way.

"Ah, but I have waited for this hour!" said Brother Jacques. All the years of suffering returned and spread their venom through his veins. "I have starved. I have begged. I have been beaten. I have slept in fields and have been bitten by dogs. I have seen you feasting at your table while I hungered outside. I have watched your coach as it rolled through the chateau gates. One day your postilion struck me with his whip because I did not get out of the way soon enough. I have crept into sheds and shared the straw with beasts which had more pity than you. I thought of you, Monsieur le Marquis, you in your chateau with plenty to eat and drink, and a fire toasting your noble shins. Have I not thought of you?"

"I am an old man," said the marquis, bewildered. This priest must be a nightmare, another of those phantoms which were crowding around his bed.

"How I longed for riches, luxury, content! For had I not your blood in my veins and were not my desires natural? I became a priest because I could starve no longer without dying. I have seen your true son in the forests, have called him brother, though he did not understand. You cursed him and made him an outcast, wilfully. I was starving as a lad of two. My mother, Margot Bourdaloue, went out in search of bread. I followed, but became lost. I never saw my mother again; I can not even remember how she looked. I can only recall the starved eyes. And you cursed your acknowledged son and applied to him the epithet which I have borne these twenty years. Unnatural father!"

"Unnatural son," murmured the marquis.

"I have suffered!" Brother Jacques flung his arms above his head as if to hurl the trembling curse. "No; I shall not curse you. You do not believe in God. Heaven and hell have no meaning."

"I loved your mother."

"Love? That is a sacred word, Monsieur; you soil it. What was it you said that night at Rochelle? . . . That for every soul you have sent out of the world, you have brought another into it? Perhaps this fellow is my brother, and I know it not; this woman my sister, and I pass her by."

"I would have provided for you."

To Brother Jacques it seemed that his sword of wrath had been suddenly twisted from his hand. The sweat stood out on his forehead.

"If you were turned away from my door, it was not my hand that opened it."

"I asked for nothing but bread," said Brother Jacques, finding his voice.

"Thirty years ago . . . I have forgotten. Margot never told me."

"It was easy to forget. I have never known, what love is . . . from another."

"Have I?" with self-inflicted irony.

"I sought it; you repelled it."

"I knew not how to keep it, that was all. If I should say to you, 'My son, I am sorry. I have lived evilly. I have wronged you; forgive me; I am dying'!" The marquis was breathing with that rapidity which foretells of coming dissolution. "What would you say, Jesuit?"

Brother Jacques stood petrified.

"That silence is scarce less than a curse," said the marquis.

Still Brother Jacques's tongue refused its offices.

"Ah, well, I brought you into the world carelessly, you have cursed me out of it. We are quits. Begone!" There was dignity in his gesture toward the door.

Brother Jacques did not stir.

"Begone, I say, and let me die in peace."

"I will give you absolution, father."

The fierce, burning eyes seemed to search into Brother Jacques's soul. There was on that proud face neither fear nor horror. And this was the hour Brother Jacques had planned and waited for! For this moment he had donned the robes, isolated himself, taken vows, suffered physical tortures! He had come to curse: he was offering absolution.

"Hypocrite, begone!" cried the marquis, seized with vertigo. He tried to strike the bell, but the effort merely sent it jangling to the floor. "Begone!"

"Monsieur!"

"Must I call for help?"

Brother Jacques could stand no more. He rushed madly toward the door, which he opened violently. Sister Benie stood in the corridor, transfixed.

"My son?" she faltered. A pathetic little sob escaped her. Her arms reached out feebly; she fell. Brother Jacques caught her, but she was dead. Her heart had broken. With a cry such as Dante conceived in his dream of hell, Brother Jacques fell beside her, insensible.

The marquis stared at the two prostrate figures, fumbling with his lips.

Then came the sound of hurrying feet, and Jehan, followed by the Chevalier, entered.

"Jehan, quick! My clothes; quick!" The marquis was throwing aside the coverlet.

"Father!" cried the Chevalier.

"Jehan, quick! My clothes; quick!" the marquis cried. "My clothes, my clothes! Help me! I must dress!"

With trembling hands Jehan did as his master bade him. The Chevalier, appalled, glanced first at his father, then at Brother Jacques and Sister Benie. He leaned against the wall, dazed; understood nothing of this scene.

"My shoes! Yes, yes! My sword!" rambled the dying man, in the last frenzy. "Paul said I should die in bed, alone. No, no! . . . Now, stand me on my feet . . . that is it! . . . Paul, it is you? Help me! Take me to her! Margot, Margot? . . . There is my heart, Jehan, the heart of the marquis. . . . Take me to her? And I thought I dreamed! Take me to her! . . . Margot?" He was on his knees beside her, kissing her hands and shuddering, shuddering.

"Margot is dead, Monsieur," said the aged valet. The tears rolled down his leathery cheeks.

"Margot!" murmured the Chevalier. He had never heard this name before. What did it mean? "Father?" He came swiftly toward the marquis.

"Dead!" The marquis staggered to his feet without assistance. He swung dizzily toward the candles on the mantel. He struck them. "Away with the lights, fools." The candles rolled and sputtered en the floor. "Away with them, I say!" Toward the table he lurched, avoiding the Chevalier's arms. From the table he dashed the candles. "Away with the lights! The Marquis de Perigny shall die as he lived . . . in the dark!"

He fell upon the bed, his face hidden in the pillows. When the Chevalier reached his side he was dead.



CHAPTER XXXV

BROTHER!

For two weeks Brother Jacques lay silent on his cot; lay with an apathy which alarmed the good brothers of the Order. He spoke to no one, and no sound swerved his dull gaze from the whitewashed ceiling of his little room in the college. Only one man could solve the mystery of this apathy, the secret of this insensibility, and his lips were sealed as securely as the door of a donjon-keep: Jehan. Not even the Chevalier could gather a single ray of light from the grim old valet. He was silence itself.

Two weeks, and then Brother Jacques rose, put on his gown and his rosary and his shovel-shaped hat. The settlers, soldiers, trappers and seigneurs saw him walk alone, day after day, along the narrow winding streets, his chin in his collar, his shoulders stooped, his hands clasped behind his back. It was only when some child asked him for a blessing that he raised his eyes and smiled. Sometimes the snow beat down upon him with blinding force and the north winds cut like the lash of the Flagellants. He heeded not; winter set no chill upon his flesh. One morning he resolved to go forth upon his expiation. He made up his pack quietly. Drawn by an irresistible, occult force, he wandered into the room of the chateau where the tragedy had occurred. . . . The letter! He felt in the pocket of his gown. He drew a stool to the window which gave upon the balcony overlooking the lower town and the river, and sat down.

"To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, to be delivered into his hands at my death."

He eyed the address, undecided. He was weighing the advisability of letting the Chevalier read it first. And yet he had an equal right to the reading. He sighed, drew forth the contents and read . . . read with shaking hands, read with terror, amazement, exultation, belief and unbelief. He rose quickly; the room, it was close; he breathed with difficulty. And the marquis had requested that he read it! Irony! He had taken it up in his hands twice, and had not known! Irony, irony, irony! He opened the window and stepped out upon the balcony. Above the world, half hidden under the spotless fleece of winter, a white sun shone in a pallid sky.

Brother Jacques's skin was transparent, his hair was patched with grey, his eyes were hollow, but at this moment his mien was lordly. His pack lay on the floor beyond, forgotten. With his head high, his nostrils wide, his arms pressing his sides and his hands clenched, he looked toward France. The smoke, curling up from the chimneys below, he saw not, nor the tree-dotted Isle of Orleans, nor the rolling mainshore opposite. His gaze in fancy had traversed more than three thousand miles. He saw a grand chateau, terraced, with gardens, smooth driveways, fountains and classic marbles, crisp green hills behind all these, and a stream of running water.

Perigny.

He looked again and saw a great hotel, surrounded by a high wall, along the top of which, ran a cheval-de-frise. Inside all was gloomy and splendid, rich and ancient. Magnificent tapestries graced the walls, famous paintings, rare cut-glass, chased silver and filigreed gold, and painted porcelain.

Rochelle.

Again; and in his dream-vision he saw mighty palaces and many lights, the coming and going of great personages, soldiers famed in war, statesmen, beautiful women with satin and jewels and humid eyes; great feasts, music, and the loveliest flowers.

Paris.

His! All these things were his. It was empire; it was power, content, riches. His! Had he not starved, begged, suffered? These were his, all his, his by human law and divine. That letter! It had lain under the marquis's eyes all this time, and he had not known. That was well. But that fate should so unceremoniously thrust it into his hands! Ah, that was all very strange, obscure. The wind, coming with a gust, stirred the beads of his rosary; and he remembered. He cast a glance at his pack. Could he carry it again? He caught up his rosary. Should he put this aside? He was young; there were long years before him. He had suffered half the span of a man's life; need he suffer longer?

He opened the letter and read it once again.

"To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny: A necromancer in the Rue Dauphin tells me that I shall not outlive you, which is to be regretted. Therefore, my honored Marquis, I leave you this peculiar legacy. When you married the Princess Charlotte it was not because you loved her, but because you hated me who loved her. You laughed when I swore to you that some day I would have my revenge. Shortly after you were married a trusted servant of mine left my house to serve me in yours. And he served me well indeed, as presently you shall learn. Two days before Madame le Marquise gave birth to your son and heir, a certain handsome peasant named Margot Bourdaloue also entered into the world a son of yours which was not your heir. Think you that it is Madame la Marquise's son who ruffles it here in Paris under the name of the Chevalier du Cevennes? I leave you to answer this question, to solve this puzzle, or become mad over it. Recollect, I do not say that the Chevalier is not the son of Madame la Marquise; I say, think you he is? Monsieur, believe me, you have my heartiest sympathy in your trouble. LOUIS DE BRISSAC."

"De Brissac?"

Brother Jacques's brows met in the effort to recall the significance of this name. Ah! the Grande Madame whom the Chevalier, his brother, loved: his brother. His brother. Brother Jacques had forgotten his brother. He raised his eyes toward heaven, as if to make an appeal; but his gaze dropped quickly and roved. Somehow, he could not look to heaven; the sun was too bright. He saw the figures of a man and woman who were leaning against the parapet. The man's arm was clasped around the woman's waist, their heads were close together, and they seemed to be looking toward the south, as indeed they were. Lovers, mused Brother Jacques. Why not he, too? Had not the marquis said that he was too handsome for a priest? Why should he not be a lover, likewise? A lover, indeed, when the one woman he loved was at this very hour praying in the Convent of the Ursulines! Presently the man below turned his head. It was the Chevalier. . . . This time, when Brother Jacques raised his eyes toward God, his gaze did not falter. He had cursed the author of his being, which was very close to cursing his God. There was before him, expiation. He smiled wanly.

His brother. Slowly he tore the letter in two, the halves into quarters, the quarters into infinitesimal squares. He took a pinch of them and extended his arm, dropping the particles of paper upon the current of the wind. They rose, fell, eddied, swam, and rose again, finally to fall on the roofs below. Again and again he repeated this act, till not a single square remained in his hand. His brother. He re-entered the room, shouldered his pack, and passed from the chateau. The dream of empire was gone; the day of expiation was begun. Later he was seen making his way toward the parapet.

The Chevalier and madame continued to gaze toward the south, toward the scene of the great catastrophe of their lives. They had been talking it over again: the journey through the forest, the conflict at the hut, the day in the hills.

"Peace," said madame.

"Peace and love," said the Chevalier.

"And that poor father of yours! But you forgave him?"

"Yes."

"And Jehan will not tell you who Sister Benie was?"

"No. And he appears so terrified when I mention the matter that I shall make no further inquiries."

"And Brother Jacques?"

"Faith, he puzzles me. It was like enough the reaction. You recall how infrequently he spoke during that journey, how little he ate or slept. Ah well, there are no more puzzles, questions, problems or hardships. Peace has come. We shall return to France in the spring."

"If thou faint in the day of adversity," she said, taking his hand and pressing it lovingly against her cheek. "I love you."

"Here comes Brother Jacques," he said. "He is coming toward us. Ah, he carries a pack."

The Chevalier greeted him gravely, and madame smiled.

"Whither bound?" asked the Chevalier.

Brother Jacques pointed toward the forest. "Yonder, where the beast is and the savage."

"Now?"

"Even to-day." Then Brother Jacques placed a hand on the Chevalier's shoulder and looked long and steadily into his eyes. "Farewell, my brother," he said; "farewell." He turned and left them.

The Chevalier took madame's hand and kissed it.

"How strangely," she said, following with her eyes the priest's diminishing figure; "how strangely he said 'my brother'!"

A scrap of white paper fluttered past them. She made as though to catch it, but it eluded her, and was gone.

THE END