"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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, not to man. To remain was to lose her reason. She would go before the delusion pa.s.sed. 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 rea.s.suring. 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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed. 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!"