"Monsieur," laughing rudely, "you are, and always will be, the keenest

wit in France!"

"I am an old man," softly. "It is something to acknowledge that I did

you a wrong."

"You have brought the certificate of my birth?" bluntly.

"I searched for it, but unfortunately I could not find it;" and a

shadow of worry crossed the marquis's face. For the first time in his

life he became conscious of incompleteness, of having missed something

in the flight. "I have told you the truth. I can say no more. I had

some hope that we might stand again upon the old footing."

Advertisement..

"I shall not even visit your grave."

"I might turn over, it is true," a flare in the grey eyes. "And, after

all, I have a heart."

"Good heaven! Monsieur, your mind wanders!" the Chevalier exclaimed.

The marquis swept the salt from the table. The movement was not

impatient; rather resigned. "There is nothing more to be said. You

may go. Our paths shall not cross again."

The Chevalier bowed, turned, and walked toward the door through which

he had entered. He stopped at the threshold and looked back. The grey

eyes met grey eyes; but the son's burned with hate. The marquis,

listening, heard the soft pat of moccasined feet. He was alone. He

scowled, but not with anger. The chill of stone lay upon his flesh.

"It is my blood," he mused; "my blood and hers: mine the pride of the

brain, hers the pride of the heart. I have lost something; what is

it?" He slid forward in his chair, his head sunk between his shoulders.

Thus the governor, returning, found him.

As for the Chevalier, on leaving his father he had a vague recollection

of passing into one of the council chambers, attracted possibly by the

lights. Tumult was in his heart, chaos in his brain; rage and

exultation, unbelief and credulity. He floated, drifted, dreamed. His

father! It was so fantastic. That cynical, cruel old man here in

Quebec!--to render common justice! . . . A lie! He had lied, then,

that mad night? There was a ringing in the Chevalier's ears and a

blurring in his eyes. He raised his clenched hands, only to drop them

limply, impotently. All these months wasted, all these longings and

regrets for nothing, all this suffering to afford Monsieur le Marquis

the momentary pleasure of seeing his own flesh and blood writhe! Hate.

As hot lead sinks into the flesh, so this word sank into the

Chevalier's soul, blotting out charity and forgiveness. Forgive? His

laughter rang out hard and sinister. Only God could forgive such a

wrong. How that wrinkled face roused the venom in his soul! Was the

marquis telling the truth? Had he lied? Was not this the culmination

of the series of tortures the marquis had inflicted upon him all these

years: to let him fly once more, only to drag him down into swallowing

mire from which he might never rise? And yet . . . if it were

true!--and the pall of shame and ignominy were lifted! The Chevalier

grew faint.




Most Popular