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

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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'Hérouville to the wall. "To Monsieur

le Marquis de Périgny, 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 château 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 château with

plenty to eat and drink, and a fire toasting your noble shins. Have I

not thought of you?"




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