Périgny.

He looked again and saw a great hôtel, 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

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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 Périgny: 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 Cévennes? 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.




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