The Grey Cloak - Page 17/256

The Chevalier was first to disembarrass himself. "A tolerably shrewd

night, Monsieur," he said with a friendly gesture.

"It is the frost in the air, my son," the priest responded in a mellow

barytone. "May Saint Ignatius listen kindly to the poor. Ah, this

gulf you call Paris, I like it not."

"You are but recently arrived?" asked the Chevalier politely.

"I came two days ago. I leave for Rouen this night."

"What! you travel at night, and leave a cheery tavern like this?" All

at once the crinkle of a chill ran across the Chevalier's shoulders.

The thumb, the forefinger and the second of the priest's left hand were

twisted, reddened stumps.

"Yes, at night; and the wind will be rough, beyond the hills. But I

have suffered worse discomforts;" and to this statement the priest

added a sour smile. He had seen the shudder. He dropped the maimed

hand below the level of the table.

"You ride, however?" suggested the Chevalier.

"A Spanish mule, the gift of Father Vincent."

"Her Majesty's confessor?"

"Yes."

"You are a Jesuit?"

"I have the happiness to serve God in that order. I have just

presented my respects to her Majesty and Cardinal Mazarin. I am come

from America, my son, to see his Eminence in regard to the raising of

funds for some new missions we have in mind; but I have been

indifferently successful, due possibly to my lack of eloquence and to

the fact that my superior, Father Chaumonot, was unable to accompany me

to Paris. I shall meet him in Rouen."

"And so you are from that country of which I have heard so much of

late--that France across the sea?" The Chevalier's tones expressed

genuine interest. He could now account for the presence of the

mutilated hand. Here was a man who had seen strange adventures in a

strange land. "New France!" musingly.

"Yes, my son; and I am all eagerness to return."

The Chevalier laughed pleasantly. "Pardon my irrelevancy, but I

confess that it excites my amusement to be called 'son' by one who can

not be older than myself."

"It is a habit I acquired with the savages. And yet, I have known men

of fifty to be young," said the Jesuit, his brows sinking. "I have

known men of thirty to be old. Youth never leaves us till we have

suffered. I am old, very old." He was addressing some inner thought

rather than the Chevalier.

"Well, I am thirty, myself," said the Chevalier with assumed lightness.

"I am neither young nor old. I stand on the threshold. I can not say

that I have suffered since I have known only physical discomforts. But

to call me 'son' . . ."

"Well, then," replied the priest, smiling, "since the disparity in

years is so small as to destroy the dignity of the term, I shall call

you my brother. All men are brothers; it is the Word."