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
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?"