For two weeks Brother Jacques lay silent on his cot; lay with an apathy
which alarmed the good brothers of the Order. He spoke to no one, and
no sound swerved his dull gaze from the whitewashed ceiling of his
little room in the college. Only one man could solve the mystery of
this apathy, the secret of this insensibility, and his lips were sealed
as securely as the door of a donjon-keep: Jehan. Not even the
Chevalier could gather a single ray of light from the grim old valet.
He was silence itself.
Two weeks, and then Brother Jacques rose, put on his gown and his
rosary and his shovel-shaped hat. The settlers, soldiers, trappers and
seigneurs saw him walk alone, day after day, along the narrow winding
streets, his chin in his collar, his shoulders stooped, his hands
clasped behind his back. It was only when some child asked him for a
blessing that he raised his eyes and smiled. Sometimes the snow beat
down upon him with blinding force and the north winds cut like the lash
of the Flagellants. He heeded not; winter set no chill upon his flesh.
One morning he resolved to go forth upon his expiation. He made up his
pack quietly. Drawn by an irresistible, occult force, he wandered into
the room of the château where the tragedy had occurred. . . . The
letter! He felt in the pocket of his gown. He drew a stool to the
window which gave upon the balcony overlooking the lower town and the
river, and sat down.
"To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at
my death."
He eyed the address, undecided. He was weighing the advisability of
letting the Chevalier read it first. And yet he had an equal right to
the reading. He sighed, drew forth the contents and read . . . read
with shaking hands, read with terror, amazement, exultation, belief and
unbelief. He rose quickly; the room, it was close; he breathed with
difficulty. And the marquis had requested that he read it! Irony! He
had taken it up in his hands twice, and had not known! Irony, irony,
irony! He opened the window and stepped out upon the balcony. Above
the world, half hidden under the spotless fleece of winter, a white sun
shone in a pallid sky.
Brother Jacques's skin was transparent, his hair was patched with grey,
his eyes were hollow, but at this moment his mien was lordly. His pack
lay on the floor beyond, forgotten. With his head high, his nostrils
wide, his arms pressing his sides and his hands clenched, he looked
toward France. The smoke, curling up from the chimneys below, he saw
not, nor the tree-dotted Isle of Orléans, nor the rolling mainshore
opposite. His gaze in fancy had traversed more than three thousand
miles. He saw a grand château, terraced, with gardens, smooth
driveways, fountains and classic marbles, crisp green hills behind all
these, and a stream of running water.