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
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.