The vicomte gazed into the handsome face, and there was some doubt in
his own eyes. "You have not always been a priest?"
"Not always."
"And your antecedents?"
"A nobler race than yours, Monsieur," haughtily. "You also have grown
curious, it would seem. I shall be associated with the Chevalier, and
I desired to know the root of his troubles in order to help him. But
for these robes, Monsieur, you would not use the tone you do."
"La, la! Take them off if they hamper you. But I like not curious
people, I am not a gossip. The Chevalier has reasons in plenty. Ask
him why he going to Quebec;" and the vicomte whirled on his heels,
leaving the Jesuit the desire to cast aside his robes and smite the
vicomte on the mouth.
"Swashbuckler!" he murmured. "How many times have you filched the
Chevalier of his crowns by the use of clogged dice? . . . God pardon
me, but I am lusting for that man's life!" His hand clutched his
rosary and his lips moved in prayer, though the anger did not
immediately die out of his eyes. He wandered among the crowds. Words
and vague sentences filtered through the noise. Two gentlemen were
conversing lowly. Brother Jacques neared them unconsciously, still at
his beads.
"On my honor, it is as I tell you. The Chevalier . . ."
Brother Jacques raised his eyes, "What! forfeited his rights in a moment of madness? Proclaimed himself
to be . . . before you all? Impossible!"
The beads slipped through Brother Jacques's fingers. He leaned against
the wall, his eyes round, his nostrils expanded. A great wave of pity
surged over him. He saw nothing but the handsome youth who had spoken
kindly to him at the Candlestick in Paris. That word! That invisible,
searing iron! He straightened, and his eyes flashed like points of
steel in the sunshine. That grim, wicked old man; not a thousand times
a thousand livres would give him the key to Heaven. Brother Jacques
left the tavern and walked along the wharves, breathing deeply of the
vigorous sea-air.
Victor encountered the vicomte as the latter was about to go aboard.
"Ah," said the vicomte; "so you ran about with a drawn sword last
night? Monsieur, you are only a boy." The vicomte never lost his
banter; it was a habit.
"I was hot-headed and in wine." Victor had an idea in regard to the
vicomte.
"The devil is always lurking in the pot; so let us not stir him again."
"Willingly."
"I compliment you on your good sense. Monsieur, I've been thinking
seriously. Has it not occurred to you that Madame de Brissac has that
paper?"
"Would she seek Spain?" said Victor.
"True. But supposing Mazarin should be seeking her, paper or no paper,
to force the truth from her?"