The Grey Cloak, Harold MacGrath [smart books to read TXT] 📗

seized his arm.

"Drunken fool!" he roared; "be bastard, then; play drunken fool to the end!"

"Who was my mother?"

"Find that out yourself, drunkard! Never from me shall you know!"

"It is just as well." The Chevalier took from his pocket his purse. He cast it contemptuously at his father's feet.

"The last of the gold you gave me. Now, Monsieur, listen. I shall never again cross the threshold of any house of yours; never again shall I look upon your face, nor hear with patience your name spoken. In spite of all you have done, I shall yet become a man. Somewhere I shall begin anew. I shall find a level, and from that I shall rise. And I shall become what you will never become, respected." He picked up his cloak and hat. He looked steadily into his father's eyes, then swung on his heels, passed through the salon, thence to the street.

"Paul?" said Victor.

"Is that you, Victor?" quietly.

"Yes, Paul." Victor gently replaced the Chevalier's sword into its scabbard, and locking his arm in his friend's, the two walked in silence toward the Corne d'Abondance.

And the marquis? Ah, God-the God he did not believe in!-only God could analyse his thoughts.

"Fool!" he cried, seeing himself alone and the gift of prescience foretelling that he was to be henceforth and forever alone,-"senile fool! Dotard!" He beat about with his cane even as the Chevalier had beaten about with his sword. "Double fool! to lose him for the sake of a lie, a damnable lie, and the lack of courage to own to it!" A Venetian mirror caught his attention. He stood before it, and seeing his reflection he beat the glass into a thousand fragments.

Jehan appeared, white and trembling, carrying his master's candlestick.

"Ah!" cried the marquis. "'Tis you. Jehan, call your master a fool."

"I, Monsieur?" Jehan retreated.

"Aye; or I promise to beat your worthless body within an inch of death. Call me a fool, whose wrath, over-leaped his prudence and sense of truth and honor. Call me a fool."

"Oh!"

"Quickly!" The cane rose.

"God forgive me this disrespect! . . . Monsieur, you are a fool!"

"A senile, doting fool."

"A senile, doting fool!" repeated Jehan, weeping.

"That is well. My candle. Listen to me." The marquis moved toward the staircase. "Monsieur le Comte has left this house for good and all, so he says. Should he return to-morrow . . ."

Jehan listened attentively, as attentively as his dazed mind would permit.

"Should he come back within a month . . ." The marquis had by this time reached the first landing.

"Yes, Monsieur."

"If he ever comes back . . ."

"I am listening."

"Let him in."

And the marquis vanished beyond the landing, leaving the astonished lackey staring at the vanishing point. He saw the ruin and desolation in the dining-hall, from which arose the odor of stale wine and smoke.

"Mother of Jesus! What has happened?"


CHAPTER IX

THE FIFTY PISTOLES OF MONSIEUR LE VICOMTE

The roisterers went their devious ways, sobered and subdued. So deep was their distraction that the watch passed unmolested. Usually a rout was rounded out and finished by robbing the watch of their staffs and lanterns; by singing in front of the hôtel of the mayor or the episcopal palace; by yielding to any extravagant whim suggested by mischief. But to-night mischief itself was quiet and uninventive. Had there been a violent death among them, the roisterers would have accepted the event with drunken philosophy. The catastrophe of this night, however, was beyond their imagination: they were still-voiced and horrified. The Chevalier du Cévennes, that prince of good fellows . . . was a nobody, a son of the left hand! Those who owed the Chevalier money or gratitude now recollected with no small satisfaction that they had not paid their indebtedness. Truly adversity is the crucible in which the quality of friendship is tried.

On the way to the Corne d'Abondance the self-made victim of this night's madness and his friend exchanged no words. There was nothing to be said. But there was death in the Chevalier's heart; his chin was sunken in his collar, and he bore heavily on Victor's arm; from time to time he hiccoughed. Victor bit his lips to repress the sighs which urged against them.

"Where do you wish to go, Paul?" he asked, when they arrived under the green lantern and tarnished cherubs of the tavern.

"Have I still a place to go?" the Chevalier asked. "Ah well, lead on, wherever you will; I am in your keeping."

So together they entered the tavern.

"Maître," said Victor to le Borgne, "is the private assembly in use?"

"No, Monsieur; you wish to use it?"

"Yes; and see that no one disturbs us."

In passing through the common assembly, Victor saw Du Puys and Bouchard in conversation with the Jesuits. Brother Jacques glanced carelessly in the Chevalier's direction, frowned at some thought, and turned his head away. The Iroquois had fallen asleep in a chair close to the fire. In a far corner Victor discovered the form of the Vicomte d'Halluys; he was apparently sleeping on his arms, which were extended across the table.

"Why do I dislike that man?" Victor asked in thought. "There is something in his banter which strikes me as coming from a man consumed either by hate or envy." He pushed the Chevalier into the private assembly, followed and closed the door.

"Ah!" The Chevalier sank into a chair. "Three hours ago I was laughing and drinking in this room. Devil take me, but time flies!"

"God knows, Paul," said Victor, brokenly, "what you have done this night. You are mad, mad! What are you going to do? You have publicly branded yourself as the illegitimate son of the marquis."

"It is true," simply.

"True or false, you have published it without cause or reason. Good God! and they will laugh at you; and I will kill all who laugh in my presence. What madness!" Victor flung his hat on the table, strode the length of the room, beating his hands and rumpling his hair.

"How you go on, Victor!" said the Chevalier with half a smile. "And you love me still?"

"And will, to the latest breath in my body. I know of no other man I love so wholly as I love you."

"I would lose two marquisates rather than be without this knowledge."

"But oh! what have you done? To-morrow . . . What will you do to-morrow?"

"To-morrow? A bottle of wine, lad; and wherefore to-morrow? To-morrow? There will always be a tomorrow. The world began on one and will end on one. So give me wine, bubbling with lies, false promises, phantom happiness, mockery and despair. Each bottle is but lies; and yet how well each bottle tells them! Wine, Victor; do you hear me? I must never come sober again; in drunkenness, there lies oblivion. What! shall I come sober . . . to feel, to care? . . . to hear them laugh? No, no! See!" brushing his forehead, beaded with moisture; "I am sweating gall, lad. God!" striking the table with his fist; "could you but look within and see the lust to kill, the damnation and despair! Woe to him whom I hear laugh! And yet . . . he will be within his rights. Whenever men tire of torturing animals, nature gives them a cripple or a bastard to play with. And look! I am calm, my hand no longer shakes."

Victor leaned against the chimney, haggard of face, silent of tongue.

The Chevalier took out a letter and held it close to the candle-light. He sighed. Victor saw that he was not looking at the letter, but through it and beyond. Some time passed.

"And, Victor, I was going back to Paris to-morrow, to life and to love. Within this scented envelope a woman has written the equivalent of 'I love you!' as only a loving woman can write it. How quickly the candle would eat it! But shall I destroy it? No. Rather let me keep it to remind myself what was and what might have been. Far away from here I shall read it again and again, till it crumbles in my hand and scatters into dust." He hid the letter in his doublet and drew forth a miniature. Like a ruddy ember it lay in his hand. "Paris! O prince of cities, there lies upon your stones the broken cup which held my youth!" The yellow of the candle and the red of the fire gave a singularly rich tone to his face, from which the dullness of intoxication was suddenly gone.

"Paul, you are breaking my heart," cried Victor, choking. His poet's soul, and only such as his, could comprehend how full was the Chevalier's cup of misery.

"Only women's hearts break, lad, and then in verse. Shall I weep? No. Let me laugh; for, my faith, it is laughable. I brought it on myself. Fate led me to the precipice, and I myself jumped over. Yesterday I had pride, I was heir to splendid estates, with forty thousand livres the year to spend. To-night . . . Let me see; the vicomte owes me fifty pistoles. It will be a start in life . . . And much have I snuffed besides candles to-night! By all means, let me laugh."

This irony overcame Victor, who sat down, covered his face, and wept noiselessly.

"You weep? And I . . . I am denied the joy of cursing."

"But what made you speak? In God's name, what possessed you to publish this misfortune?"

"On my word, Victor, I do not know. Wine, perhaps; perhaps anger, madness, or what you will. I know only this: I could not help myself. Poor fool! Yes, I was mad. But he roused within me all the disgust of life, and it struck me blind. But regret is the cruelest of mental poisons; and there is enough in my cup without that. And that poor marquis; I believe I must have caused him some annoyance and chagrin."

"But what will you do?"

"What shall I do? Paris shall see me no more, nor France. I shall go . . . Yes; thanks, Brother Jacques, thanks! I shall go to that France across the sea and become . . . a grand seigneur, owning a hut in the wilderness. Monsieur le Chevalier, lately a fop at court will become a habitant of the forests, will wear furs, and seek his food by the aid of a musket. It will be a merry life, Victor; no dicing, no tennis, no women, no wine." The Chevalier rested his chin in his hands, staring at the candle. "On Thursday next there will be a mask ball at the Palais