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

in humanity. If you ask me to judge you, I shall be severe. You have committed a terrible sin, unnatural and brutal, unheard of till now by me."

"I bow to all that," said the marquis. "It was brutal, cruel; it was all you say. But the fact remains that it is done and that a part of it must be undone."

"Your sense of justice does credit to a great noble like yourself. Worldly reparation you may make, but you have wounded his heart and soul beyond all earthly reparation."

"The worldly reparation quite satisfies me," replied the marquis, fumbling with his lips. "As I observed, sentiment is out of the question. Monsieur le Comte would not let me love him if I would," lightly. "I wish to undo as much as possible the evil I have done. If he refuses to return to France, that is his affair, not mine. I shall be the last to urge him. This Monsieur de Saumaise is a poet, I understand."

"Who writes equally well with his sword."

"I should like to meet him. How long before De Leviston and D'Hérouville will be out of hospital?"

"D'Hérouville, any day; De Leviston has a bad fever, having taken cold."

The marquis had not acquired the habit of smoking, so the governor lit his pipe and smoked alone.

"Your Excellency, who is this handsome young priest who goes by the name of Brother Jacques; of what family?"

"That I do not know; no one knows; not even Father Chaumonot, who is his sponsor. The good Father picked him up somewhere in Italy and placed him in a convent."

"Monsieur le Comte, then, is at Three Rivers?"

"Yes; and to-morrow we shall set out for him; though he may return at any hour."

"I thank your Excellency. The Henri IV sails by next week, so I understand. I daresay that we both shall be on it. At any rate, I shall wait."

The door opened and Jehan, expressing as much excitement as his weather-beaten face made possible, stood before them.

"Well?" said the marquis.

"Monsieur le Comte is returned from Three Rivers, and is about to dine in the citadel."

"Tell a trooper that the presence of Monsieur le Chevalier is requested here at once. Do not let the Chevalier see you," and the governor rose and laid down his pipe. "I will leave the room at your service, Monsieur."

"It is very kind of you." If the marquis was excited, or nervous, there was nothing on his face to indicate it.

Jehan and the governor made their exits through opposite doors; and Monsieur le Marquis sat alone. Several minutes passed. Once or twice the marquis turned his attention to his wine-soaked sleeve. Steps were heard in the corridor, but these died away in the distance. From time to time the old man's hand wandered to his throat, as if something was bothering him there. Time marked off a quarter of an hour. Then the door opened, and a man entered; a man bronzed of countenance, tall, and deep of chest. He wore the trapper's blouse and fringed leggings. From where he stood he could not see who sat at the table.

"Come toward the light, Monsieur," said the marquis, "where I may see you to better advantage." The marquis rose and stood with the fingers of his right band pressing lightly on the table.

At the sound of that voice, the Chevalier's heart leaped. He strode forward quickly, and, leaning across the table, stared into his father's eyes.


CHAPTER XVIII

THE MASTER OF IRONIES

So they stood for some moments, the one with eyes glaring, the other with quiet scrutiny.

"It appears to agree with you here," began the marquis. There was not the slightest tremor in his voice.

"You?" said the son.

The marquis winced inwardly: that pronoun was so pregnant with surprise, contempt, anger, and indignation! "Yes, it is I, your paternal parent."

"And you could not leave me in peace, even here?" The son stepped, back and strained his arms across his chest.

"From your tone it would seem so." The marquis sat down. A fit of trembling had seized his legs. How the boy had changed in three months! He looked like a god, an Egyptian god, with that darkened skin; and the tilt of the chin recalled the mother.

"I had hoped never to look upon your face again," coldly.

The marquis waved his hand. "Life is a page of disappointments, with a margin of realized expectations which is narrow indeed. Will you not sit down?"

"I prefer to stand. It is safer for you with the table between us."

"Your sword was close to my heart one night. I made no effort to repulse it."

"Heaven was not quite ready for you, Monsieur."

"Heaven or Hell. There seems to be gall in your blood yet."

"Who put it there?" The Chevalier was making an effort to control his passion.

"I put it there, it is true. But did you not stir a trifle too well?"

"Why are you here? What is your purpose?"

"I have been three months on the water; I have been without my accustomed canary and honey; I have dined upon salt meats till my tongue and stomach are parched like corn. Have you no welcome?"

The Chevalier laughed.

"They haven't tamed you, then?" The marquis drew circles in the spilled salt. "Have you become . . . great and respected?"

The thrust went deep. A pallor formed under the Chevalier's tan. "I have made some progress, Monsieur. If any laugh, they do so behind my back."

The marquis nodded approvingly.

"Have you come all this journey to mock me?"

"Well," the father confessed, "I do not like the way you say 'you'."

They rested. The marquis breathed the easier of the two.

"Monsieur, I have not much time to spare. What has brought you here?"

"Why am I here? I have come to do my flesh and blood a common justice. In France you did not give me time."

"Justice?" ironically. "Is that not a new word in your vocabulary?"

"I have always known the word; there were some delicate shades which I overlooked. I lied to you."

The Chevalier started.

"It was a base lie, unworthy of a gentleman and a father." The marquis fumbled at his lips. "The lie has kept me rather wakeful. Anger burns quickly, and the ashes are bitter. I am a proud man, but there is no flaw in my pride. You are my lawful son."

"What! Have you gone to the trouble of having me legitimatized?" with a terrible laugh.

"I shall never lose my temper again," retorted the father, a ghost of a smile parting his thin lips. "Let us put aside antagonism for the present. Let us analyze my action. Why should I go to the trouble of having your title adjusted by parliamentary law? I am too old for Paris; Paris shall see me no more. Am I a man to run after sentimentality? You will scarce accuse me of that weakness. Were you aught but what you are, I should be dining in Rochelle, with all my accustomed comforts. You are successor to my titles. Believe me or not, as to that I am totally indifferent. I am doing what my sense of justice demands. That is sufficient for me. The night of the day you took passage on the Saint Laurent I called to the hôtel those whilom friends of yours and charged them on the pain of death to stop a further spread to your madness. Scarce a dozen in Rochelle know; Paris is wholly ignorant. Your revenues in the Cévennes are accumulating. Return to France, or remain here to become . . . great and respected; that is no concern of mine. To tell you these facts I have crossed the Atlantic. There can be no maudlin sentiment between you and me; there have been too many harsh words. That is all I have to say. Digest it well."

Silence. A breeze, blowing in through a window, stirred the flames of the candles, and their lines of black smoke wavered horizontally through the air. Monsieur le Marquis waited for the outpouring of thanks, the protestations of joy, the bending of this proud and haughty spirit. While waiting he did not look at his son; rather he busied himself with the stained ruffles of his sleeve. The pause grew. It was so long that the marquis was compelled finally to look up. In his cabinet at Périgny he had a small bronze statue of the goddess Ate: the scowling eyes, the bent brows, the widened nostrils, the half-visible row of teeth, all these he saw in the face towering above him.

"So that is all you have to say? How easily and complacently you say it! 'Monsieur, the honor I robbed you of I bring back. It is worthless, either to you or to me, it is true. Nevertheless, thank me and bid me be gone!' And that is all you have to say!"

The marquis sat back in his chair, thunderstruck.

"It is nothing, then," went on the son, leaning across the table and speaking in those thin tones of one who represses fury; "it is nothing that men have laughed behind my back, insulted me to my face? It is nothing to have trampled on my illusions and bittered the cup of life? It is nothing that I have suffered for three months as they in hell suffer for eternity? It is nothing that my trust in humanity is gone? All these things are inconsiderable! In a moment of anger you told me this unholy lie, without cause, without definite purpose, without justice, carelessly, as a pastime?"

"Not as a pastime, not carelessly; rather with a definite purpose, to bring you to your senses. You were becoming an insolent drunkard."

The chevalier stretched out a hand. "We have threshed that subject well. We will not recall it."

"Very well." The marquis's anger was close to the surface. This was his reward for what he understood to be a tremendous personal sacrifice! He had come three thousand miles to make a restitution only to receive covert curses for his pains! "But I beg of you not to repeat that extravagant play-acting. This glass belongs to Monsieur de Lauson, and it might cost you dear."

"Is your heart made of stone or of steel that you think you can undo what you have done? Can I believe you? How am I to tell that you are not doubling on the lie? Is not all this because you are afraid to die without succession, the fear that men will laugh?"

"I am not afraid of anything," sharply; "not even of ridicule."

"Well, Monsieur le Marquis, neither am I. You have wasted your time."

"So I perceive," sourly. "A letter would have been more to