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

you have cursed me out of it. We are quits. Begone!" There was dignity in his gesture toward the door.

Brother Jacques did not stir.

"Begone, I say, and let me die in peace."

"I will give you absolution, father."

The fierce, burning eyes seemed to search into Brother Jacques's soul. There was on that proud face neither fear nor horror. And this was the hour Brother Jacques had planned and waited for! For this moment he had donned the robes, isolated himself, taken vows, suffered physical tortures! He had come to curse: he was offering absolution.

"Hypocrite, begone!" cried the marquis, seized with vertigo. He tried to strike the bell, but the effort merely sent it jangling to the floor. "Begone!"

"Monsieur!"

"Must I call for help?"

Brother Jacques could stand no more. He rushed madly toward the door, which he opened violently. Sister Benie stood in the corridor, transfixed.

"My son?" she faltered. A pathetic little sob escaped her. Her arms reached out feebly; she fell. Brother Jacques caught her, but she was dead. Her heart had broken. With a cry such as Dante conceived in his dream of hell, Brother Jacques fell beside her, insensible.

The marquis stared at the two prostrate figures, fumbling with his lips.

Then came the sound of hurrying feet, and Jehan, followed by the Chevalier, entered.

"Jehan, quick! My clothes; quick!" The marquis was throwing aside the coverlet.

"Father!" cried the Chevalier.

"Jehan, quick! My clothes; quick!" the marquis cried. "My clothes, my clothes! Help me! I must dress!"

With trembling hands Jehan did as his master bade him. The Chevalier, appalled, glanced first at his father, then at Brother Jacques and Sister Benie. He leaned against the wall, dazed; understood nothing of this scene.

"My shoes! Yes, yes! My sword!" rambled the dying man, in the last frenzy. "Paul said I should die in bed, alone. No, no! . . . Now, stand me on my feet . . . that is it! . . . Paul, it is you? Help me! Take me to her! Margot, Margot? . . . There is my heart, Jehan, the heart of the marquis. . . . Take me to her? And I thought I dreamed! Take me to her! . . . Margot?" He was on his knees beside her, kissing her hands and shuddering, shuddering.

"Margot is dead, Monsieur," said the aged valet. The tears rolled down his leathery cheeks.

"Margot!" murmured the Chevalier. He had never heard this name before. What did it mean? "Father?" He came swiftly toward the marquis.

"Dead!" The marquis staggered to his feet without assistance. He swung dizzily toward the candles on the mantel. He struck them. "Away with the lights, fools." The candles rolled and sputtered en the floor. "Away with them, I say!" Toward the table he lurched, avoiding the Chevalier's arms. From the table he dashed the candles. "Away with the lights! The Marquis de Périgny shall die as he lived . . . in the dark!"

He fell upon the bed, his face hidden in the pillows. When the Chevalier reached his side he was dead.


CHAPTER XXXV

BROTHER!

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.

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.

His brother. Slowly he tore the letter in two, the halves into quarters, the quarters into infinitesimal squares. He took a pinch of them and extended his arm, dropping the particles of paper upon the current of the wind. They rose, fell, eddied, swam, and rose again, finally to fall on the roofs below. Again and again he repeated this act, till not a single square remained in his hand. His brother. He re-entered the room, shouldered his pack, and passed from the château. The dream of empire was gone; the day of expiation was begun. Later he was seen making his way toward the parapet.

The Chevalier and madame continued to gaze toward the south, toward the scene of the great catastrophe of their lives. They had been talking it over again: the journey through the forest, the conflict at the hut, the day in the hills.