The Grey Cloak

by Harold MacGrath

  CHAPTER III

  THE MUTILATED HAND

  "Monsieur Paul?" cried the handsome widow of Monsieur Boisjoli,stepping from behind the pastry counter.

  "Yes, Mignon, it is I," said the Chevalier; "that is, what remains ofme."

  "What happiness to see you again!" she exclaimed. She turned to awaiter. "Charlot, bring Monsieur le Chevalier the pheasant pie, theragout of hare, and a bottle of chambertin from the bin of '36."

  "Sorceress!" laughed the Chevalier; "you have sounded the very soul ofme. Thanks, Mignon, thanks! Next to love, what is more to a man thana full stomach? Ah, you should have seen me when I came in! And deviltake this nose of mine; not even steam and water have thawed the frostfrom it." He chucked her under the chin and smiled comically, all ofwhich made manifest that the relations existing between the hostess ofthe Candlestick and her principal tenant were of the most cordial andPlatonic character.

  "And you have just returned from Rome? Ah, what a terrible ride!"

  "Abominable, Mignon."

  "And I see you hungry!" She sighed, and her black eyes grew moist andtender. Madame Boisjoli was only thirty-two. She was young.

  "But alive, Mignon, alive; don't forget that."

  "You have had adventures?" eagerly; for she was a woman who loved therecital of exploits. Monsieur Boisjoli had fallen as a soldier atCharenton.

  "Adventures? Oh, as they go," slapping his rapier and his pocketswhich had recently been very empty.

  "You have been wounded?"

  "Only in the pockets, dear, and in the tender quick of comfort. Andwill you have Charlot hasten that pie? I can smell it from afar, andmy mouth waters."

  "This moment, Monsieur;" and she flew away to the kitchens.

  The Chevalier took this temporary absence as an opportunity to lookabout him. Only one table was occupied. This occupant was a priestwho was gravely dining off black bread and milk served in a woodenbowl. But for the extreme pallor of his skin, which doubtless had itsorigin in the constant mortification of the flesh, he would have been asingularly handsome man. His features were elegantly designed, but itwas evident that melancholy had recast them in a serious mold. Hisface was clean-shaven, and his hair clipped, close to the skull. Therewas something eminently noble in the loftiness of the forehead, and atthe same time there was something subtly cruel in the turn of thenether lip, as though the spirit and the flesh were constantly at war.He was young, possibly not older than the Chevalier, who was thirty.

  The priest, as if feeling the Chevalier's scrutiny, raised his eyes.As their glances met, casually in the way of gratifying a naturalcuriosity, both men experienced a mental disturbance which was at oncestrange and annoying. Those large, penetrating grey eyes; each seemedto be looking into his own as in a mirror.

  The Chevalier was first to disembarrass himself. "A tolerably shrewdnight, Monsieur," he said with a friendly gesture.

  "It is the frost in the air, my son," the priest responded in a mellowbarytone. "May Saint Ignatius listen kindly to the poor. Ah, thisgulf you call Paris, I like it not."

  "You are but recently arrived?" asked the Chevalier politely.

  "I came two days ago. I leave for Rouen this night."

  "What! you travel at night, and leave a cheery tavern like this?" Allat once the crinkle of a chill ran across the Chevalier's shoulders.The thumb, the forefinger and the second of the priest's left hand weretwisted, reddened stumps.

  "Yes, at night; and the wind will be rough, beyond the hills. But Ihave suffered worse discomforts;" and to this statement the priestadded a sour smile. He had seen the shudder. He dropped the maimedhand below the level of the table.

  "You ride, however?" suggested the Chevalier.

  "A Spanish mule, the gift of Father Vincent."

  "Her Majesty's confessor?"

  "Yes."

  "You are a Jesuit?"

  "I have the happiness to serve God in that order. I have justpresented my respects to her Majesty and Cardinal Mazarin. I am comefrom America, my son, to see his Eminence in regard to the raising offunds for some new missions we have in mind; but I have beenindifferently successful, due possibly to my lack of eloquence and tothe fact that my superior, Father Chaumonot, was unable to accompany meto Paris. I shall meet him in Rouen."

  "And so you are from that country of which I have heard so much oflate--that France across the sea?" The Chevalier's tones expressedgenuine interest. He could now account for the presence of themutilated hand. Here was a man who had seen strange adventures in astrange land. "New France!" musingly.

  "Yes, my son; and I am all eagerness to return."

  The Chevalier laughed pleasantly. "Pardon my irrelevancy, but Iconfess that it excites my amusement to be called 'son' by one who cannot be older than myself."

  "It is a habit I acquired with the savages. And yet, I have known menof fifty to be young," said the Jesuit, his brows sinking. "I haveknown men of thirty to be old. Youth never leaves us till we havesuffered. I am old, very old." He was addressing some inner thoughtrather than the Chevalier.

  "Well, I am thirty, myself," said the Chevalier with assumed lightness."I am neither young nor old. I stand on the threshold. I can not saythat I have suffered since I have known only physical discomforts. Butto call me 'son' . . ."

  "Well, then," replied the priest, smiling, "since the disparity inyears is so small as to destroy the dignity of the term, I shall callyou my brother. All men are brothers; it is the Word."

  "That is true." How familiar this priest's eyes were! "But some arerich and some are poor; beggars and thieves and cutthroats; nobly andbasely born."

  The Jesuit gazed thoughtfully into his bowl. "Yes, some are nobly andsome are basely born. I have often contemplated what a terrible thingit must be to possess a delicate, sensitive soul and a body disowned;to long for the glories of the world from behind the bar sinister, anobject of scorn, contumely and forgetfulness; to be cut away from thelove of women and the affection of men, the two strongest of humanties; to dream what might and should have been; to be proved guilty ofa crime we did not commit; to be laughed at, to beg futilely, alwayssubject to that mental conflict between love and hate, charity andenvy. Yes; I can think of nothing which stabs so deeply as the fingerof ridicule, unmerited. I am not referring to the children of kings,but to the forgotten by the lesser nobility."

  His voice had risen steadily, losing its music but gaining a thrillingintenseness. Strange words for a priest, thought the Chevalier, whohad spoken with irony aforethought. Glories of the world, the love ofwomen; did not all priests forswear these? Perhaps his eyes expressedhis thought, for he noted a faint color on the priest's checks.

  "I am speaking as a moral physician, Monsieur," continued the priest,his composure recovered; "one who seeks to observe all spiritualdiseases in order to apply a remedy."

  "And is there a remedy for a case such as you have described?" askedthe Chevalier, half mockingly.

  "Yes; God gives us a remedy even for such an ill."

  "And what might the remedy be?"

  "Death."

  "What is your religious name, Monsieur?" asked the Chevalier, strangelysubdued.

  "I am Father Jacques, _protege_ of the kindly Chaumonot. But I amknown to my brothers and friends as Brother Jacques. And you,Monsieur, are doubtless connected with the court."

  "Yes. I am known as the Chevalier du Cevennes, under De Guitaut, inher Majesty's Guards."

  "Cevennes?" the priest repeated, ruminating. "Why, that is the name ofa mountain range in the South."

  "So it is. I was born in that region, and it pleased me to bearCevennes as a name of war. I possess a title, but I do not assume it;I simply draw its revenues." The Chevalier scowled at his buckles, asif some disagreeable thought had come to him.

  The priest remarked the change in the soldier's voice; it had grownharsh and repellent. "Monsieur, I proceed from Rouen to Rochelle; areyou familiar with that city?"

  "R
ochelle? Oh, indifferently."

  The Jesuit plucked at his lips for a space, as if hesitant to break thesilence. "Have you ever heard of the Marquis de Perigny?"

  The Chevalier whirled about. "The Marquis de Perigny? Ah, yes; I haveheard of that gentleman. Why do you ask?"

  "It is said that while he is a bad Catholic, he is generous in hischarities. Father Chaumonot and I intend to apply to him forassistance. Mazarin has not been very liberal. Ah, how little theydream of the length and breadth and riches of this France across thesea! Monsieur le Marquis is rich?"

  "Rich; but a bad Catholic truly." The Chevalier laughed withoutmerriment. "The marquis and charity? Why not oil and water? They mixequally well."

  "You do not seem quite friendly toward the Marquis?" suggested BrotherJacques.

  "No; I am not particularly fond of Monsieur le Marquis," patting thepommel of his sword.

  "Monsieur le Marquis has wronged you?" asked the priest, a fire leapinginto his eyes.

  "It is a private affair, Monsieur," coldly.

  "Pardon me!" Brother Jacques made a gesture of humility. He rolledthe bread crumbs into a ball which he dropped into the bowl. Presentlyhe pushed aside the bowl and rose, his long black cassock falling tohis ankles. He drew his rosary through his belt and put on hisshovel-shaped hat.

  Again the Chevalier's attention was drawn toward the mutilated hand.

  "The pastimes of savages, Monsieur," Brother Jacques said grimly,holding out his hand for inspection: "the torture of the pipe, which Istood but poorly. Well, my brother, I am outward bound, and Rouen isfar away. The night is beautiful, for the wind will drive away thesnow-clouds and the stars will shine brightly. Peace be with you."

  "I wish you well, Monsieur," returned the Chevalier politely.

  Then Brother Jacques left the Candlestick, mounted his mule, and rodeaway, caring as little as the Chevalier whether or not their pathsshould cross again.

  "Monsieur le Marquis!" murmured the Chevalier, staring at the emptybowl. "So the marquis, my father, gives to the Church? That is droll.Now, why does the marquis give to the Church? He has me there. Bah!and this priest's eyes. Ah!" as he saw Madame Boisjoli returning,followed by Charlot who carried the smoking supper; "here is somethingthat promises well."

  "Brother Jacques is gone?" said madame, her eyes roving.

  "Yes." The Chevalier sat down at a table.

  "Monsieur Paul?" timidly.

  "Well, Mignon?" smiling. Mignon was certainly good to look at.

  "Did you notice Brother Jacques's eyes?"

  "Do you mean to say that you, too, observed them?" with a shade ofannoyance. Vanity compelled him to resent this absurd likeness.

  "Immediately. It was so strange. And what a handsome priest!" slyly.

  "Shall I call him back, Mignon?" laughing.

  Madame exhibited a rounded shoulder.

  "Bah with them all, Mignon, priests, cardinals, and journeys." Andhalf an hour later, having demolished all madame had set before him,besides sharing the excellent chambertin, the Chevalier felt the manmade whole again. The warmth of the wine turned the edge of hissterner thoughts; and at ten minutes to eight he went forth, a braveand gallant man, handsome and gaily attired, his eyes glowing withanticipating love, blissfully unconscious of the extraordinary thingswhich were to fall to his lot from this night onward.

  The distance from the Candlestick was too short for the need of ahorse, so the Chevalier walked, lightly humming an old chanson of thereign of Louis XIII, among whose royal pastimes was that of shaving hiscourtiers:

  "_Alas, my poor barber, What is it makes you sad?" "It is the grand king Louis, Thirteenth of that name._"

  He swung into the Rue Dauphin and mounted the Pont Neuf, glancing idlybelow at the ferrymen whose torches threw on the black bosom of theSeine long wavering threads of phantom fire. The snow-clouds hadpassed over, and the stars were shining; the wind was falling. Thequays were white; the Louvre seemed but a vast pile of ghostly stones.The hands of the clock in the quaint water-tower La Samaritaine pointedat five to eight. Oddly enough there came to the Chevalier atransitory picture of a young Jesuit priest, winding through the bleakhills on the way to Rouen. The glories of the world, the love ofwomen? What romance lay smoldering beneath that black cassock? Whatsecret grief? What sin? Brother Jacques? The name signified nothing.Like all courtiers of his time, the Chevalier entertained the beliefthat when a handsome youth took the orders it was in the effort to burysome grief rather than to assist in the alleviation of the sorrows ofmankind.

  He walked on, skirting the Louvre and presently entering the courtyardof the Palais Royal. The number of flambeaux, carriages and _caleches_indicated to him that Mazarin was giving a party. He lifted his cloakfrom his shoulders, shook it, and threw it over his arm, and ascendedthe broad staircase, his heart beating swiftly. Would he see her?Would she be in the gallery? Would this night dispel the mystery? Atthe first landing he ran almost into Captain de Guitaut, who wasdescending.

  "Cevennes?" cried the captain, frankly astounded.

  "And freshly from Rome, my Captain. His Eminence is giving a party?"

  "Are you weary of life, Monsieur?" asked the captain. "What are youdoing here? I had supposed you to be a man of sense, and on the way toSpain. And my word of honor, you stick your head down the lion'smouth! Follow your nose, follow your nose; it is none of my affair."And the gruff old captain passed on down the stairs.

  The Chevalier stared after him in bewilderment. Spain? . . . Weary oflife? What had happened?

  "Monsieur du Cevennes?" cried a thin voice at his elbow.

  The Chevalier turned and beheld Bernouin, the cardinal's valet.

  "Ah!" said the Chevalier. Here was a man to explain the captain'sriddle. "Will you announce to his Eminence that I have returned fromRome, and also explain why you are looking at me with such bulgingeyes? Am I a ghost?" The Chevalier, being rich, was one of the fewwho were never overawed by the grandeur of Mazarin's valet. "What isthe matter?"

  "Matter?" repeated the valet. "Matter? Nothing, Monsieur, nothing!"quickly. "I will this instant announce your return to monseigneur."

  "One would think that I had been trying to run away," mused theChevalier, following the valet.

  Meanwhile a lackey dressed in no particular livery entered the Hotel ofthe Silver Candlestick and inquired for Monsieur Breton, lackey toMonsieur le Chevalier du Cevennes. He was directed to the floor above.On hearing a knock, Breton hastily closed the book he was reading andwent to the door. The hallway was so dark that he could distinguish nofeature of his caller.

  "Monsieur Breton?" the strange lackey inquired,

  "Are you seeking me?" Breton asked diplomatically.

  "I was directed to deliver this to you. It is for your master," andthe stranger placed a bundle in Breton's hands. Immediately he turnedand disappeared down the stairs. Evidently he desired not to bequestioned.

  Breton surveyed the bundle doubtfully, turned it this way and that. Onopening it he was greatly surprised to find his master's celebratedgrey cloak. He examined it. It was soiled and rent in several places.Breton hung it up in the closet, shaking his head.

  "This is very irregular," he muttered. "Monsieur de Saumaise wouldnever have returned it in this condition; besides, Hector would havebeen the messenger. What will Monsieur Paul say when he sees it?"

  And, knowing that he had no cause to worry, and having not theslightest warning that his master's liberty was in danger, Bretonreseated himself by the candles and continued his indulgence in stolensweets; that is to say, he renewed the adventures of that remarkableoffspring of Gargantua.