The Grey Cloak

by Harold MacGrath

  CHAPTER VII

  THE PHILOSOPHY OF MONSIEUR LE MARQUIS DE PERIGNY

  The Hotel de Perigny stood in the Rue des Augustines, diagonallyopposite the historic pile once occupied by Henri II and Diane dePoitiers, the beautiful and fascinating Duchesse de Valentinois ofequivocal yet enduring fame. It was constructed in the severe beautyof Roman straight lines, and the stains of nearly two centuries haddiscolored the blue-veined Italian marble. A high wall inclosed it,and on the top of this wall ran a miniature cheval-de-frise of iron.Nighttime or daytime, in mean or brilliant light, it took on the sombervisage of a kill-joy. The invisible hand of fear chilled and repelledthe curious: it was a house of dread. There were no gardens; theflooring of the entire court was of stone; there was not even the usualvine sprawling over the walls.

  Men had died in this house; not always in bed, which is to say,naturally. Some had died struggling in the gloomy corridors, in thegrand salon, on the staircase leading to the upper stories. In theValois's time it had witnessed many a violent night; for men had heldlife in a careless hand, and the master of fence had been thelaw-giver. Three of the House of Perigny had closed their accountsthus roughly. The grandsire and granduncle of the present marquis,both being masters of fence, had succumbed in an attempt to give law toeach other. And the apple of discord, some say, had been the Duchessede Valentinois. The third to die violently was the ninth marquis,father of the present possessor of the title. History says that hedied of too much wine and a careless tongue. Thus it will be seen thatthe blood in the veins of this noble race was red and hot.

  Children, in mortal terror, scampered past the hotel; at night sobermen, when they neared it, crossed the street. Few of the Rochellaiscould describe the interior; these were not envied of their knowledge.It had been tenanted but twice in thirty years. Of the presentgeneration none could remember having seen it cheerful with lights.The ignorant abhor darkness; it is the meat upon which theirsuperstition feeds. To them, deserted houses are always haunted, ifnot by spirits at least by the memory of evil deeds.

  The master of this house of dread was held in awe by the citizens towhom he was a word, a name to be spoken lowly, even when respecttinctured the utterance. Stories concerning the marquis had come fromParis and Perigny, and travel, the good gossip, had distorted acts ofmere eccentricity into deeds of violence and wickedness. The nobility,however, did not share the popular belief. They beheld in the marquisa great noble whose right to his title ran back to the days when amarquisate meant the office of guarding the marshes and frontiers forthe king. Besides, the marquis had been the friend of two kings, thelover of a famous beauty, the husband of the daughter of a Savoyprince. These three virtues balanced his moral delinquencies. To thepopular awe in which the burghers held him there was added a largeparticle of distrust; for during the great rebellion he had servedneither the Catholics nor the Huguenots; neither Richelieu, his enemy,nor De Rohan, his friend. Catholics proclaimed him a Huguenot,Huguenots declared him a Catholic; yet, no one had ever seen him attendmass, the custom of good Catholics, nor had any heard him pray inFrench, the custom of good Huguenots. What then, being neither one northe other? An atheist, whispered the wise, a word which was thenaccepted in its narrowest cense: that is to say, Monsieur le Marquishad sold his soul to the devil.

  Perigny, it is not to be denied, was a sinister sound in the ears of avirtuous woman. To the ultra-pious and the bigoted, it was a letter inthe alphabet of hell. Yet, there was in this grim chain of evil reputeone link which did not conform with the whole. The marquis neverhaggled with his tradesmen, never beat his servants or his animals, andopened his purse to the poor with more frequency than did his religiousneighbors. Those who believed in his total wickedness found itimpossible to accept this incongruity.

  For ten years the hotel had remained in darkness; then behold! but amonth gone, a light was seen shining from one of the windows. Thewatch, upon investigation, were informed that Monsieur le Marquis hadreturned to the city and would remain indefinitely. After this, onseveral occasions the hotel was lighted cheerfully enough. Monsieur leMarquis's son entertained his noble friends and the officers from FortLouis. There was wine in plenty and play ran high. The marquis,however, while he permitted these saturnalia, invariably held aloof.It was servants' hall gossip that the relations existing between fatherand son were based upon the coldest formalities. Conversation neverwent farther than "Good morning, Monsieur le Marquis" and "Goodmorning, Monsieur le Comte." The marquis pretended not to understandwhen any referred to his son as the "Chevalier du Cevennes." It wasalso gossiped that this noble house was drawing to its close; for theChevalier had declined to marry, and was drinking and gaming heavily;and to add to the marquis's chagrin, the Chevalier had been dismissedfrom court, in disgrace,--a calamity which till now had never fallenupon the House of Perigny.

  The marquis was growing old. As he sat before the fire in the grandsalon, the flickering yellow light playing over his features, which hada background of moving, deep velvet-brown shadows, he might have beenthe theme of some melancholy whim by Rubens, a stanza by Dante. Hisface was furrowed like a frosty road. Veins sprawled over his handswhich rested on the arms of his chair, and the knuckles shone likeivory through the drawn transparent skin. The long fingers drummedceaselessly and the head teetered; for thus senility approaches. Hislips, showing under a white mustache, were livid and fallen inward.The large Alexandrian nose had lost its military angle, and droopedslightly at the tip: which is to say, the marquis no longer acted, hethought; he was no longer the soldier, but the philosopher. Thedomineering, forceful chin had the essentials of a man of justice, butit was lacking in that quality of mercy which makes justice grand.Over the Henri IV ruff fell the loose flesh of his jaws. Altogether,it was the face of a man who was practically if not actually dead. Butin the eyes, there lay the life of the man. From under jutting browsthey peered as witnesses of a brain which had accumulated a rareknowledge of mankind, man's shallowness, servility, hypocrisy, hisnatural inability to obey the simplest laws of nature; a brain whichwas set in motion always by calculation, never by impulse. They weregrey eyes, bold and fierce and liquid as a lion's. None among thegreat had ever beaten them down, for they were truthful eyes, almost anabsolute denial of the life he had lived. But truth to the marquis wasnot a moral obligation. He was truthful as became a great noble whowas too proud and fearless of consequences to lie. In his youth he hadbeen called Antinous to Henri's Caesar; but there is a certain type ofbeauty which, if preyed upon by vices, becomes sardonic in old age.

  At his elbow stood a small Turkish table on which were a Venetian belland a light repast, consisting of a glass of weakened canary and aplate of biscuits spread sparingly with honey. Presently the marquisdrank the wine and struck the bell. Jehan, the marquis's aged valet,entered soon after with a large candelabrum of wax candles. This heplaced on the mantel. Even with this additional light, the other endof the salon remained in semi-darkness. Only the dim outline of thegrand staircase could be seen.

  Over the mantel the portrait of a woman stood out clearly anddefinitely. It represented Madame la Marquise at twenty-two, whenMarie de Medicis had commanded the young Rubens to paint the portraitof one of the few women who had volunteered to share her exile. Madamelived to be only twenty-four, happily.

  "Jehan, light the chandelier," said the marquis. His voice, if high,was still clear and strong. "Has Monsieur le Comte ventured forth inthis storm?"

  "Yes, Monsieur; but he left word that he would return later with acompany of friends."

  "Friends?" The marquis shrugged. "Is that what he calls them? When dothese grasping Jesuits visit me?"

  "At eight, Monsieur. They are due this moment, unless they have failedto make the harbor."

  "And they bring the savage? Good. He will interest me, and I am dyingof weariness. I shall see a man again. Arrange some chairs next tome, bring a bottle of claret, and a thousand livres from the steward'schest. And l
isten, Jehan, let Monsieur le Comte's servant give ordersto the butler for his master. I forbid you to do it."

  "Yes, Monsieur," and Jehan proceeded to light the chandelier, theillumination of which brought out distinctly the tarnished splendor ofthe salon. Jehan retired.

  The marquis, to steady his teetering head, rested his chin on hishands, which were clasped over the top of his walking-stick.Occasionally his eyes roved to the portrait of his wife, and amelancholy, unreadable smile broke the severe line of his lips.

  "A beautiful woman," he mused aloud, "though she did not inspire mewith love. Beauty: that is the true religion, that is the shrine ofworship, as the Greeks understood it; beauty of woman. Woman was bornto express beauty, man to express strength. We detest weakness in aman, and a homely woman is a crime. And so De Brissac passedviolently? And his oaths of vengeance were breaths on a mirror. Ahwell, I had ceased to hate him these twenty years. Did he love yonderwoman, or was his fancy like mine, ephemeral? And he marriedMademoiselle de Montbazon? That is droll, a kind of tentativevengeance."

  His eyes closed and he fell into a dreaming state. Like all men whohave known eventful but useless lives, the marquis lived in the past.The future held for him nothing cut pain and death, and his thoughtseldom went forth to meet it. Day after day he sat alone with hissouvenirs, unmindful of the progress about him, indifferent.

  When the valet returned with the wine and the livres, he placed threechairs within easy distance of the marquis, and waited to learn whatfurther orders his master had in mind.

  The marquis opened his eyes. "When Messieurs the Jesuits come, showthem in at once. The hypocrites come on a begging errand. After Ihave humiliated them, I shall give them money, and they will say,'_Absolvo te_.' It is simple. And they will promise to pray for therepose of my soul when I am dead. My faith, how easy it is to gainHeaven! A thousand livres, a prayer mumbled in Latin, and look! Heavenis for the going. The thief and the murderer, the fool and the wiseman, the rich and the beggared, how they must jostle one another in thematter of precedence! Poor Lucifer! Who will lend Lucifer a thousandlivres and an '_Absolvo te_'?"

  Jehan crossed himself, for he was a pious Catholic.

  "Hypocrite!" snarled the marquis; "Have I not forbidden you thismummery in my presence? Begone!"

  The Swiss clock on the mantel had chimed the first quarter after eightere the marquis was again disturbed. He turned in his seat to witnessthe entrance of his unwelcome guests. He smiled, but not pleasantly.

  "Be seated, Messieurs," he said, waving his hand toward the chairs, andeying the Iroquois with that curiosity with which one eyes a newspecies of animal. Next his gaze fell upon Brother Jacques, whoselook, burning and intense, aroused a sense of impatience in themarquis's breast. "Monsieur," he said peevishly, "have not the womentold you that you are too handsome for a priest?"

  "If so, Monsieur," imperturbably, "I have not heard." And while ashade of color grew in his cheeks, Brother Jacques's look was calm andundisturbed.

  "And you are Father Chaumonot?" said the marquis turning to the elder.His glance discovered a finely modeled head, a high benevolent brow,eyes mild and intelligent, a face marred neither by greed nor bycunning; not handsome, rather plain, but wholesome, amiable, and with atouch of those human qualities which go toward making a man whole.There was even a suspicion of humor in the fine wrinkles gatheredaround the eyes. The marquis pictured this religious pioneer in thegarb of a soldier. "You would be a man but for that robe," he said,when his scrutiny was brought to an end.

  "I pray God that I may be a man for it."

  The marquis laughed. He loved a man of quick reply. "What do you callhim?" indicating the Indian, whose dark eyes were constantly roving.

  "The Black Kettle is his Indian name; but I have baptized him asDominique."

  "Tell him for me that he is a man."

  "My son," said Chaumonot, speaking slowly in French, "the white chiefsays that you are a man."

  The Iroquois expanded under this flattery. "The white chief has theproud eye of the eagle."

  "Devil take me!" cried the marquis; "but it seems that he talks verygood French!"

  "It took some labor," replied Chaumonot; "but he was quick to learn,and he is of great assistance to me."

  "Is he a Catholic?" curiously.

  "Aye, and proud to be."

  The marquis signified his astonishment by wagging his head. "I shouldlike to see this Indian at mass; it must be very droll."

  "Monsieur," said Chaumonot, passing over the marquis's questionableirony, "will you permit me to tell you a short story before approachingthe subject of my visit?"

  "Rabelaisian?" maliciously.

  "No; not a monstrous story, but one relative to an act of kindnesswhich took place many years ago."

  "Well, if I am not interested I shall interrupt you," said the marquis.He swept his hand toward the wine, but the priests and the Iroquoisrespectfully declined. "Proceed."

  "Once upon a time," began Chaumonot, his eyes directed toward thebronze console which supported the mantel, "there lived a lad whosefather was a humble vine-dresser. At the age of ten he was sent toChatillon, where he lived with his uncle, a priest, who taught himLatin and Holy history. This did not prevent him from yielding to thepersuasion of one of his companions to run off to Beaune, where the twoproposed to study music under the Fathers of Oratory. To provide fundsfor the journey, he stole a dozen livres from his uncle, the priest.Arriving at Beaune, he became speedily destitute. He wrote home to hismother for money. She showed the letter to his father, who ordered himhome. Stung by the thought of being branded a thief in his nativetown, he resolved not to return, but in expiation to set out forthwithon a pilgrimage to Rome. Tattered and penniless, he took the road toRome. He was proud, this boy, and at first refused to beg; but miseryfinally forced his pride to its knees, and his hand stretched forthfrom door to door. He slept in open fields, in cowsheds, in haystacks,occasionally finding lodging in a convent. Thus, sometimes alone,sometimes in the company of wandering vagabonds, he made his waythrough Savoy and Lombardy in a pitiable condition of destitution anddisease. At length he arrived at Ancona, where the thought occurred tohim of visiting the Holy House of Loretto, and of applying for succorof the Holy Virgin. Patience, Monsieur; only a moment more."

  The marquis, leaning on his cane, was distorting his lips and wrinklinghis eyebrows.

  "The lad's hopes were not disappointed. He had reached the renownedshrine, knelt, paid his devotions, when, as he issued from the chapeldoor, he was accosted by an elegant cavalier, who was having somedifficulty with a stirrup. He asked the wretched boy to hold thehorse, and for this service gave him five Spanish pistoles of gold."

  The expression on the marquis's face was now one of animation.

  "Is it possible! I recall the episode distinctly. I was on the way tomy marriage."

  "Well, Monsieur le Marquis, I have never forgotten that service. Ihave always treasured that act of kindness. For those five pistolesrenewed life, took me to my journey's end, and eventually led me intothe Society of Jesus. I have always desired the pleasure of meetingyou and thanking you personally." Chaumonot's face beamed.

  "Be not hasty with your thanks. I have forgotten the purpose I had inmind when I gave you those pistoles. Ah well, I will leave you withthe illusion that it was an act of generosity. And as I remember, youwere a pitiful looking young beggar." Turning to Brother Jacques, themarquis said: "Have I ever done you a service?"

  "No, Monsieur le Marquis; you have never done me a service." There wasa strange irony beneath the surface of these words. Chaumonot did notnotice it, but the marquis, who was a perfect judge of all thosesubtile phases of conversation, caught the jangling note; and it causedhim to draw together his brows in a puzzled frown.

  "Have I ever met you till now?" he asked.

  "Not that I know of, Monsieur." The tone was gentle, respectful.

  "There is something familiar about your
face;" and the marquis staredinto space; but he could not conjure up the memory he sought. He hadseen this handsome priestly face before. Where?

  Brother Jacques's features were without definite expression.

  Presently the marquis roused himself from the past. "I received yourletter in regard to funds. How is it that you came to me?"

  "You have gained the reputation of being liberal."

  "I have several reputations," said the marquis dryly. "But why shouldI give you a thousand livres? That is a good many."

  "Oh, Monsieur, give what you like; only that sum was suggested by mebecause it is the exact amount needed in our work."

  "But I am out of sympathy with your projects and your religion,especially your religion. I am neither a Catholic nor a Huguenot.Religion which seeks political domination is not a religion, but aparty. And what are Catholicity and Huguenotism but politicalfactions, with a different set of prayers? Next to a homely woman,there is nothing I detest so much as politics. I have no religion."

  "It would be a great joy," said Chaumonot, "to bring about yourconversion."

  "You have heard of Sisyphus, who was condemned eternally to roll astone up a hill? Well, Monsieur, that would be a simple task comparedwith an attempt to convert me to Catholicism. I believe in threethings: life, pleasure, and death, because I know them to exist."

  "And pain, Monsieur?" said Brother Jacques softly.

  "Ah well, and pain," abstractedly. "But as to Heaven and hell, bah!Let some one prove to me that there exists a hereafter other thansilence; I am not unreasonable. People say that I am an infidel, anatheist. I am simply a pagan, even more of a pagan than the Greeks,for they worshiped marble. Above all things I am a logician; and logiccan not feed upon suppositions; it must have facts. Why should I be aCatholic, to exterminate all the Huguenots; a Huguenot, to annihilateall the Catholics? No, no! Let all live; let each man worship what hewill and how. There is but one end, and this end focuses on death,unfeeling sod, and worms. Shall I die to-morrow? I enjoyed yesterday.And had I died yesterday, I should now be beyond the worry ofto-morrow. I wish no man's death, because he believes not as Ibelieve. I wish his death only when he has wronged me . . . or I havewronged him. I do not say to you, 'Monsieur, be a heretic'; I saymerely, permit me to be one if I choose. And what is a soul?" He blewupon the gold knob of his stick, and watched the moisture evaporate.

  "Thought, Monsieur; thought is the soul. Can you dissect the processof reason? Can you define of what thought consists? No, Monsieur;there you stop. You possess thought, but you can not tell whence itcomes, or whither it goes when it leaves this earthly casket. This isbecause thought is divine. When on board a ship, in whom do you placeyour trust?" Chaumonot's eyes were burning with religious zeal.

  "I trust the pilot, because I see him at the wheel. I speak to him,and he tells me whither we are bound. I understand your question, andhave answered it. You would say, 'God is the pilot of our souls.' Butwhat proof? I do not see God; and I place no trust in that which I cannot see. Thought, you say, is the soul. Well, then, a soul has theant, for it thinks. What! a Heaven and a hell for the ant? Ah, butthat would be droll! I own to but one goddess, and she is chastening.That is Folly! She is a liberal creditor. How bravely she lends usour excesses! When we are young, Folly is a boon companion. She opensher purse to us, laughing. But let her find that we have overdrawn ouraccount with nature, then does Folly throw aside her smiling mask,become terrible with her importunities, and hound us into the grave. Iam paying Folly, Monsieur," exhibiting a palsied hand. "I am paying inprecious hours for the dross she lent me in my youth."

  Chaumonot could not contain his indignation against this fallaciousreasoning. He knew that his words might lose him a thousand livres;nevertheless he said bravely: "Monsieur le Marquis, it is such men asyourself who make the age what it is; it is philosophy such as yoursthat corrupts and degenerates. It is wrong, I say, a thousand timeswrong. Being without faith, you are without a place to stand on; youare without hope; you live in darkness, and everything before you mustbe hollow, empty, joyless. You think, yet deny the existence of asoul! Folly has indeed been your god. Oh, Monsieur, it is frightful!"And the zealot rose and crossed himself, expecting a fiery outburst andinstant dismissal. He could not repress a sigh. A thousand livreswere a great many.

  But the marquis acted quite contrary to his expectations. Heastonished the good man by laughing and pounding the floor with hiscane.

  "Good!" he cried. "I like a man of your kidney. You have an opinionand the courage to support it. You are still less a Jesuit than a man.Brother Jacques here might have acquiesced to all my theories ratherthan lose a thousand livres."

  "You are wrong, Monsieur," replied Brother Jacques quietly. "I shouldgo to further lengths of disapprobation. I should say that Monsieur leMarquis's philosophy is the cult of fools and of madmen, did I not knowthat he was simply testing our patience when he advanced suchimpossible theories."

  "What! two of them?" sarcastically. "I compliment you both uponrisking my good will for an idea."

  Chaumonot sighed more deeply. The marquis motioned him to his chair.

  "Sit down, Monsieur; you have gained my respect. Frankness in aJesuit? Come; what has the Society come to that frankness replacescunning and casuistry? Bah! There never was an age but had its prudeto howl 'O these degenerate days!' Corrupt and degenerate you say?Yes; that is the penalty of greatness, richness, and idleness. Itbegan with the Egyptians, it struck Rome and Athens; it strikes Franceto-day. Yesterday we wore skins and furs, to-day silks and woolens,to-morrow . . . rags, mayhap. But listen: human nature has not changedin these seven thousand years, nor will change. Only governments andfashions change . . . and religions."

  There was a pause. Chaumonot wondered vaguely how he could cope withthis man who was flint, yet unresponsive to the stroke of steel. Hadthe possibility of the thousand livres become nothing? Again hesighed. He glanced at Brother Jacques, but Brother Jacques wasfollowing the marquis's lead . . . sorting visions in the crumbling,glowing logs. As for the Indian, he was admiring the chandelier.

  "Monsieur," said Brother Jacques, breaking the silence, but notremoving his gaze from the logs, "it is said that you have killed manymen in duels."

  "What would you?" complacently. "All men fight when need says must. Inever fought without cause, just or unjust. And the Rochellais haveadded a piquant postscript that for every soul I have despatched . . ."

  "You speak of soul, Monsieur?" interrupted Chaumonot.

  "A slip of the tongue. What I meant to say was, that for every lifeI've sent out of the world, I've brought another into it," with a laughtruly Rabelaisian.

  Brother Jacques's hands were attacked by a momentary spasm. Only theIndian witnessed this sign of agitation; but the conversation was farabove his learning and linguistic resources, and he comprehendednothing.

  "Well, Monsieur Chaumonot," said the marquis, who was growing weary ofthis theological discussion, "Here are your livres in the sum of onethousand. I tell you frankly that it had been my original intention tosubject you to humiliation. But you have won my respect, for all mydetestation of your black robes; and if this money will advance yourpersonal ambitions, I give it to you without reservation." He raisedthe bag and cast it into Chaumonot's lap.

  "Monsieur," cried the good man, his face round with delight, "everynight in yonder wilderness I shall pray for the bringing about of yourconversion. It will be a great triumph for the Church."

  "You are wasting your breath. I am not giving a thousand livres for an'_Absolvo te_.' Perhaps, after all," and the marquis smiledmaliciously, "I am giving you this money to embarrass Monsieur duRosset, the most devout Catholic in Rochelle. I have heard that he hasrefused to aid you."

  "I shall not look into your purpose," said Chaumonot.

  "Monsieur," said Brother Jacques musically, "I am about to ask a finalfavor."

  "More livres?" laughing. />
  "No. There may come a time when, in spite of your present antagonism,you will change your creed, and on your death-bed desire to die in theChurch. Should that time ever come, will you promise me the happinessof administering to you the last sacraments?"

  For some time the marquis examined the handsome face, the bold greyeyes and elegant shape of this young enthusiast, and a wonder grew intohis own grey eyes.

  "Ah well, I give you my promise, since you desire it. I will send foryou whenever I consider favorably the subject of conversion. Butsupposing you are in America at the time?"

  "I will come. God will not permit you to die, Monsieur, before I reachyour bedside." The young Jesuit stood at full height, his eyesbrilliant, his nostrils expanded, his whole attitude one of religiousfervor . . . so Chaumonot and the marquis thought.

  At this moment the Chevalier and his company of friends arrived; andthey created some noise in making their entrance. To gain thedining-hall, where they always congregated, the company had to passthrough the grand salon. The Chevalier had taught his companions topay no attention to the marquis, his father, nor to offer him theirrespects, as the marquis had signified his desire to be ignored by theChevalier's friends. So, led by De Saumaise, who was by now in a mostgenial state of mind, the roisterers trailed across the room toward thedining-hall, laughing and grumbling over their gains and losses at theCorne d'Abondance. The Chevalier, who straggled in last, alone caughtthe impressive tableau at the other end of the salon; the two Jesuitsand the Indian, their faces _en silhouette_, a thread of reflected firefollowing the line of their profiles, and the white head of themarquis. When the young priest turned and the light from thechandelier fell full upon his face, the Chevalier started. So didBrother Jacques, though he quickly assumed a disquieting calm as hereturned the Chevalier's salutation.

  "What is he doing here?" murmured the Chevalier. "Devil take him andhis eyes;" and passed on into the dining-hall.

  When the Jesuits and their Indian convert departed, the marquis resumedhis former position, his chin on his hands, his hands resting on hiscane. From time to time he heard loud laughter and snatches of songwhich rose above the jingle of the glasses in the dining-hall.

  "I am quite alone," he mused, with a smile whimsically sad.