The Grey Cloak

by Harold MacGrath

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE LAST ROUT

  Time doled out to the marquis a lagging hour. There were moments whenthe sounds of merriment, coming from the dining-hall, awakened in hisbreast the slumbering canker of envy,--envy of youth, of health, of thejoy of living. They were young in yonder room; the purse of life wasfilled with golden metal; Folly had not yet thrown aside her cunningmask, and she was still darling to the eye. Oh, to be young again; thatlight step of youth, that bold and sparkling glance, that steadyhand,--if only these were once more his! Where was all the gold Time hadgiven to him? Upon what had he expended it, to have become thusbeggared? To find an apothecary having the elixir of eternal youth! Howquickly he would gulp the draft to bring back that beauty which had sooften compelled the admiration of women, a Duchesse de Montbazon, aDuchesse de Longueville, a Princesse de Savoie, among the great; a MargotBourdaloue among the obscure!

  Margot Bourdaloue. . . . The marquis closed his eyes; the revelrydissolved into silence. How distinctly he could see that face,sculptured with all the delicacy of a Florentine cameo; that yellow hairof hers, full of captive sunshine; those eyes, giving forth thevelvet-bloom of heartsease; those slender brown hands which defied thelowliness of her birth, and those ankles the beauty of which not even theclumsy sabots could conceal! He knew a duchess whose line of blood wasolder than the Capets' or the Bourbons'. Was not nature the greatSatirist? To give nobility to that duchess and beauty to that peasant!Margot Bourdaloue, a girl of the people, of that race of animals hetolerated because they were necessary; of the people, who understoodnothing of the poetry of passing loves; Margot Bourdaloue, the onesoftening influence his gay and careless life had known.

  Sometimes in the heart of swamps, surrounded by chilling or fetid airs, aflower blossoms, tender and fragrant as any rose of sunny Tours: such aflower Margot had been. Thirty years; yet her face had lost to him not asingle detail; for there are some faces which print themselves soindelibly upon the mind that they become not elusive like the memory ofan enhancing melody or an exquisite poem, but lasting, like the sense oflife itself. And Margot, daughter of his own miller--she had loved himwith all the strength and fervor of her simple peasant heart. And he?Yes, yes; he could now see that he had loved her as deeply as it waspossible for a noble to love a peasant. And in a moment of rage andjealousy and suspicion, he had struck her across the face with hisriding-whip.

  What a recompense for such a love! In all the thirty years only once hadhe heard from her: a letter, burning with love, stained and blurred withtears, lofty with forgiveness, between the lines of which he could readthe quiet tragedy of an unimportant life. Whither had she gone, carryingthat brutal, unjust blow? Was she living? . . . dead? Was there such athing as a soul, and was the subtile force of hers compelling him toregret true happiness for the dross he had accepted as such? Soul?What! shall the atheist doubt in his old age?

  For more than half an hour the marquis barred from his sight the scenesurrounding, and wandered in familiar green fields where a certainmill-stream ran laughing to the sobbing sea; closed his ears to theshouts of laughter and snatches of ribald song, to hear again thenightingale, the stir of grasses under foot, the thrilling sweetness ofthe voice he loved. When he recovered from his dream he was surprised tofind that he had caught the angle of his wife's eyes, those expressiveand following eyes which Rubens left to posterity; and he saw in themsomething which was new-born: reproach.

  "Yes," said the marquis, as if replying to this spirit of reproach; "yes,if there be souls, yours must hover about me in reproach; reproach notwithout its irony and gladness; for you see me all alone, Madame,unloved, unrespected, declining and forgotten. But I offer no complaint;only fools and hypocrites make lamentation. And I am less to this son ofyours than the steward who reckons his accounts. Where place the blame?Upon these shoulders, Madame, stooped as you in life never saw them. Iknew not, conceited gallant that I was, that beauty and strength werepassing gifts. What nature gives she likewise takes away. Who wouldhave dreamed that I should need an arm to lean on? Not I, Madame! Whatvanity we possess when we lack nothing! . . ."

  From the dining-hall there came distinctly the Chevalier's voice liftedin song. He was singing one of Victor's triolets which the poet hadjoined to music:

  "_When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe, I drink the wine from her radiant eyes; And we sit in a casement made for two When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe With a Bacchante's love for a Bacchic brew! Then kiss the grape, for the midnight flies When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe, And I the wine from her radiant eyes!_"

  "Madame, he sings well," said the marquis, whimsically. "What was it theJesuits said? . . . corrupt and degenerate? Yes, those were the words.'Tis true; and this disease of idleness is as infectious as the plague.And this son of mine, he is following the game path through which Ipassed . . . to this, palsy and senility! Oh, the subtile poisons, theintoxicating Hippocrenes I taught him how to drink! And now he turns andcasts the dregs into my face. But as I said, I make no plaint; I do notlack courage. A pleasant pastime it was, this worldly lessoning; but Iforgot that he was partly a reproduction of his Catholic mother; thatwhere I stood rugged he would fall; that he did not possess ardor that iswithout fire, love that is without sentiment. . . ."

  A maudlin voice took up the Chevalier's song . . .

  "_When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe With a Bacchante's love for a Bacchic brew!_"

  "Reparation, Madame?" went on the marquis. "Such things are beyondreparation. And yet it is possible to save him. But how? Behold! youinspire me. I will save him. I will pardon his insolence, his contempt,his indifference, which, having my bone, was bred in him. Still, thequestion rises: for what shall I save him? Shall he love a good womansome day? Mayhap. So I will save him, not for the Church, but for thepossible but unknown quantity."

  There was a chorus, noisy and out of all harmony. At the end there camea crash, followed by laughter. Some convivial spirit had lost hisbalance and had fallen to the floor, dragging with him several bottles.

  Without heeding these sounds, the marquis continued his monologue. "Yes,I will save him. But not with kindly words, with promises, with appeals;he would laugh at me. No, Madame; human nature such as his does not stirto these when they come from the lips of one he does not hold in respect.The shock must be rude, penetrating. I must break his pride. And onwhat is pride based if not upon the pomp of riches? I will take away hispurse. What was his antipathy to Mademoiselle de Montbazon? . . . Thatwould be droll, upon honor! I never thought of that before;" and heindulged in noiseless laughter.

  The roisterers could be heard discussing wagers, some of which concernedhorses, scandals, and women. Ordinarily the marquis would have listenedwith secret pleasure to this equivocal pastime; but somehow it was atthis moment distasteful to his ears.

  "My faith! but these Jesuits have cast a peculiar melancholy over me;this frog's blood of mine would warm to generous impulses! . . . Iwonder where I have seen that younger fanatic?" The marquis mused awhile, but the riddle remained elusive and unexplained. He struck thebell to summon Jehan. "Announce to Monsieur le Comte my desire to holdspeech with him, immediately."

  "With Monsieur le Comte?" cried Jehan.

  "Ass! must I repeat a command?"

  Jehan hurried away, nearly overcome by surprise.

  "A toast!" said the Vicomte d'Halluys: "the Chevalier's return to Parisand to favor!"

  The roisterers filled their glasses. "To Paris, Chevalier, to court!"

  "To the beautiful unknown," whispered the poet into his friend's ear.

  "Thanks, Messieurs," said the Chevalier. "Paris!" and a thousand flashesof candle-light darted from the brimming glasses.

  The scene was not without its picturesqueness. The low crockery shelvesof polished mahogany running the length of the room and filled with rareporcelain, costly Italian glass, medieval silver, antique flagons,loving-cup
s of gold inlaid with amber and garnets; a dazzling array ofcandlesticks; a fireplace of shining mosaics; the mahogany table litteredwith broken glass, full and empty bottles, broken pipes, pools ofoverturned wine, shredded playing cards, cracked dice, and dead candles;somber-toned pictures and rusted armor lining the walls; the brilliantuniforms of the officers from Fort Louis, the laces and satins of thecivilians; the flushed faces, some handsome, some sodden, some madehideous by the chisel and mallet of vice: all these produced a scene atonce attractive and repelling.

  "Vicomte," said the Chevalier, "we are all drunk. Let us see if there besteady hands among us. I make you a wager."

  "On what?"

  "There are eight candles on your side of the table, eight on mine. Iwill undertake to snuff mine in less time than it takes you to snuffyours. Say fifty pistoles to make it interesting."

  "Done!" said the vicomte.

  Perhaps Victor was the soberest man among them, next to the vicomte, whohad jestingly been accused of having hollow bones, so marvelous was hiscapacity for wine and the art of concealing the effects. Several timesthe poet had crossed the vicomte's glance as it was leveled in theChevalier's direction. Each time the vicomte's lips had been twistedinto a half smile which was not unmixed with pitying contempt. Somehowthe poet did not wholly trust the vicomte. Genius has strange instincts.While Victor admired the vicomte's wit, his courage, his recklessness,there was a depth to this man which did not challenge investigation, butrather repelled it. What did that half smile signify? Victor shrugged.Perhaps it was all his imagination. Perhaps it was because he had seenthe vicomte look at Madame de Brissac . . . as he himself had oftenlooked. Ah well, love is a thing over which neither man nor woman hascontrol; and perhaps his half-defined antagonism was based upon jealousy.There was some satisfaction to know that the vicomte's head was in noless danger than his own. He brushed aside these thoughts, and centeredhis interest in the game which was about to begin.

  The vicomte drew his sword, and accepted that of Lieutenant de Vandreuilof the fort, while the Chevalier joined to his own the rapier of hispoet-friend. Both the vicomte and the Chevalier held enviablereputations as fancy swordsmen. To snuff a candle with a pair of swordsheld scissorwise is a feat to be accomplished only by an expert.Interest in the sport was always high; and to-night individual wagers asto the outcome sprang up around the table. "Saumaise," said the vicomte,"will you hold the watch?"

  "With pleasure, Vicomte," accepting the vicomte's handsome time-piece."Messieurs, it is now twenty-nine minutes after ten; promptly at thirty Ishall give the word, preceding it with a one-two-three. Are you ready?"

  The contestants nodded. Several seconds passed, in absolute silence.

  "One-two-three--go!"

  The Chevalier succeeded in snuffing his candles three seconds sooner thanthe vicomte. The applause was loud. Breton was directed to go to thecellars and fetch a dozen bottles of white chambertin.

  "You would have won, Vicomte," said the Chevalier, "but for a floatingwick."

  "Your courtesy exceeds everything," returned the vicomte, bowing withdrunken exaggeration.

  The doors slid back, and Jehan appeared on the threshold.

  "Monsieur le Comte," he said, "Monsieur le Marquis, your father, desiresto speak to you." Jehan viewed the scene phlegmatically,

  "What!" The Chevalier set down his glass. His companions did likewise."You are jesting, Jehan."

  "No, Monsieur. This moment he commanded me to approach you."

  "The marquis wishes to speak to me, you say?" The Chevalier looked abouthim to see how this news affected his friends. They were exchangingblank inquiries. "Tell Monsieur le Marquis that I will be with himpresently."

  "Now, Monsieur; pardon me, but he wishes to see you now."

  "The devil! Messieurs, accept my excuses. My father is old and isdoubtless attacked by a sudden chill. I will return immediately."

  At the Chevalier's entrance the marquis did not rise; he merely turnedhis head. The Chevalier approached his chair, frowning.

  "Monsieur," said the son, "Jehan has interrupted me to say that youdesired to speak to me. Are you ill?"

  "Not more than usual," answered the marquis dryly, catching the sarcasmunderlying the Chevalier's solicitude. "It is regarding a matter farmore serious and important than the state of my health. I am weary,Monsieur le Comte; weary of your dissipations, your carousals, yourcompanions; I am weary of your continued disrespect."

  "Monsieur, you never taught me to respect you," quietly, the flush gonefrom his cheeks.

  The marquis nodded toward his wife's portrait, as if to say: "You see,Madame?" To his son he said: "If you can not respect me as your father,at least you might respect my age."

  "Ah; honest age is always worthy of respect. But is yours honest,Monsieur? Have you not aged yourself?"

  The marquis grew thoughtful at the conflict in view. "Monsieur, when Iasked you to marry Mademoiselle de Montbazon, I forgot to say that shewas not my daughter, but legally and legitimately the daughter of herfather, the Duc de Montbazon."

  This curious turn threw the Chevalier into a fit of uncontrollablelaughter. The marquis waited patiently.

  "I had no such thought. But your suggestion, had it occurred, mightnaturally have appealed to me. The supposition would not have beenunreasonable."

  "The lad is a wit!" cried the marquis, in mock admiration.

  The Chevalier bowed. "Monsieur, if my presence at your hotel is notagreeable to you, I will leave at once. It is a small matter where Ispend the night, as I return to court to-morrow."

  "Ah! And what brought about this good fortune which has returned you toher Majesty's graces?" The marquis never mentioned Mazarin.

  "The cause would scarcely interest you, Monsieur," coldly. Theroisterers were becoming hilarious once more, and the Chevalier grewrestive.

  "No, nothing interests me; but one grows weary of wine-bibbers androisterers, of spendthrifts and sponges."

  "Monsieur is old and can not appreciate the natural exuberance of youth."

  The marquis fumbled at his lips.

  "Surely, Monsieur," went on the Chevalier, the devil of banter in histones, "surely you are not going to preach me a sermon after havingtaught me life from your own book?"

  "Monsieur, attend to me. You have disappointed me in a hundred ways."

  "What! have I not proved an apt scholar? Have I not succeeded in beingwritten in Rochelle as a drunkard and a gamester? Perhaps I have notconcerned myself sufficiently with women? Ah well, Monsieur, I am youngyet; there is still time to make me totally hateful, not only to others,but to myself."

  All these replies, which passed above and below the marquis's guard,pierced the quick; and the marquis, whose impulse had been good, butwhose approach to the vital point of discussion was without tact, beganto lose patience; and a cold anger awoke in his eyes.

  "Monsieur le Comte," he said, rising, "I have summoned you here todiscuss not the past, but the future." He was quite as tall as his son,but gaunt and with loosely hanging clothes.

  "The future?" said the Chevalier. "Best assured, Monsieur, that youshall have no hand in mine."

  "Be not too certain of that," replied the marquis, his lips parting inthat chilling smile with which he had formerly greeted opponents on thefield of honor. "And, after all, you might have the politeness toremember that I am, whatever else, still your father."

  The Chevalier bowed ironically. Had he been less drunk he would haveread the warning which lay in his father's eyes, now brilliant with thespirit of conflict. But he rushed on to his doom, as it was written heshould. Paris was in his mind, Paris and mademoiselle, whose letter laywarm against his heart. He turned to his mother's portrait, and againbowed, sweeping the floor with the plume of his hat.

  "Madame, yours was a fortunate escape. Would that I had gone with you onthe journey. Have you a spirit? Well, then, observe me; note the bisterabout my eyes, the swollen lips, the shaking hand. 'Twa
s a lesson Ilearned some years ago from Monsieur le Marquis, your husband, my father.You, Madame, died at my birth, therefore I have known no mother. Am I adrunkard, a wine-bibber, a roisterer by night? Say then, who taught me?Before I became of age my foolish heart was filled with love which mustspend itself upon something. I offered this love, filial and respectful,to Monsieur le Marquis. Madame, the bottle was more responsive to thisoutburst of generous youth than Monsieur le Marquis, to whom I was aliving plaything, a clay which he molded as a pastime--too readily, alas!And now, behold! he speaks of respect. It would be droll if it were notsad. True, he gave me gold; but he also taught me how to use thisdevil-key which unlocks the pathways of the world, wine-cellars andwomen's hearts. Respect? Has he ever taken me by the hand as naturalfathers take their sons, and asked me to be his comrade? Has he evertaught me to rise to heights, to scorn the petty forms and molds of life?Have I not been as the captive eagle, drawn down at every flight? Andfor this . . . respect? Oh, Madame, scarcely! And often I thought ofthe happiness of beholding my father depending on me in his old age!"

  "You thought that, Monsieur?" interrupted the marquis, his eyes losingsome of their metallic hardness. "You thought that?" What irony lay inthe taste of this knowledge!

  "Monsieur," said the Chevalier with drunken asperity, "permit me to saythat you are interrupting a fine apostrophe! . . . And as a culmination,he would have me wed the daughter of your mortal enemy, his mistress! Itis some mad dream, Madame; we shall soon awake."

  "Even immediately," replied the marquis calmly. The Chevalier hadsnuffed more than candles this night. He had snuffed also the belatedpaternal spark of affection which had suddenly kindled in his father'sbreast. "Your apostrophe, as you are pleased to term the maudlin talk ofa drunken fool, is being addressed to my wife."

  "Well?" insolently.

  "Your mother, while worthy and beautiful, was not sufficiently noble tomerit Rubens's brush. It is to be regretted, but I never had a portraitof your mother."

  The roisterers burst into song again . . . .

  "_When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe With a Bacchante's love for a Bacchic brew!_"

  How this rollicking song penetrated the ominous silence which hadsuddenly filled the salon! The Chevalier grew rigid.

  "What did I understand you to say, Monsieur?" with an unnatural quietnesswhich somewhat confused the marquis.

  "I said that I never had a portrait of your mother. Is that explicitenough? Yonder Rubens was my wife." The marquis spoke lightly. Thetone hid well the hot wrath which for the moment obliterated his sense oftruth and justice, two qualities the importance of which he had nevertill now forgotten. He watched the effect of this terrible thrust, andwith monstrous satisfaction he saw the shiver which took his son in itschilling grasp and sent him staggering back. "Then you return to Paristo-morrow? . . . to be the Chevalier du Cevennes till the end? Ah well!"How often man over-reaches himself in the gratification of an ignoblerevenge! "We all have our pastimes," went on the marquis, deepening theabyss into which he was finally to fall. "You were mine. I had intendedto send you about some years ago; but I was lonely, and there wassomething in your spirit which amused me. You tickled my fancy. Butnow, I am weary; the pastime palls; you no longer amuse."

  The Chevalier stood in the midst of chaos. He was experiencing thatfrightful plunge of Icarus, from the clouds to the sea. He was falling,falling. When one falls from a great height, when waters rollthunderously over one's head, strange and significant fragments of lifepass and repass the vision. And at this moment there flashed across theChevalier's brain, indistinctly it is true, the young Jesuit's words,spoken at the Silver Candlestick in Paris. . . . "An object of scorn,contumely, and forgetfulness; to dream what might and should have been;to be proved guilty of a crime we did not commit; to be laughed at!"Spots of red blurred his sight; his nails sank into his palms; his breathcame painfully; there was a straining at the roots of his hair.

  "Monsieur," he cried hoarsely, "take care! Are you not telling me somedreadful lie?"

  "It would be . . . . scarcely worth while." The marquis controlled hisagitation by gently patting the gold knob on his stick. His gazewandered, seeking to rest upon some object other than his son. The firstblinding heat of passion had subsided, and in the following haze he sawthat he had committed a wrong which a thousand truths might not whollyefface. And yet he remained silent, obdurate: so little a thing as aword or the lack of it has changed the destinies of empires and of men.

  A species of madness seized the Chevalier. With a fierce gesture he drewhis sword. For a moment the marquis thought that he was about to beimpaled upon it; but he gave no sign of fear. Presently the sworddeviated from its horizontal line, declined gradually till the pointtouched the floor. The Chevalier leaned upon it, swaying slightly. Hiseyes burned like opals.

  "No, Monsieur, no! I will let you live, to die of old age, alone, insilence, surrounded by those hideous phantoms which the approach of deathcreates from ill-spent lives. Since you have taught me that there is noGod, I shall not waste a curse upon you for this wrong. Think not thatthe lust to kill is gone; no, no; but I had rather let you live to die inbed. So! I have been your pastime? I have now ceased to amuseyou? . . . . as my mother, whoever she may be, ceased to amuse?" Hissardonian laugh chilled the marquis in the marrow. "And I have spentyour gold, thinking it lawfully mine? . . . lorded over your broad lands,believing myself to be heir to them? . . . been Monsieur le Comte thisand Monsieur le Comte that? How the gods must have laughed as I walkedforth among the great, arrogant in my pride of birth and riches! Poorfool! Surely, Monsieur, it must be as you say: Heaven and hell are ofour own contriving. Poor fool! And I have held my head so high, facedthe world so fearlessly and contemptuously! . . . to find that I am this,this! My God, Monsieur, but you have stirred within me all the hate, thelust to kill, the gall of envy and despair! But live," his madnessincreasing; "live to die in bed, no kin beside you, not even theadministering hand of a friendly priest to alleviate the horror of yourdeath-bed! God! do men go mad this way?"

  The marquis was trembling violently. Words thronged to his lips, only tobe crushed back by the irony of fate. For a little he would have flunghimself at his son's feet. He had lied, lied, lied! What could he say?His tongue lay hot against the palate, paralyzed. His brain wasconfused, dazzled, incoherent.

  "And now for these sponging fools who call themselves my friends!" TheChevalier staggered off toward the dining-hall, from whence still camethe rollicking song. . . . It was all so incongruous; it was all so likea mad dream.

  "What are you going to do?" cried the marquis, a vague terror lending himspeech. "I have lied . . ."

  "What! have you turned coward, too? What am I going to do? Patience,Monsieur, and you will see." The Chevalier flung apart the doors. Hisroistering friends greeted his appearance with delight. "A toast,Messieurs!" he cried, flourishing his sword.

  Only the Vicomte d'Halluys and Victor saw that something unusual hadtaken place.

  "Your friend," whispered the vicomte, "appears to be touched with apassing madness. Look at his eyes."

  "What has happened?" murmured Victor, setting down his glass.

  "Bah! Monsieur le Marquis has stopped the Chevalier's allowance;" andthe vicomte sighed regretfully. From where he sat he could see the grim,motionless figure of the marquis, standing with his back to the fire.

  "Fill up the goblets, Messieurs; to the brim!" The Chevalier stumbledamong the fallen bottles. He reached the head of the table. Feverishlyhe poured out a glass of wine, spilling part of it. With a laugh heflung the bottle to the floor. "Listen!" with a sweeping glance whichtook in every face. "To Monsieur le Marquis, my noble father! Up, up!"waving his rapier. Yes, madness was in his eyes; it bubbled and frothedin his veins, burned and cracked his lips. "It is droll! Up, youbeggars! . . . up, all of you! You, Vicomte; you, Saumaise! Drink tothe marquis, the noble marquis, the pious marquis, wh
o gives to theChurch! Drink it, you beggars; drink it, I say!" The sword-blade rangon the table.

  "To the marquis!" cried the drunkards in chorus. They saw nothing; allwas dead within, save appetite.

  "Ah, that is well! Listen. All this about you will one day be mine?Ah! I shall be called Monsieur le Marquis; I shall possess famouschateaux and magnificent hotels? Fools! 'twas all a lie! I who was amnot. I vanish from the scene like a play-actor. Drink it, you beggars!Drink it, you wine-bibbers! Drink it, you gamesters, you hunters ofwomen! Drink to me, the marquis's . . . bastard!"

  Twelve glasses hung in mid air; twelve faces were transfixed with horrorand incredulity; twelve pairs of eyes stared stupidly at the madtoast-master. In the salon the marquis listened with eyes distended,with jaw fallen, lips sunken inward and of a color as sickly as bluechalk. . . . A maudlin sob caught one roisterer by the throat, and thetableau was broken by the falling of his glass to the table, where it layshattered in foaming wine.

  "Paul," cried Victor; "my God, Paul, are you mad?"

  "I know you not." Then with a sudden wave of disgust, the Chevaliercried: "Now, one and all of you, out of my sight! Away with you! Youlook too hardily at the brand of pleasure on my brow. Out, you beggars,sponges and cheats! Out, I say! Back to the devil who spawned you!" Hedrove them forth with the flat of his sword. He saw nothing, heardnothing, knew nothing save that he was mad, possessed of a capitalfrenzy, the victim of some frightful dream; save that he saw throughblood, that the lust to kill, to rend, and to destroy was on him. Theflat of his sword fell rudely but impartially.

  Like a pack of demoralized sheep the roisterers crowded and pressed intothe hall. The vicomte turned angrily and attempted to draw his sword.

  "Fool!" cried Victor, seizing the vicomte's hand; "can you not see thathe is mad? He would kill you!"

  "Curse it, he is striking me with his sword!"

  "He is mad!"

  "Well, well, Master Poet; I can wait. What a night!"

  It had ceased snowing; the world lay dimly white. The roisterers flockeddown the steps to the street. One fell into a drift and lay theresobbing.

  "What now?" asked the vicomte.

  "I am sorry," said the inebriate.

  "The devil! The Chevalier has a friend here," laughed the vicomte,assisting the roisterer to his feet. "Come along, Saumaise."

  "I shall wait."

  "As you please;" and the vicomte continued on.

  Victor watched them till they dwindled into the semblance of so manyravens. He rubbed his fevered face with snow, and waited.

  Meantime the Chevalier returned to the table. "Drink, you beggars;drink, I say!" The sword swept the table, crashing among the bottles andglasses and candlesticks, "Take the news to Paris, fools! Spell itlargely! It will amuse the court. Drink, drink, drink!" Wine bubbledand ran about the table; candles sputtered and died; still the sword roseand fell. Then came silence, broken only by heavy breathing and theticking of the clock in the salon. The Chevalier sat crouched in hischair, his arm and sword resting on the table where they had at lengthfallen.

  The marquis recovered from his stupor. He hurried toward thedining-hall, fumbling his lips, mumbling incoherent sentences. He cameto a stand on the threshold.

  "Blundering fool," he cried passionately, "what have you said and done?"

  At the sound of his father's voice, the Chevalier's rage returned; but itwas a cold rage, actionless.

  "What have I done? I have written it large, Monsieur, that I am onlyyour poor bastard. How Paris will laugh!" He gazed around, dimly notingthe havoc. He rose, the sword still in his grasp. "What! the marquis somany times a father, to die without legal issue?"

  The marquis raised his cane to strike, so great was his passion andchagrin; but palsy seized his arm.

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

  "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. Hecast it contemptuously at his father's feet.

  "The last of the gold you gave me. Now, Monsieur, listen. I shall neveragain cross the threshold of any house of yours; never again shall I lookupon your face, nor hear with patience your name spoken. In spite of allyou 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 becomewhat 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 itsscabbard, and locking his arm in his friend's, the two walked in silencetoward the Corne d'Abondance.

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

  "Fool!" he cried, seeing himself alone and the gift of prescienceforetelling that he was to be henceforth and forever alone,--"senilefool! Dotard!" He beat about with his cane even as the Chevalier hadbeaten about with his sword. "Double fool! to lose him for the sake of alie, a damnable lie, and the lack of courage to own to it!" A Venetianmirror caught his attention. He stood before it, and seeing hisreflection 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 truthand 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 thestaircase. "Monsieur le Comte has left this house for good and all, sohe 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 timereached 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 astonishedlackey staring at the vanishing point. He saw the ruin and desolation inthe dining-hall, from which arose the odor of stale wine and smoke.

  "Mother of Jesus! What has happened?"