The Grey Cloak - Harold MacGrath (smallest ebook reader .txt) 📗

How he envied yon handsome fellow, with his lordly airs, the life he had led and the gold he had spent! And yet . . . Brother Jacques was a hero for all his robes. He cast out envy in the thought, and made his way toward the Chevalier, whose face showed that at this moment he was not very glad to see Brother Jacques.

"My brother, your father is very ill."

"That is possible," said the Chevalier, swinging to the ground. He did not propose to confide any of his thoughts to the priest. "He is old, and is wasteful of his energies."

"Yes, he has wasted his energies; in your cause, Monsieur, remember that. Your father had nothing in common with D'Hérouville. Their paths had never crossed . . . and never will cross again."

The Chevalier kicked the stones impatiently. So Brother Jacques understood why the marquis had fought the Comte d'Hérouville?

"May I be so bold as to ask what took place between you and Monsieur le Marquis on the night of his arrival in Quebec?"

"I must leave you in ignorance," said the Chevalier decisively.

"He may never leave his bed."

The Chevalier bit the ends of his mustache, and remained silent.

"He came a long way to do you a service," continued the priest.

"Who can say as to that? And I do not see that all this particularly concerns you."

"But you will admit that he fought the man who . . . who laughed."

The Chevalier let slip a stirring oath, and the grip he put on the hilt of his sword would have crushed the hand of an average strong man.

"Monsieur, it is true that your father has wronged you, but can you not forgive him?"

The Chevalier stared scowlingly into the Jesuit's eyes. "Would you forgive a father who, as a pastime, had temporarily made you . . . a bastard?"

The priest's shudder did not escape the searching eyes of the Chevalier. "Ha! I thought not. Do not expect me, a worldly man, to do what you, a priest, shrink from."

"Do not put me in your place. Monsieur. I would forgive him had he done to me what he has done to you."

The Chevalier saw no ambiguity. "That is easily said. You are a priest, I am a worldling; what to you would mean but little, to me would be the rending of the core of life. My father can not undo what he has done; he can not piece together and make whole the wreck he has made of my life."

"Have you no charity?" persuasively.

The Chevalier spread his hands in negation. He was growing restive.

"Will you let me teach you?" Brother Jacques was expiating the sin of envy.

"You may teach, but you will find me somewhat dull in learning."

"Do you know what charity is?"

"It is a fine word, covered with fine clothes, and goes about in pomp and glitter. It builds in the abstract: telescopes for the blind, lutes for the deaf, flowers for the starved. Bah! charity has had little bearing on my life."

"Listen," said Brother Jacques; "of all God's gifts to men, charity is the largest. To recognize a sin in oneself and to forgive it in another because we possess it, that is charity. Charity has no balances like justice; it weighs neither this nor that. Its heart has no secret chambers; every door will open for the knocking. Mercy is justice modified. Charity forgives where justice punishes and mercy condones. Your bitter words were directed against philanthropy, not charity. Shall an old man's repentance knock at the heart of his son and find not charity there?"

"Repentance?" So this thought was not alone his?

"You will forgive him, Monsieur . . . my brother."

The Chevalier shook his head. "Not to-day nor to-morrow."

"You will not let him of your blood go down to the grave unforgiven; not when he offered this blood to avenge an insult given to you. The reparation he has made is the best he knows. Only forgive him and let him die in peace. He is proud, but he is ill. To this hour he believes that terrible struggle to be but a dream; but even the dream brings him comfort. He is seventy; he is old. You take the first step; come with me. Through all your life you will look back upon this hour with happiness. Whatever the parent's fault may be, there is always the duty of the child toward that parent. You will forgive him."

"But if I go to him without forgiveness in my heart; if only my lips speak?"

"It is in your heart; you have only to look for it."

"Ah well, I will go with you. It is a cup of gall to drink, but I will drink it. If he is dying . . . Well, I will play the part; but God is witness that there is no charity in my heart, nor forgiveness, for he has wilfully spoiled my life."

So the two men moved off toward the marquis's bed-chamber.

"You remain in the hall, Monsieur," said the priest, "till I call you." But as he entered the chamber he purposely left open the door so that the Chevalier might hear what passed.

"Ah! it is you," said the marquis. "Let me thank you for bringing that nurse."

"Sister Benie?"

"Yes. You do not know, then, from what family she originated?"

"No, Monsieur."

"Who knows?"

"The Mother Superior. Monsieur, I have news for you. I bring you peace."

"Peace?"

"Yes. Monsieur, your son is willing to testify that he forgives you the wrong you have done him."

The marquis shook as with ague and drew the coverlet to his chin. A minute went by, and another. The Chevalier listened, waiting for his father's voice to break the silence. After all, he could forgive.

"Have you anything to say, Monsieur ?" asked Brother Jacques.

The marquis stirred and drew his hand across his lips. "Where is Monsieur le Comte?"

"He is waiting in the hall. Shall I call . . . ?"

"Wait!" interrupted the marquis. Presently he cleared his throat and said in a thin, dry voice: "Tell Monsieur le Comte for me that I am sleeping and may not be disturbed."

"Monsieur," said Jehan that night, "pardon, but do you ever . . . do you ever think of Margot Bourdaloue?"

The marquis raised himself as though to hurl a curse at his luckless servant. But all he said was; "Sometimes, Jehan, sometimes!"


CHAPTER XXV

OF ORIOLES AND WOMAN'S PREROGATIVES

"Tell Monsieur le Comte for me that I am sleeping and may not be disturbed!"

All through the long night the marquis's thin, piercing voice rang in the Chevalier's ears, and rang with sinister tone. He could find no ease upon his pillow, and he stole quietly forth into the night. He wandered about the upper town, round the cathedral, past the Ursulines, under the frowning walls of the citadel, followed his shadow in the moonlight and went before it. Those grim words had severed the last delicate thread which bound father and son. To have humiliated himself! To have left open in his armor a place for such a thrust! He had gone with charity and forgiveness, to be repulsed! He had held forth his hand, to find the other's withdrawn!

"Tell Monsieur le Comte for me that I am sleeping and may not be disturbed!"

Mockery! And yet this same father had taken up the sword to drive it through a man who had laughed. Only God knew; for neither the son understood the father nor the father the son. Well, so be it. He was now without weight upon his shoulders; he was conscience free; he had paid his obligations, obligations far beyond his allotted part. It was inevitable that their paths should separate. There had been too many words; there was still too much pride.

"Tell Monsieur le Comte for me that I am sleeping and may not be disturbed!"

He had stood there in the corridor and writhed as this blade entered his soul and turned and turned. Rage and chagrin had choked him, leaving him utterly speechless. So be it. Forevermore it was to be the house divided. . . . It was after two o'clock when the Chevalier went back to his bed. The poet was in slumber, and his face looked careworn in repose.

"Poor lad! He is not happy, either. Only the clod knows content as a recompense for his poverty. Good night, Madame; to-morrow, to-morrow, and we shall see!"

And the morrow came, the rarest gem in all the diadem of days. There was a ripple on the water; a cloudless sky; fields of corn waving their tasseled heads and the broad leaf of the tobacco plant trembling, trembling.

"What!" cried Victor in surprise; "you have a new feather in your hat?"

"Faith, lad," said the Chevalier, "the old plume was a shabby one. But I have not destroyed it; too many fond remembrances cling to it. How often have I doffed that plume at court, in the gardens, on the balconies and on the king's highways! And who would suspect, to look at it now, that it had ever dusted the mosaics at the Vatican? And there have been times when I flung it on the green behind the Luxembourg, my doublet beside it."

"Ah, yes; we used to have an occasional affair." And Victor nodded as one who knew the phrase. "But a new feather here? Who will notice it? Pray, glance at this suit of mine! I give it one month's service, and then the Indian's clout. I can't wear those skins. Pah!"

"Examine this feather," the Chevalier requested.

"White heron, as I live! You are, then, about to seek the war-path?" laughing.

"Or the path which leads to it. I am going a-courting."

"Ah!"

"Yes. Heigho! How would you like a pheasant, my poet, and a bottle of Mignon's bin of '39?"

"Paris!" Victor smacked his lips drolly.

"Or a night at Voisin's, with dice and the green board?"

"Paris!"

"Or a romp with the girls along the quays?"

"Horns of Panurge! I like this mood."

"It's a man's mood. I am thinking of the château of oak and maple I shall some day build along some river height. What a fireplace I shall have, and what cellars! Somehow, Paris no longer calls to me."

"To me," said the poet, "it is ever calling, calling. Shall I see my beloved Paris again? Who can say?"

"Mazarin will not live forever."

"But here it is so lonesome; a desert. And you will make a fine seigneur, you with your fastidious tastes, love of fine clothes and music. Look at yourself now! A silk shirt in tatters, tawdry