"As clear as Monsieur le Cure's emerald. Do you remember how he used to twist it round and round when he visited the chateau? It was a fine ring. The d.u.c.h.esse d'Aiguillon gave it to him, so he used to tell us.

'Twas she who founded the Hotel Dieu at Quebec, where we are going."

"Yes; and in the month of May, which is but a few days off, we used to ride into Cevennes to the mines of porphyry and marbles which . . .

which . . ." Breton stopped, embarra.s.sed.

"Which I used to own," completed the Chevalier. "They were quarries, lad, not mines. 'Golden days, that turn to silver, then to lead,'

writes Victor. Eh, well! Do you know how much longer we are to remain upon this abominable sea? This must be something like the eighteenth of April."

"The voyage has been unusually prosperous, Captain Bouchard says. We sight Acadia in less than twenty days. It will be colder then, for huge icebergs come floating about in the water. We shall undoubtedly reach Quebec by June. The captain says that it is all nonsense about pirates. They never come so far north as this. I wonder if roses grow in this new country? I shall miss the lattice-covered summer-house."

"There will be roses, Breton, but the thorns will be large and fierce.

A month and a half before we reach our destination! It is very long."

"You see, Monsieur, we sail up a river toward the inland seas. If we might sail as we sail here, it would take but a dozen days to pa.s.s Acadia. But they tell me that this river is a strange one. Many rocks infest it, and islands grow up or disappear in a night."

The Chevalier fingered the quilt and said nothing. By and by his eyes closed, and Breton, thinking his master had fallen asleep, again picked up his book. But he could not concentrate his thought upon it. He was continually flying over the sea to old Martin's daughter, to the grey chateau nestling in the green hills. He was not destined long to dream. There was a rap on the door, and Brother Jacques entered.

"My son," he said to Breton, "leave us."

CHAPTER XIII

TEN THOUSAND LIVRES IN A POCKET

The Chevalier, who had merely closed his eyes, opened them and looked up inquiringly. "Breton," he said, "return in half an hour." Breton laid aside his book and departed. "Now, my father and my brother,"

began the Chevalier lightly, "what is it you have to say to me the importance of which necessitates the exclusion of my servant?"

"I wish to do you a service, Monsieur."

"That is kind of you. And what may this service be?"

"A simple warning."

"Ah!"

"The Comte d'Herouville has no love for you."

"Nor I for him." The Chevalier drew the coverlet to his chin and stared through the square port-hole.

"When we land you will still be weak."

"Not so weak that I can not stand."

"All this means that you will fight him?"

"It does."

"A woman?"

"A woman, a vulgar jest and a gla.s.s of wine. Monsieur le Comte and myself have been forbidden to meet under the pain of indefinite imprisonment. Yonder it will be different."

"Mademoiselle de Longueville . . ."

"Has forgotten the incident, as I had, till D'Herouville came on board in search of some woman. Monsieur de Saumaise played him a trick of some kind, and I stepped between."

"Can you be dissuaded?"

"Not the smallest particle. I shall be strong, never fear."

"I am drawn toward you, Monsieur. I am a priest, but I love courage and the unconfused mind which accompanies it. You are a brave man."

"I?" humorously.

"Yes. Who has heard you complain?"

"Against what?" The Chevalier had propped himself on his elbow.

The Jesuit closed his lips and shook his head.

"Against what?" with piercing eyes. "Did I speak strange words when fever moved my tongue?"

"No, Monsieur."

"You have said too much or too little," sharply.

"I have heard of Monsieur d'Herouville; he is not a good man."

"Against what did I not complain?" insistently.

"Against the misfortune which brought you here," lowly.

"You know? . . . From whom?" drawing his tongue across his parched lips.

"I have done wrong to excite you. There were words pa.s.sed to and fro that morning at the Corne d'Abondance. Need I say more? Monsieur de Saumaise knows, and the vicomte; why should you fear me, who have nothing but brotherly love for you?"

"What is your name?" sinking wearily back among the pillows.

"Father Jacques, or Brother Jacques, familiarly."

"I mean your worldly name."

"I have almost forgotten it," evasively.

"You have not always been a priest?"

"Since I was eighteen." Silence. "Have you anything on your mind of which you wish to be relieved?"