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

"Her Majesty's confessor?"

"Yes."

"You are a Jesuit?"

"I have the happiness to serve G.o.d in that order. I have just presented my respects to her Majesty and Cardinal Mazarin. I am come from America, my son, to see his Eminence in regard to the raising of funds for some new missions we have in mind; but I have been indifferently successful, due possibly to my lack of eloquence and to the fact that my superior, Father Chaumonot, was unable to accompany me to Paris. I shall meet him in Rouen."

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

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

The Chevalier laughed pleasantly. "Pardon my irrelevancy, but I confess that it excites my amus.e.m.e.nt to be called 'son' by one who can not be older than myself."

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

"Well, I am thirty, myself," said the Chevalier with a.s.sumed lightness.

"I am neither young nor old. I stand on the threshold. I can not say that I have suffered since I have known only physical discomforts. But to call me 'son' . . ."

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

"That is true." How familiar this priest's eyes were! "But some are rich and some are poor; beggars and thieves and cutthroats; n.o.bly and basely born."

The Jesuit gazed thoughtfully into his bowl. "Yes, some are n.o.bly and some are basely born. I have often contemplated what a terrible thing it 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, an object of scorn, contumely and forgetfulness; to be cut away from the love of women and the affection of men, the two strongest of human ties; to dream what might and should have been; to be proved guilty of a crime we did not commit; to be laughed at, to beg futilely, always subject to that mental conflict between love and hate, charity and envy. Yes; I can think of nothing which stabs so deeply as the finger of ridicule, unmerited. I am not referring to the children of kings, but to the forgotten by the lesser n.o.bility."

His voice had risen steadily, losing its music but gaining a thrilling intenseness. Strange words for a priest, thought the Chevalier, who had spoken with irony aforethought. Glories of the world, the love of women; did not all priests forswear these? Perhaps his eyes expressed his 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 spiritual diseases in order to apply a remedy."

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

"Yes; G.o.d 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, strangely subdued.

"I am Father Jacques, _protege_ of the kindly Chaumonot. But I am known 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, in her Majesty's Guards."

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

"So it is. I was born in that region, and it pleased me to bear Cevennes as a name of war. I possess a t.i.tle, but I do not a.s.sume it; I simply draw its revenues." The Chevalier scowled at his buckles, as if some disagreeable thought had come to him.

The priest remarked the change in the soldier's voice; it had grown harsh and repellent. "Monsieur, I proceed from Rouen to Roch.e.l.le; are you familiar with that city?"

"Roch.e.l.le? Oh, indifferently."

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

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

"It is said that while he is a bad Catholic, he is generous in his charities. Father Chaumonot and I intend to apply to him for a.s.sistance. Mazarin has not been very liberal. Ah, how little they dream of the length and breadth and riches of this France across the sea! Monsieur le Marquis is rich?"

"Rich; but a bad Catholic truly." The Chevalier laughed without merriment. "The marquis and charity? Why not oil and water? They mix equally well."

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

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

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

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

"Pardon me!" Brother Jacques made a gesture of humility. He rolled the bread crumbs into a ball which he dropped into the bowl. Presently he pushed aside the bowl and rose, his long black ca.s.sock falling to his ankles. He drew his rosary through his belt and put on his shovel-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 I stood but poorly. Well, my brother, I am outward bound, and Rouen is far away. The night is beautiful, for the wind will drive away the snow-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 rode away, caring as little as the Chevalier whether or not their paths should cross again.

"Monsieur le Marquis!" murmured the Chevalier, staring at the empty bowl. "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 something that 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 of annoyance. 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.