Mass was celebrated, and a strange, rude picture was presented to those
eyes accustomed to the interior of lofty cathedrals: the smoky
lanterns, the squat ceiling, the tawdry woodwork, the kneeling figures
involuntarily jostling one another to the rolling of the ship, the
resonant voice of Father Chaumonot, the frequent glitter of a
breast-plate, a sword-hilt, or a helmet.
The Chevalier knelt, not because he was in sympathy with Chaumonot's
Latin, but because he desired not to be conspicuous. God was not in
his heart save in a shadowy way; rather an infinite weariness, a sense
of drifting blindly, a knowledge of a vague and futile grasping at the
end of things. And winding in and out of all he heard was that
mysterious voice asking: "Whither bound?" Aye, whither bound, indeed!
Visions of golden days flitted across his mind's eye, snatches of his
youth; the pomp and glory of court as he first saw it; the gallant
epoch of the Fronde; the warm sunshine of forgotten summers; and the
woman he loved! . . . The Chevalier was conscious of a pain of
stupendous weight bearing down upon his eyes. Waves of dizziness,
accompanied by flashes of fire, passed to and fro through his aching
head. His tongue was thick and his lips were cracked with fever. It
seemed but a moment gone that he had been shaking with the cold. He
found himself fighting what he supposed to be an attack of seasickness,
but this was not the malady which was seizing him in its pitiless grasp.
Chaumonot's voice rose and fell. Why had the marquis given this man a
thousand livres? What evil purpose lay behind it? The marquis gave to
the Church? He was surprised to find himself struggling against a wild
desire to laugh. Sometimes the voice sounded like thunder in his ears;
anon, it was so far away that he could hear only the echo of it.
Presently the mass came to an end. The worshipers rose by twos and
threes. But the Chevalier remained kneeling. The next roll of the
ship toppled him forward upon his face, where he lay motionless.
Several sprang to his aid, the vicomte and Victor being first.
Together they lifted the Chevalier to his feet, but his knees doubled
up. He was unconscious.
"Paul?" cried Victor in alarm. "He is seasick?" turning anxiously
toward the vicomte.
"This is not seasickness; more likely a reaction. Here comes
Lieutenant Nicot, who has some fame as a leech. He will tell us what
the trouble is."
A hasty examination disclosed that the Chevalier was in the first
stages of brain fever, and he was at once conveyed to his berthroom.
Victor was inconsolable; the vicomte, thoughtful; and even the Comte
d'Hérouville showed some interest.
"What brought this on?" asked Nicot, when the Chevalier was stretched
on his mattress.