"Monsieur," laughing rudely, "you are, and always will be, the keenest
wit in France!"
"I am an old man," softly. "It is something to acknowledge that I did
you a wrong."
"You have brought the certificate of my birth?" bluntly.
"I searched for it, but unfortunately I could not find it;" and a
shadow of worry crossed the marquis's face. For the first time in his
life he became conscious of incompleteness, of having missed something
in the flight. "I have told you the truth. I can say no more. I had
some hope that we might stand again upon the old footing."
"I shall not even visit your grave."
"I might turn over, it is true," a flare in the grey eyes. "And, after
all, I have a heart."
"Good heaven! Monsieur, your mind wanders!" the Chevalier exclaimed.
The marquis swept the salt from the table. The movement was not
impatient; rather resigned. "There is nothing more to be said. You
may go. Our paths shall not cross again."
The Chevalier bowed, turned, and walked toward the door through which
he had entered. He stopped at the threshold and looked back. The grey
eyes met grey eyes; but the son's burned with hate. The marquis,
listening, heard the soft pat of moccasined feet. He was alone. He
scowled, but not with anger. The chill of stone lay upon his flesh.
"It is my blood," he mused; "my blood and hers: mine the pride of the
brain, hers the pride of the heart. I have lost something; what is
it?" He slid forward in his chair, his head sunk between his shoulders.
Thus the governor, returning, found him.
As for the Chevalier, on leaving his father he had a vague recollection
of passing into one of the council chambers, attracted possibly by the
lights. Tumult was in his heart, chaos in his brain; rage and
exultation, unbelief and credulity. He floated, drifted, dreamed. His
father! It was so fantastic. That cynical, cruel old man here in
Quebec!--to render common justice! . . . A lie! He had lied, then,
that mad night? There was a ringing in the Chevalier's ears and a
blurring in his eyes. He raised his clenched hands, only to drop them
limply, impotently. All these months wasted, all these longings and
regrets for nothing, all this suffering to afford Monsieur le Marquis
the momentary pleasure of seeing his own flesh and blood writhe! Hate.
As hot lead sinks into the flesh, so this word sank into the
Chevalier's soul, blotting out charity and forgiveness. Forgive? His
laughter rang out hard and sinister. Only God could forgive such a
wrong. How that wrinkled face roused the venom in his soul! Was the
marquis telling the truth? Had he lied? Was not this the culmination
of the series of tortures the marquis had inflicted upon him all these
years: to let him fly once more, only to drag him down into swallowing
mire from which he might never rise? And yet . . . if it were
true!--and the pall of shame and ignominy were lifted! The Chevalier
grew faint.