The Grey Cloak

"The Chevalier's!" To what did he pretend? "I shall send it back to

his room. Gabrielle, Gabrielle, thou wert a fool, and a fool's folly

has brought you to Quebec! A nun? I should die! Why did I come? In

mercy's name, why? . . . A letter?" An oblong envelope, lying on the

floor, attracted her attention. She took it up with a deal more

curiosity than she had the book. "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny,"

she read, "to be delivered into his hands at my death." She studied

the scrawl. It was not the Chevalier's; and yet, how strangely

familiar to her eyes! Should she send it directly to the marquis or to

the son? She debated for several moments. Then she touched the bell

and summoned the woman whom the governor had kindly placed at her

service.

"Take this book and letter to Monsieur du Cévennes, and if he is not

there, leave it in his room." Her lack of curiosity saved her. Some

women would have opened the letter, read, and been destroyed. But

madame's guiding star was undimmed.

It was just before the evening mess that the Chevalier, on entering his

room, saw the volume and the letter. He gave his attention immediately

to the letter; and, became strangely fascinated. It was addressed to

his father! "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into

his hands at my death." Whose death? The Chevalier rested the letter

on the palm of his hand. How came it here? He inspected the envelope.

It was unsealed. He balanced it, first on one hand, then, on the

other. Was it the wine that caused the shudder? Whose death? kept

ringing through his brain. How the gods must have smiled as they

played with the fate of this man! Terror and tragedy, and only an

opaque sheet of paper between! Whose death? The envelope was old, the

ink was faded. What was written within? Did the contents in any way

concern him? It was within a finger's reach. But he hesitated, as a

blind man hesitates when the guiding hand is suddenly withdrawn. "To

Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at my

death."

"It is his, not mine; let him read it. Breton, lad, here's your

Rabelais, come back I know not how. But here is a letter which you

will deliver to Jehan, who in turn will see that it reaches its owner."

Thus, the gods, having had their fill of play, relented.