"That is true." How familiar this priest's eyes were! "But some are

rich and some are poor; beggars and thieves and cutthroats; nobly and

basely born."

The Jesuit gazed thoughtfully into his bowl. "Yes, some are nobly 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 nobility."

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; God 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, protégé 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 Cévennes, under De Guitaut, in

her Majesty's Guards."

"Cévennes?" 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

Cévennes as a name of war. I possess a title, but I do not assume 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 Rochelle; are

you familiar with that city?"

"Rochelle? Oh, indifferently."

The Jesuit plucked at his lips for a space, as if hesitant to break the

silence. "Have you ever heard of the Marquis de Périgny?"




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