"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?"