The Grey Cloak

"It is true," she said brokenly. "You had a wicked heart, Monsieur.

You, you have brought about all this misery. You have wantonly cast a

shadow upon my life."

"Have I done that? Well, that is something . . . something."

"I forgive you."

"Eh? I am growing deaf!" He reeled toward the door, and the men made

way for him. "I am growing blind, besides." He braced himself against

the jamb of the door. "My faith! it is a pretty world. . . . I regret

to leave it." He stared across the lake, but he could see nothing. A

page of his youth came back.

"Monsieur," said Chaumonot, "you have many sins upon your soul. Shall

I give you absolution?"

"Absolution?" The vicomte's lips grimaced; it might have been an

attempt to smile. "Absolution for me? Where is Brother Jacques? That

would be droll. . . . Those eyes! Absolution? That for your heaven,"

snapping his fingers, "and that for your hell. I know. It is all

silence. There is nothing. I wonder. . . ." His knees suddenly

refused to support the weight of his body. He raised himself upon his

hands. The trees were merging together; the lake was red and blurred.

"Gabrielle, Gabrielle, I loved you after my own fashion! . . . The

devil take that grey cloak!" And the vicomte's lawless soul went forth.

The men took the three bodies and placed them in the canoes. They were

somewhat rough with the vicomte's.

"Gently, my brothers," said Nicot. "He was a rascal, but he was a man."

Madame and the Chevalier were alone. To both of them it seemed as

though years had passed. Madame was weary. She would have liked to

lie down and sleep . . . forever. The Chevalier brushed his eyes. He

was a man. Weeping over death and in pity was denied him. At present

he was incapable of accepting the full weight of the catastrophe. His

own agony was too recent. Everything was vague and dreamy. His head

ached painfully from the blow he had received in the fight.

"What did he do to you?" he asked, scarce knowing what he said.

"He kissed me; kissed me on the mouth, Monsieur." She wiped her lips

again. "It is of no use. It will always be there."

"You are Madame de Brissac?"

"Yes." The hopelessness of her tone chilled him.

"And you loved Victor?"

Her head drooped. She was merely tired; but he accepted this as an

affirmative answer.

"It would have been well, Madame, had I died in his place."

"Let us go," she said; "they are calling."

That was all.

Victor lay in the living-room of the fort. A shroud covered all but

his face. A little gold crucifix, belonging to Father Chaumonot, lay

against his lips. Candles burned at his head and at his feet. There

was quiet in his breast, peace on his boyish face.