"Monsieur, do you know me?"

"Why, yes, Jehan."

"Brother Jacques and Monsieur le Comte returned this day from the

wilderness. I have seen them."

The marquis's hands became still. "Pride has filled my path with black

pits. Jehan, after all, was it a dream?"

"What, Monsieur?"

"That duel with D'Hérouville"

"It was no dream, Monsieur."

"That is well. I should, like to see Monsieur le Comte. He must be a

man now."

"I will call him."

"Presently, presently. He forgave me. Only, I should like to have him

know that my lips lied when I turned him away. Brother Jacques; he

will satisfy my curiosity in the matter of absolution. Death? I never

feared it; I do not now. However, I leave with some regret; there were

things which I appreciated not in my pursuit of pleasure. Ah well, to

die in bed, Jehan, was not among my calculations. But human

calculations never balance in the sum total. I have dropped a figure

on the route, somewhere, and my account is without head or tail. I

recall a letter on the table. See if it is there, Jehan."

Jehan searched and found a letter under a book.

"What does it say?"

"'To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at

my death'," Jehan read.

"From . . . from my son?"

"I do not know, Monsieur."

"Open it and read it."

"It is in Latin, Monsieur, a language unknown to me," Jehan carefully

explained.

"Give it to me;" but the marquis's fingers trembled and shook and his

eyes stared in vain. "My eyes have failed me, too. I can not

distinguish one letter from another. Give it to Brother Jacques when

he comes. He is a priest; they all read Latin."

"Then I shall send for him and Monsieur le Comte?"

"Wait till I am sure that I can stand the sight of him. Is Sister

Benie without? Call her. She quiets me. Brother Jacques may come in

half an hour; after him, Monsieur le Comte. I wish to have done with

all things and die in peace."

So Jehan went in search of Sister Benie. When she came in her angelic

face was as white as the collaret which encircled her throat, and the

scar was more livid than usual. Alas, the marquis's mind had gone

a-wandering again: the coal dimmed. She put her hand on his brow to

still the wagging head.

"It was so long ago, Margot," he babbled. "It was all a mistake. . . .

A fool plunges into all follies, but a wise man avoids what he can. I

have been both the wise man and the fool. . . . And I struck you

across the face with the lash? Ah, the poor scar!" He touched the

scar with his hand, and she wavered. "I loved you. It is true. I did

not know it then. You are dead, and you know that I loved you. Do you

think the lad has really forgiven me for what I have done to him? . . .

I am weary of the contest; Death sits on his horse outside the door."




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