For two weeks Brother Jacques lay silent on his cot; lay with an apathy

which alarmed the good brothers of the Order. He spoke to no one, and

no sound swerved his dull gaze from the whitewashed ceiling of his

little room in the college. Only one man could solve the mystery of

this apathy, the secret of this insensibility, and his lips were sealed

as securely as the door of a donjon-keep: Jehan. Not even the

Chevalier could gather a single ray of light from the grim old valet.

He was silence itself.

Two weeks, and then Brother Jacques rose, put on his gown and his

rosary and his shovel-shaped hat. The settlers, soldiers, trappers and

seigneurs saw him walk alone, day after day, along the narrow winding

streets, his chin in his collar, his shoulders stooped, his hands

clasped behind his back. It was only when some child asked him for a

blessing that he raised his eyes and smiled. Sometimes the snow beat

down upon him with blinding force and the north winds cut like the lash

of the Flagellants. He heeded not; winter set no chill upon his flesh.

One morning he resolved to go forth upon his expiation. He made up his

pack quietly. Drawn by an irresistible, occult force, he wandered into

the room of the château where the tragedy had occurred. . . . The

letter! He felt in the pocket of his gown. He drew a stool to the

window which gave upon the balcony overlooking the lower town and the

river, and sat down.

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

my death."

He eyed the address, undecided. He was weighing the advisability of

letting the Chevalier read it first. And yet he had an equal right to

the reading. He sighed, drew forth the contents and read . . . read

with shaking hands, read with terror, amazement, exultation, belief and

unbelief. He rose quickly; the room, it was close; he breathed with

difficulty. And the marquis had requested that he read it! Irony! He

had taken it up in his hands twice, and had not known! Irony, irony,

irony! He opened the window and stepped out upon the balcony. Above

the world, half hidden under the spotless fleece of winter, a white sun

shone in a pallid sky.

Brother Jacques's skin was transparent, his hair was patched with grey,

his eyes were hollow, but at this moment his mien was lordly. His pack

lay on the floor beyond, forgotten. With his head high, his nostrils

wide, his arms pressing his sides and his hands clenched, he looked

toward France. The smoke, curling up from the chimneys below, he saw

not, nor the tree-dotted Isle of Orléans, nor the rolling mainshore

opposite. His gaze in fancy had traversed more than three thousand

miles. He saw a grand château, terraced, with gardens, smooth

driveways, fountains and classic marbles, crisp green hills behind all

these, and a stream of running water.




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