At his elbow stood a small Turkish table on which were a Venetian bell

and a light repast, consisting of a glass of weakened canary and a

plate of biscuits spread sparingly with honey. Presently the marquis

drank the wine and struck the bell. Jehan, the marquis's aged valet,

entered soon after with a large candelabrum of wax candles. This he

placed on the mantel. Even with this additional light, the other end

of the salon remained in semi-darkness. Only the dim outline of the

grand staircase could be seen.

Over the mantel the portrait of a woman stood out clearly and

definitely. It represented Madame la Marquise at twenty-two, when

Marie de Médicis had commanded the young Rubens to paint the portrait

of one of the few women who had volunteered to share her exile. Madame

lived to be only twenty-four, happily.

"Jehan, light the chandelier," said the marquis. His voice, if high,

was still clear and strong. "Has Monsieur le Comte ventured forth in

this storm?"

"Yes, Monsieur; but he left word that he would return later with a

company of friends."

"Friends?" The marquis shrugged. "Is that what he calls them? When do

these grasping Jesuits visit me?"

"At eight, Monsieur. They are due this moment, unless they have failed

to make the harbor."

"And they bring the savage? Good. He will interest me, and I am dying

of weariness. I shall see a man again. Arrange some chairs next to

me, bring a bottle of claret, and a thousand livres from the steward's

chest. And listen, Jehan, let Monsieur le Comte's servant give orders

to the butler for his master. I forbid you to do it."

"Yes, Monsieur," and Jehan proceeded to light the chandelier, the

illumination of which brought out distinctly the tarnished splendor of

the salon. Jehan retired.

The marquis, to steady his teetering head, rested his chin on his

hands, which were clasped over the top of his walking-stick.

Occasionally his eyes roved to the portrait of his wife, and a

melancholy, unreadable smile broke the severe line of his lips.

"A beautiful woman," he mused aloud, "though she did not inspire me

with love. Beauty: that is the true religion, that is the shrine of

worship, as the Greeks understood it; beauty of woman. Woman was born

to express beauty, man to express strength. We detest weakness in a

man, and a homely woman is a crime. And so De Brissac passed

violently? And his oaths of vengeance were breaths on a mirror. Ah

well, I had ceased to hate him these twenty years. Did he love yonder

woman, or was his fancy like mine, ephemeral? And he married

Mademoiselle de Montbazon? That is droll, a kind of tentative

vengeance."

His eyes closed and he fell into a dreaming state. Like all men who

have known eventful but useless lives, the marquis lived in the past.

The future held for him nothing cut pain and death, and his thought

seldom went forth to meet it. Day after day he sat alone with his

souvenirs, unmindful of the progress about him, indifferent.




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