The Grey Cloak

For more than half an hour the marquis barred from his sight the scene

surrounding, and wandered in familiar green fields where a certain

mill-stream ran laughing to the sobbing sea; closed his ears to the

shouts of laughter and snatches of ribald song, to hear again the

nightingale, the stir of grasses under foot, the thrilling sweetness of

the voice he loved. When he recovered from his dream he was surprised to

find that he had caught the angle of his wife's eyes, those expressive

and following eyes which Rubens left to posterity; and he saw in them

something which was new-born: reproach.

"Yes," said the marquis, as if replying to this spirit of reproach; "yes,

if there be souls, yours must hover about me in reproach; reproach not

without its irony and gladness; for you see me all alone, Madame,

unloved, unrespected, declining and forgotten. But I offer no complaint;

only fools and hypocrites make lamentation. And I am less to this son of

yours than the steward who reckons his accounts. Where place the blame?

Upon these shoulders, Madame, stooped as you in life never saw them. I

knew not, conceited gallant that I was, that beauty and strength were

passing gifts. What nature gives she likewise takes away. Who would

have dreamed that I should need an arm to lean on? Not I, Madame! What

vanity we possess when we lack nothing! . . ."

From the dining-hall there came distinctly the Chevalier's voice lifted

in song. He was singing one of Victor's triolets which the poet had

joined to music: "When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe,

I drink the wine from her radiant eyes;

And we sit in a casement made for two

When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe

With a Bacchante's love for a Bacchic brew!

Then kiss the grape, for the midnight flies

When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe,

And I the wine from her radiant eyes!"

"Madame, he sings well," said the marquis, whimsically. "What was it the

Jesuits said? . . . corrupt and degenerate? Yes, those were the words.

'Tis true; and this disease of idleness is as infectious as the plague.

And this son of mine, he is following the game path through which I

passed . . . to this, palsy and senility! Oh, the subtile poisons, the

intoxicating Hippocrenes I taught him how to drink! And now he turns and

casts the dregs into my face. But as I said, I make no plaint; I do not

lack courage. A pleasant pastime it was, this worldly lessoning; but I

forgot that he was partly a reproduction of his Catholic mother; that

where I stood rugged he would fall; that he did not possess ardor that is

without fire, love that is without sentiment. . . ."

A maudlin voice took up the Chevalier's song . . .