The Grey Cloak

"Monsieur," he cried hoarsely, "take care! Are you not telling me some

dreadful lie?"

"It would be . . . . scarcely worth while." The marquis controlled his

agitation by gently patting the gold knob on his stick. His gaze

wandered, seeking to rest upon some object other than his son. The first

blinding heat of passion had subsided, and in the following haze he saw

that he had committed a wrong which a thousand truths might not wholly

efface. And yet he remained silent, obdurate: so little a thing as a

word or the lack of it has changed the destinies of empires and of men.

A species of madness seized the Chevalier. With a fierce gesture he drew

his sword. For a moment the marquis thought that he was about to be

impaled upon it; but he gave no sign of fear. Presently the sword

deviated from its horizontal line, declined gradually till the point

touched the floor. The Chevalier leaned upon it, swaying slightly. His

eyes burned like opals.

"No, Monsieur, no! I will let you live, to die of old age, alone, in

silence, surrounded by those hideous phantoms which the approach of death

creates from ill-spent lives. Since you have taught me that there is no

God, I shall not waste a curse upon you for this wrong. Think not that

the lust to kill is gone; no, no; but I had rather let you live to die in

bed. So! I have been your pastime? I have now ceased to amuse

you? . . . . as my mother, whoever she may be, ceased to amuse?" His

sardonian laugh chilled the marquis in the marrow. "And I have spent

your gold, thinking it lawfully mine? . . . lorded over your broad lands,

believing myself to be heir to them? . . . been Monsieur le Comte this

and Monsieur le Comte that? How the gods must have laughed as I walked

forth among the great, arrogant in my pride of birth and riches! Poor

fool! Surely, Monsieur, it must be as you say: Heaven and hell are of

our own contriving. Poor fool! And I have held my head so high, faced

the world so fearlessly and contemptuously! . . . to find that I am this,

this! My God, Monsieur, but you have stirred within me all the hate, the

lust to kill, the gall of envy and despair! But live," his madness

increasing; "live to die in bed, no kin beside you, not even the

administering hand of a friendly priest to alleviate the horror of your

death-bed! God! do men go mad this way?"

The marquis was trembling violently. Words thronged to his lips, only to

be crushed back by the irony of fate. For a little he would have flung

himself at his son's feet. He had lied, lied, lied! What could he say?

His tongue lay hot against the palate, paralyzed. His brain was

confused, dazzled, incoherent.