The Grey Cloak by Harold MacGrath (uplifting book club books .txt) 📕

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."

She was praying, praying for strength to go through this ordeal.

"Where did you go, Margot?" he asked. "I searched for you; you were gone. Where did you go that day?"

Outside, in the corridor, Jehan was listening with eyes distended. And the marquis did not know, being out of his mind again!

"Hush, Henriot!" said Sister Benie. Tumult was in her heart. His icy hand closed over hers, which was scarce warmer; all the blood was in her heart. Her arms ached with longing to wrap this poor form to her breast. This was the supreme hour of her expiation.

"Henriot?" she called softly. "Henriot?" Thirty years of forgiveness and love thrilled in that name.

Jehan stole away. All this was not for his ears. Only God had the right to listen.

"Margot, are you still there? Henriot! I have not heard that name in thirty years."

She knew that delusion held him in its grasp, that he saw her only in fancy, else she must have flown.

"Can you forgive me, Margot? . . . I have no faith in women. . . . I have your letter still; in a casket at Périgny. It is yellow with age, and crumbles to the touch. Where did you go? After madame died I was lonely. . . . All, all are phantoms!" Then his delusion took another turn. He saw her no more. "Monsieur de Longueville, you lie when you say that I received billets from madame. I know a well-trodden place behind the Tuileries. Perhaps you will follow me? . . . Richelieu dead? What, then, will become of France, Jehan? Has Monsieur le Comte come in yet?"

There were no tears in her eyes. Those reservoirs had emptied and dried twenty years ago. But her heart cried. A new pain stabbed her, causing the room to careen. She kissed him on the forehead. It was all beyond her capacity for suffering. Her love belonged to God, not to man. To remain was to lose her reason. She would go before the delusion passed. In the corridor she would kneel and pray for this dark soul which was about to leap toward the Infinite. On the threshold she came face to face with Brother Jacques, whose pallor, if anything, exceeded her own. She stopped, undecided, hesitant. . . . Was it the color of his eyes?

"I have come, Sister, to give Monsieur le Marquis absolution." His tone was mild and reassuring. Stuck between his gown and his belt was the letter Jehan had given him to read. He had not looked at it yet. "Monsieur le Marquis has called for me."

"You have full powers?" uncertain and distressed. She did not like the fever in his eyes.

"I am fully ordained. I may not perform mass because of my mutilation, though I am expecting a dispensation from his Holiness the pope." He held out his hand, and her distrust subsided at the sight of those reddened stumps. "You are standing in my way, Sister. Seek Monsieur le Chevalier, if you will be so kind. He is in the citadel."

She moved to one side, and he passed into the room. When he reached the bedside, he turned. Sister Benie dropped her gaze, stepped into the corridor, and softly closed the door. Brother Jacques and the marquis were alone. The mask of calm fell from the priest's countenance, leaving it gloomy and haggard. But the fever in his eyes remained unchanged.

"It is something that you have forgiven me, Margot," the marquis murmured. His fancy had veered again. His eyes were closed; and Brother Jacques could see the shadow of the iris beneath the lids.

"Margot?" Brother Jacques trembled. "He wanders! Will he regain lucidity?"

A quarter of an hour passed. The moonbeam on the wall moved perceptibly. Once Brother Jacques pulled forth the letter and glanced again at the address. It was singular. It recalled to him that night when this old man had pressed D'Hérouville to the wall. "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at my death." The priest wondered whose death this meant. He did not replace the letter in his belt, but slipped it into the pocket of his robe, thoughtlessly.

"Paul? . . . Ah! it is Brother Jacques. Curse these phantoms which recur again and again. But my son," eagerly; "he is well? He is uninjured? He will be here soon?"

"Yes, my father."

"Once you asked me to call you if ever I changed my mind regarding religion. I will test this absolution of yours."

"Presently."

"Eh?"

"I said presently, my father."

"Father? . . . You say father?"

"Yes. But a moment gone you spoke of Margot Bourdaloue."

"What is that to you?" cried the marquis, raising himself on an elbow, though the effort cost him pain.

"She was my mother," softly.

The marquis fell back among his pillows. The gnawing of a mouse behind the wall could be heard distinctly. Brother Jacques was conscious of the sound.

"My mother," he repeated.

"You lie, Jesuit!"

"Not at this hour, my father."

"Son of Margot Bourdaloue, you! . . . Ah!" The marquis rose again, leaning on both arms. "Have you come to mock my death-bed?"

"Truth is not mockery."

"Away, lying Jesuit!"

The priest stooped. "Look well into my face, Monsieur; look well. Is there not something there to awaken your memory?" Brother Jacques brought his face within a span of the marquis's. "Look!"

"The eyes, the eyes! . . . Margot, a son? . . . What do you want?" The marquis moistened his lips.

"To make your last hour something like the many I have lived. Where is the woman you wronged and cast aside, my mother?"

The marquis's arms gave way.

"Ah, but I have waited for this hour!" said Brother Jacques. All the years of suffering returned and spread their venom through his veins. "I have starved. I have begged. I have been beaten. I have slept in fields and have been bitten by dogs. I have seen you feasting at your table while I hungered outside. I have watched your coach as it rolled through the château gates. One day your postilion struck me with his whip because I did not get out of the way soon enough. I have crept into sheds and shared the straw with beasts which had more pity than you. I thought of you, Monsieur le Marquis, you in your château with plenty to eat and drink, and a fire toasting your noble shins. Have I not thought of you?"

"I am an old man," said the marquis, bewildered. This priest must be a nightmare, another of those phantoms which were crowding around his bed.

"How I longed for riches, luxury, content! For had I not your blood in my veins and were not my desires natural? I became a priest because I could starve no longer without dying. I have seen your true son in the forests, have called him brother, though he did not understand. You cursed him and made him an outcast, wilfully. I was starving as a lad of two. My mother, Margot Bourdaloue, went out in search of bread. I followed, but became lost. I never saw my mother again; I can not even remember how she looked. I can only recall the starved eyes. And you cursed your acknowledged son and applied to him the epithet which I have borne these twenty years. Unnatural father!"

"Unnatural son," murmured the marquis.

"I have suffered!" Brother Jacques flung his arms above his head as if to hurl the trembling curse. "No; I shall not curse you. You do not believe in God. Heaven and hell have no meaning."

"I loved your mother."

"Love? That is a sacred word, Monsieur; you soil it. What was it you said that night at Rochelle? . . . That for every soul you have sent out of the world, you have brought another into it? Perhaps this fellow is my brother, and I know it not; this woman my sister, and I pass her by."

"I would have provided for you."

To Brother Jacques it seemed that his sword of wrath had been suddenly twisted from his hand. The sweat stood out on his forehead.

"If you were turned away from my door, it was not my hand that opened it."

"I asked for nothing but bread," said Brother Jacques, finding his voice.

"Thirty years ago . . . I have forgotten. Margot never told me."

"It was easy to forget. I have never known, what love is . . . from another."

"Have I?" with self-inflicted irony.

"I sought it; you repelled it."

"I knew not how to keep it, that was all. If I should say to you, 'My son, I am sorry. I have lived evilly. I have wronged you; forgive me; I am dying'!" The marquis was breathing with that rapidity which foretells of coming dissolution. "What would you say, Jesuit?"

Brother Jacques stood petrified.

"That silence is scarce less than a curse," said the marquis.

Still Brother Jacques's tongue refused its offices.

"Ah, well, I brought you into the world carelessly,