CHAPTER XVIII
THE MASTER OF IRONIES
So they stood for some moments, the one with eyes glaring, the otherwith quiet scrutiny.
"It appears to agree with you here," began the marquis. There was notthe slightest tremor in his voice.
"You?" said the son.
The marquis winced inwardly: that pronoun was so pregnant withsurprise, contempt, anger, and indignation! "Yes, it is I, yourpaternal parent."
"And you could not leave me in peace, even here?" The son stepped, backand strained his arms across his chest.
"From your tone it would seem so." The marquis sat down. A fit oftrembling had seized his legs. How the boy had changed in threemonths! He looked like a god, an Egyptian god, with that darkenedskin; and the tilt of the chin recalled the mother.
"I had hoped never to look upon your face again," coldly.
The marquis waved his hand. "Life is a page of disappointments, with amargin of realized expectations which is narrow indeed. Will you notsit down?"
"I prefer to stand. It is safer for you with the table between us."
"Your sword was close to my heart one night. I made no effort torepulse it."
"Heaven was not quite ready for you, Monsieur."
"Heaven or Hell. There seems to be gall in your blood yet."
"Who put it there?" The Chevalier was making an effort to control hispassion.
"I put it there, it is true. But did you not stir a trifle too well?"
"Why are you here? What is your purpose?"
"I have been three months on the water; I have been without myaccustomed canary and honey; I have dined upon salt meats till mytongue and stomach are parched like corn. Have you no welcome?"
The Chevalier laughed.
"They haven't tamed you, then?" The marquis drew circles in thespilled salt. "Have you become . . . great and respected?"
The thrust went deep. A pallor formed under the Chevalier's tan. "Ihave made some progress, Monsieur. If any laugh, they do so behind myback."
The marquis nodded approvingly.
"Have you come all this journey to mock me?"
"Well," the father confessed, "I do not like the way you say 'you'."
They rested. The marquis breathed the easier of the two.
"Monsieur, I have not much time to spare. What has brought you here?"
"Why am I here? I have come to do my flesh and blood a common justice.In France you did not give me time."
"Justice?" ironically. "Is that not a new word in your vocabulary?"
"I have always known the word; there were some delicate shades which Ioverlooked. I lied to you."
The Chevalier started.
"It was a base lie, unworthy of a gentleman and a father." The marquisfumbled at his lips. "The lie has kept me rather wakeful. Anger burnsquickly, and the ashes are bitter. I am a proud man, but there is noflaw in my pride. You are my lawful son."
"What! Have you gone to the trouble of having me legitimatized?" witha terrible laugh.
"I shall never lose my temper again," retorted the father, a ghost of asmile parting his thin lips. "Let us put aside antagonism for thepresent. Let us analyze my action. Why should I go to the trouble ofhaving your title adjusted by parliamentary law? I am too old forParis; Paris shall see me no more. Am I a man to run aftersentimentality? You will scarce accuse me of that weakness. Were youaught but what you are, I should be dining in Rochelle, with all myaccustomed comforts. You are successor to my titles. Believe me ornot, as to that I am totally indifferent. I am doing what my sense ofjustice demands. That is sufficient for me. The night of the day youtook passage on the Saint Laurent I called to the hotel those whilomfriends of yours and charged them on the pain of death to stop afurther spread to your madness. Scarce a dozen in Rochelle know; Parisis wholly ignorant. Your revenues in the Cevennes are accumulating.Return to France, or remain here to become . . . great and respected;that is no concern of mine. To tell you these facts I have crossed theAtlantic. There can be no maudlin sentiment between you and me; therehave been too many harsh words. That is all I have to say. Digest itwell."
Silence. A breeze, blowing in through a window, stirred the flames ofthe candles, and their lines of black smoke wavered horizontallythrough the air. Monsieur le Marquis waited for the outpouring ofthanks, the protestations of joy, the bending of this proud and haughtyspirit. While waiting he did not look at his son; rather he busiedhimself with the stained ruffles of his sleeve. The pause grew. Itwas so long that the marquis was compelled finally to look up. In hiscabinet at Perigny he had a small bronze statue of the goddess Ate: thescowling eyes, the bent brows, the widened nostrils, the half-visiblerow of teeth, all these he saw in the face towering above him.
"So that is all you have to say? How easily and complacently you sayit! 'Monsieur, the honor I robbed you of I bring back. It isworthless, either to you or to me, it is true. Nevertheless, thank meand bid me be gone!' And that is all you have to say!"
The marquis sat back in his chair, thunderstruck.
"It is nothing, then," went on the son, leaning across the table andspeaking in those thin tones of one who represses fury; "it is nothingthat men have laughed behind my back, insulted me to my face? It isnothing to have trampled on my illusions and bittered the cup of life?It is nothing that I have suffered for three months as they in hellsuffer for eternity? It is nothing that my trust in humanity is gone?All these things are inconsiderable! In a moment of anger you told methis unholy lie, without cause, without definite purpose, withoutjustice, carelessly, as a pastime?"
"Not as a pastime, not carelessly; rather with a definite purpose, tobring you to your senses. You were becoming an insolent drunkard."
The chevalier stretched out a hand. "We have threshed that subjectwell. We will not recall it."
"Very well." The marquis's anger was close to the surface. This washis reward for what he understood to be a tremendous personalsacrifice! He had come three thousand miles to make a restitution onlyto receive covert curses for his pains! "But I beg of you not torepeat that extravagant play-acting. This glass belongs to Monsieur deLauson, and it might cost you dear."
"Is your heart made of stone or of steel that you think you can undowhat you have done? Can I believe you? How am I to tell that you arenot doubling on the lie? Is not all this because you are afraid to diewithout succession, the fear that men will laugh?"
"I am not afraid of anything," sharply; "not even of ridicule."
"Well, Monsieur le Marquis, neither am I. You have wasted your time."
"So I perceive," sourly. "A letter would have been more to thepurpose."
"It would indeed. It is the sight of you, Monsieur, that rouses furyand unbelief. We ought never to meet again."
"I will go at once," making a movement to rise.
"Wait till I have done. You will do well to listen, as I swear to GodI shall never address a word to you again. Your death-bed shall be nomore to me than my heart has been to you. Ah, could I but find a wayto wring your heart as you have wrung mine! You have wasted your time.I shall never resume my title, if indeed I have one; I shall neverreturn to France. Do as you please with my estates. There is an abyssbetween us; you can never cross it, and I shall never make the attempt."
"Supposing I had a heart," quietly; "how would you go about to wringit?"
"There are easier riddles, Monsieur. If you waked to the sense of whatit is to love, waked as a sleeping volcano wakes, and I knew the objectof this love, it is possible that I might find a way to wring yourheart. But I refuse to concern myself with such ridiculousimpossibilities."
It was the tone, not the words, that cut; but the marquis gave no sign.He was tired physically and felt himself mentally incompetent to playat repartee. Besides, he had already lost too much through his love ofthis double-edged sword.
"Suppose it was belated paternal love, as well as the sense of justice,that brings me i
nto this desert?" The Chevalier never knew what itcost the proud old man to utter these words.
"Monsieur," laughing rudely, "you are, and always will be, the keenestwit in France!"
"I am an old man," softly. "It is something to acknowledge that I didyou a wrong."
"You have brought the certificate of my birth?" bluntly.
"I searched for it, but unfortunately I could not find it;" and ashadow of worry crossed the marquis's face. For the first time in hislife he became conscious of incompleteness, of having missed somethingin the flight. "I have told you the truth. I can say no more. I hadsome hope that we might stand again upon the old footing."
"I shall not even visit your grave."
"I might turn over, it is true," a flare in the grey eyes. "And, afterall, I have a heart."
"Good heaven! Monsieur, your mind wanders!" the Chevalier exclaimed.
The marquis swept the salt from the table. The movement was notimpatient; rather resigned. "There is nothing more to be said. Youmay go. Our paths shall not cross again."
The Chevalier bowed, turned, and walked toward the door through whichhe had entered. He stopped at the threshold and looked back. The greyeyes met grey eyes; but the son's burned with hate. The marquis,listening, heard the soft pat of moccasined feet. He was alone. Hescowled, but not with anger. The chill of stone lay upon his flesh.
"It is my blood," he mused; "my blood and hers: mine the pride of thebrain, hers the pride of the heart. I have lost something; what isit?" He slid forward in his chair, his head sunk between his shoulders.Thus the governor, returning, found him.
As for the Chevalier, on leaving his father he had a vague recollectionof passing into one of the council chambers, attracted possibly by thelights. Tumult was in his heart, chaos in his brain; rage andexultation, unbelief and credulity. He floated, drifted, dreamed. Hisfather! It was so fantastic. That cynical, cruel old man here inQuebec!--to render common justice! . . . A lie! He had lied, then,that mad night? There was a ringing in the Chevalier's ears and ablurring in his eyes. He raised his clenched hands, only to drop themlimply, impotently. All these months wasted, all these longings andregrets for nothing, all this suffering to afford Monsieur le Marquisthe momentary pleasure of seeing his own flesh and blood writhe! Hate.As hot lead sinks into the flesh, so this word sank into theChevalier's soul, blotting out charity and forgiveness. Forgive? Hislaughter rang out hard and sinister. Only God could forgive such awrong. How that wrinkled face roused the venom in his soul! Was themarquis telling the truth? Had he lied? Was not this the culminationof the series of tortures the marquis had inflicted upon him all theseyears: to let him fly once more, only to drag him down into swallowingmire from which he might never rise? And yet . . . if it weretrue!--and the pall of shame and ignominy were lifted! The Chevaliergrew faint.
Diane! From beyond the wilderness spoke a voice, the luring voice oflove. Diane! He was free to seek her; no barrier stood between. Hecould return to France. Her letter! He drew it forth, his handstrembling like a woman's. "France is large. If you love me you willfind me. . . . I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times." Therewas still the delicate odor of vervain--her perfume--clinging to it.Ah, if that terrible old man were not lying again! If he but spoke thetruth!
As he strode back and forth his foot struck something. He bent andpicked up the object. It was a grey mask with a long curtain. Hecarried it to the candle-light and inspected it. A grey mask: what wassuch a thing doing in Quebec? There were no masks in Quebec save thosewhich nature herself gave to man, that ever-changing mask called thehuman face. A grey mask: what did it recall to him? Ah! Like a barof light the memory of it returned to him. The mysterious woman of theCorne d'Abondance! But this mask could not be hers, since she was bynow in Spain. With a movement almost unconscious he held the silkenfabric close to his face and inhaled . . . vervain!
"Monsieur," said a soft but thrilling voice from the doorway, "will youreturn to me my mask, which I dropped in this room a few moments ago?"
As he raised his head the woman stopped, transfixed.
"Diane?" leaped from the Chevalier's lips. He caught the back of achair to steady himself. He was mad, he knew he was mad; it had comeat last, this loosing of reason.