CHAPTER XXIV
SISTER BENIE AND A DISSERTATION ON CHARITY
Three days passed. At Orleans the settlers had had two or threebrushes with marauding Mohawks. A letter from Father Chaumonot at themission in Onondaga reported favorable progress. D'Herouville wasagain out of hospital; and De Leviston had stolen quietly away toMontreal, where he was shortly to succumb to the plague. Only threepersons knew of the remarkable conflict between the marquis andD'Herouville: the son, Brother Jacques, and the Vicomte d'Halluys, whopossessed that mysterious faculty of finding out many things of whichthe majority were unaware. As for the marquis, Brother Jacquesfostered the belief that it had been only a wild dream.
Each morning Madame de Brissac watched with growing eagerness thelading of the good ship Henri IV. It seemed impossible to her that thedeception in regard to the Chevalier could continue much longer. Wherewas the denouement on which she had builded so fondly? She had put itoff so many times that perhaps it was now too late. Sooner or laterVictor would slip, and the mask would be at an end. And why not? Whynot have done with a comedy which had grown stale? Why not tellMonsieur du Cevennes that she was Gabrielle Diane de Montbazon, shewhose miniature he had crushed beneath the heel of his riding boot?Rather would she tell him than leave it to the offices of D'Herouvilleor the vicomte. Surely her purpose had been to bring him to his kneesand then laugh! Relent? Not while her cup still held a drop of pride.She had been mad indeed. To have come here to Quebec with purpose andimpulse undefined! Daily she mocked her weakness. Truly she was thedaughter of her mother, extravagant, unbalanced, blown hither andthither by caprice as a leaf is blown by an autumn wind.
The thought of him stirred her as nothing had ever before stirred her.It was hate, it was wounded pride crying out for vengeance, it was thebarb of scorn urging her to give back in kind. And, heaven above! hehad been on his knees, and she had dallied with the moment of revengeeven as a cat dallies with a mouse. Diane! She detested the name.Fool! And yet, why was he here? What was this sudden veil of mysterywhich hid him from her secret eyes? Victor knew, and yet his love forher was not so great that he could tell her another's secret. And thegovernor knew, D'Herouville, and the vicomte; and they were as silentas stone. Love? A fillip of her finger for love! Happy indeed wasshe to learn that neither the marquis nor the Chevalier would return toFrance on the Henri IV. Such a way have the women.
Monsieur le Marquis lay in his bed, the bed from which he was to risebut once again in life. His thin fingers had drawn the coverletclosely under his chin, and from time to time they workedspasmodically. His head, scarce less white than the pillow beneath it,went on nodding from side to side, as if in perpetual negation to thosepuzzling questions which occupied his brain. His eyebrows wereconstantly bending, and his grey eyes burned with a fever which wasnever to be subdued. Across the foot of the bed lay a golden bar ofmorning sunlight.
"How long must I lie in this cursed bed?" he asked.
Brother Jacques left the window and came to the bedside. "Perhaps amonth, Monsieur; it all depends upon your patience."
"Patience? I have little against my account. When does the Henri IVsail?"
"A week from to-day."
"In bed or on foot, I shall sail with it. I am weary of trees, androcks, and water. I desire to see the cobbles of Rochelle and Perignybefore I die. Have you no canary in this abominable land?"
"The physician denies you wine, Monsieur."
"And what does that fool know about my needs?" demanded the invalid,stirring his feet as if striving to cast aside the sunlight. "Draw theshutter; the sun bites into my eyes. I abhor sunshine in bed. I amseventy, and yet I have risen with the sun for more than sixty-fiveyears. Have you any books?"
"Only of a religious and sacred character, and a volume of the lettersof the Order." Brother Jacques offered these without confidence.
"Drivel! Find me something lively: Monsieur Brantome, for instance.Surely Monsieur de Lauson has these memoirs in his collection."
"I shall make inquiries." Brother Jacques was not at ease.
A long pause ensued.
It was the marquis who broke it. "Why do you come and stand at theside of the bed and stare at me when you suppose I am sleeping? I havewatched you, and it annoys me."
"I shall do so no more, Monsieur."
"But why?"
"Perhaps I was contemplating what a happiness it would be to bringabout your salvation."
"Ah! I remember now. I told you that if ever I changed my mindregarding worship I should make my first confession to you. Yes, Iremember distinctly. Well, Monsieur, you have still some time to wait.I am not upon my death-bed."
The priest turned aside his head.
"Eh? Has that fool of a blood-letter made an ante-mortem?"
"No, Monsieur. But the strongest and youngest of us retire each night,not knowing if we shall rise with the morrow. And you are more illthan you think. It is what they call the palsy. It can not be cured.But your soul may be saved. There is time."
"Palsy? Bah! The wine always stopped my head from wagging. And hangme if that dream of mine hasn't numbed my legs." The marquis held outa hand. "And in my dream I believed this hand to be holding a sword!It was a gallant fight, as I remember. I was Quixote, defending somefool-thing or other."
"Have you ever thought of the future, Monsieur?"
"Death? My faith, no! I have been too busy with the past. The past,the past!" and the marquis closed his eyes. "It walks beside me like ashadow. If I were not too old . . . I should regret . . . some of it."
"There is relief in confession."
"I have nothing to confess."
"Shall I seek Monsieur le Chevalier?"
"No. Do not disturb him. He has his affairs. He is busy becominggreat and respected," ironically. "Besides, the sight of the stubbornfool would send me into spasms. After all the trouble I have taken forhis sake! You do well to take the orders. You do not marry, and youhave no ungrateful sons. It was not enough to confess that I lied tohim; I must strain the buckles at my knees. But not yet."
"Lied?"
"Why, yes. I told him that he was . . . But what is it to you? He isa fool . . . like his father. To throw away a marquisate and theincome of a prince! Curse this bed!" with sullen fury.
"Perhaps, Monsieur, the bed is of your own making."
"Ah! So we also indulge in irony? If this bed is of my own making, mymind was occupied with softer things. Would you not like the love ofwomen, endless gold, priceless wines, and all that the world gives tothe worldly? Come; what secret envy is yours, you who sleep on straw,in clammy cells, and dine on crusts?"
Brother Jacques went back to his window. He was pale. How deftly hadthe marquis placed his finger on the raw! Envy? All his life he hadenvied the rich and the worldly; all his life he had struggled betweenhis cravings and his honesty. Had he not shaved his crown that hishead might have a pallet to sleep on and his hunger a crust? His nailsindented his palms, but he felt no pain. He was grateful for the coolof the morning air. Down below he saw the Vicomte d'Halluys trampingabout in company with some soldiers. The Jesuit stared at thatpicturesque face. Where had he seen it prior to that night at theCorne d'Abondance?
Up and down the winding path settlers, soldiers, merchants, trappersand Indians straggled, with an occasional seigneur lending to the scenethe pomp of a vanished Court. Far away the priest could see a hawk,circling and circling in the summer sky. Now and then a dove flashedby, and a golden bumblebee blundered into the chamber.
"I will fetch Sister Benie," Brother Jacques said at length. Hedreaded to remain with this fierce-eyed old man from whom nothingseemed hidden, not even secret thought. "She is an excellent nurse."
"She will please me better than Monsieur le Comte."
The title stirred Brother Jacques strangely.
"But give her to understand," added the marquis, "that I want nocanting Loyola. Who is this Sist
er Benie?"
"She is of the Ursulines."
"No, no; I mean, what does she look like and of what family."
"I have never studied her visual beauty," coldly. Brother Jacques wasanxious to be gone.
"I have known priests who were otherwise inclined. I suppose you cansee her soul. That is interesting."
"I will go at once in quest of her;" and Brother Jacques went forth.
The marquis turned a cheek to his pillow. "Jehan!"
"Yes, Monsieur," answered the old lackey from his corner.
"I do not like that young priest. He is all eyes; and he makes mecold."
Brother Jacques meanwhile found Sister Benie in one of the Indianschoolrooms.
"Sister, are you too busy to attend the wants of a sick man?"
"Who is the sick man, my son?"
"Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny."
"He is very ill?" laying down her hooks.
"He can not leave his bed. He wishes some one to read to him. I wouldgladly do it, only I should not have the quieting effect."
The blue eyes of the nun had a range that was far away. BrotherJacques eyed her curiously.
"I will go," she said presently. "Is not the Chevalier du Cevennes themarquis's son?"
"He is."
"And is Monsieur le Marquis of a patient mind?"
"I confess that he is not. That is why it is difficult for me to waitupon his wants. He is a disappointed man; and being without faith, heis without patience. However, if you are too busy . . ."
"Lead me to him, my son," quietly.
Thus it was that the marquis, waking from the light sleep into which hehad fallen after Brother Jacques's departure, espied a nun sitting in achair by the window facing south, the shutters of which had been thrownwide open again. The room was warm with sunshine. The nun was notaware that Jehan sat in a darkened corner, watching her slightest move,nor that the marquis had awakened. She was dreaming with unclosedeyes, the expression on her face one of repose. The face which themarquis saw had at one time been very beautiful. Presently themarquis's scrutiny became a stare. . . . That scar; what did it recallto his wandering mind? A fit of trembling seized him and took thestrength from his propping arm. The creaking of the bed aroused her.
"She was dreaming with unclosed eyes."]
This strange land was full of phantoms. Only the other night he hadseen a face resembling Marie de Montbazon's. Bah!
"You are Sister Benie?" he said at once, narrowing his eyes. "Faith,"he thought, "if all nuns were like this woman, Christianity were easyto embrace."
"Yes, Monsieur," replied the nun. "Brother Jacques has sent me to you.What may I do for you?"
"You were young once?"
This unusual question apparently had no effect upon her serenity. "Iam still young. Those who give their hearts unreservedly to God nevergrow old."
The marquis's hand moved, restlessly. "How long have you been inQuebec?"
"Fifteen years, Monsieur. Shall I read to you?"
"No. You came from France?" with a sick man's persistence.
"Yes, Monsieur. Is there something besides reading I can do?"
"Do I look ill?" querulously.
"You are burning with fever." She drew the cool palm of her handacross his heated forehead.
"Jehan!" called the marquis. The touch of that hand had caused him anindescribable sensation.
"I am here, Monsieur," replied Jehan.
Sister Benie leaned back out of the sunlight.
"A pitcher of water; I am thirsty."
Jehan took the pitcher fumblingly. He was yellow with fear and wonder.
"You have seen my son?" asked the marquis, when the door closed.
"You ought to be proud of such a son, Monsieur."
The marquis was a bit disconcerted. "I know him well. Do you think hewill become great and respected?"
"He has already become respected." She was vaguely distressed andpuzzled.
"But will he become great?"
"That is for God to decide."
"Of what consists greatness?"
"It is greatness to forgive."
The marquis turned his head away. He was chagrined. "Monsieur leComte will never become great then. He will never forgive me for beinghis father."
"Ah, Monsieur, I do not like that tone of yours. There have been wordsbetween you, and you are not forgiving. Do you not love your son?"
"The love of children is the woman's part; man plays it but ill.Perhaps there were some things which I failed to learn." Love his son?A grim smile played over his purple lips. Why, he had ceased even tolove himself!
To her eyes the smile resembled a spasm of pain. "Does your headache?" she asked. She put her arm under his head and placed it morecomfortably on the pillow.
"Yes, my head is always aching. I have not lived well, and nature isclaiming her tithes." He closed his eyes, surrendering to the restfultouch of the cool palm. By and by he slept; and she sat there watchingtill morning merged into drowsy noon. The agony was begun. And whilehe slept the mask of calm left her face, revealing the soul. From timeto time she raised her eyes toward heaven, and continually her lipsmoved in prayer.
"Monsieur Paul," said Breton gaily, "do we return to France on theHenri IV?"
"No, lad; nor on many a ship to come and go."
Breton's heart contracted. "But Monsieur le Marquis . . . ?"
"Will return alone. Go with him, lad; you are homesick. Go and marryold Martin's daughter, and be happy. It would be wrong for me to robyou of your youth's right."
"But you, Monsieur?"
"I shall remain here. I have my time to serve. After that, France,maybe . . . or become a grand seigneur."
The Chevalier put on his hat. He had an idle hour.
Breton choked back the sob. "I will remain with you, Monsieur, for thepresent. I was wondering where in the world that copy of Rabelais hadgone. I had not seen it since we left the ship Saint Laurent." Thelad patted the book with a fictitious show of affection.
"Possibly in the hurry of bringing it here you dropped it, and someone, seeing my name in it, has returned it."
"Never to see France again?" murmured Breton, alone. "Ah, if only Iloved her less, or Monsieur Paul not so well!" Even Breton had histragedy.
The Chevalier perched himself upon one of the citadel's parapets. Thesouthwest wind was tumbling the waters of the river and the deep bluesof the forests seemed continually changing in hues. Forces within himwere at war. He was uneasy. That his father had fought D'Herouvilleon his account there could be no doubt. What a sorry world it was,with its cross-purposes, its snarled labyrinths! The last meeting withhis father came back vividly; and yet, despite all the cutting, bitingdialogue of that interview, Monsieur le Marquis had taken up his causeunasked and had gone about it with all the valor of his race. He waschagrined, angered. Had the old days been lived rightly and withreason; had there been no ravelings, no tangles, no misunderstandings,life would have run smoothly enough. Had this strange old man, whomfate had made his father, come with repentance, but without mode ofexpression, without tact? Three thousand miles; 'twas a long way whena letter would have been sufficient. But the cruelty of that lie, andthe bitterness of all these weeks! If his thrusts that night had beencruel, he knew that, were it all to be done over again, he should notmoderate a single word. The lie, the abominable lie! One does notforgive such a lie, at least not easily. And yet that duel! He wouldhave given a year of his life to see that fight as Brother Jacquesdescribed it. It was his blood; and whatever pits and chasms yawnedbetween, the spirit of this blood was common. Perhaps some day hecould forgive.
And Diane, she had mocked him, not knowing; she had laughed in hisface, unconscious of the double edge; she had accused him and he hadbeen without answer. Heaven on earth! to win her, to call her his, tofeel her breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair in hisnostrils! Hedged in, whichever way he turned, whether to
ward hate orlove! He clutched the handle of his rapier and knotted the muscles ofhis arms. He would fight his way toward her; no longer would hesupplicate, he would demand. He would follow her wherever she went,aye, even back to France! For what had he to lose? Nothing. And allthe world to gain.
Man needs obstacles to overcome to be great either in courage ormagnanimity; he needs the sense of injustice, of wrong, of unmeritedcontempt; he needs the wrath against these things without which manbecomes passive like non-carnivorous animals. And had not heobstacles?--unrequited love, escutcheon to make bright and whole?
From a short distance Brother Jacques contemplated the Chevalier,gloomily and morosely. Envy, said the marquis, gibing. Yes, envy;envy of the large life, envy of riches, of worldly pleasures, of thelove of women. Cursed be this drop of acid which seared his heart:envy. How he envied yon handsome fellow, with his lordly airs, thelife he had led and the gold he had spent! And yet . . . BrotherJacques was a hero for all his robes. He cast out envy in the thought,and made his way toward the Chevalier, whose face showed that at thismoment he was not very glad to see Brother Jacques.
"My brother, your father is very ill."
"That is possible," said the Chevalier, swinging to the ground. He didnot propose to confide any of his thoughts to the priest. "He is old,and is wasteful of his energies."
"Yes, he has wasted his energies; in your cause, Monsieur, rememberthat. Your father had nothing in common with D'Herouville. Theirpaths had never crossed . . . and never will cross again."
The Chevalier kicked the stones impatiently. So Brother Jacquesunderstood why the marquis had fought the Comte d'Herouville?
"May I be so bold as to ask what took place between you and Monsieur leMarquis on the night of his arrival in Quebec?"
"I must leave you in ignorance," said the Chevalier decisively.
"He may never leave his bed."
The Chevalier bit the ends of his mustache, and remained silent.
"He came a long way to do you a service," continued the priest.
"Who can say as to that? And I do not see that all this particularlyconcerns you."
"But you will admit that he fought the man who . . . who laughed."
The Chevalier let slip a stirring oath, and the grip he put on the hiltof his sword would have crushed the hand of an average strong man.
"Monsieur, it is true that your father has wronged you, but can you notforgive him?"
The Chevalier stared scowlingly into the Jesuit's eyes. "Would youforgive a father who, as a pastime, had temporarily made you . . . abastard?"
The priest's shudder did not escape the searching eyes of theChevalier. "Ha! I thought not. Do not expect me, a worldly man, todo what you, a priest, shrink from."
"Do not put me in your place. Monsieur. I would forgive him had hedone to me what he has done to you."
The Chevalier saw no ambiguity. "That is easily said. You are apriest, I am a worldling; what to you would mean but little, to mewould be the rending of the core of life. My father can not undo whathe has done; he can not piece together and make whole the wreck he hasmade of my life."
"Have you no charity?" persuasively.
The Chevalier spread his hands in negation. He was growing restive.
"Will you let me teach you?" Brother Jacques was expiating the sin ofenvy.
"You may teach, but you will find me somewhat dull in learning."
"Do you know what charity is?"
"It is a fine word, covered with fine clothes, and goes about in pompand glitter. It builds in the abstract: telescopes for the blind,lutes for the deaf, flowers for the starved. Bah! charity has hadlittle bearing on my life."
"Listen," said Brother Jacques; "of all God's gifts to men, charity isthe largest. To recognize a sin in oneself and to forgive it inanother because we possess it, that is charity. Charity has nobalances like justice; it weighs neither this nor that. Its heart hasno secret chambers; every door will open for the knocking. Mercy isjustice modified. Charity forgives where justice punishes and mercycondones. Your bitter words were directed against philanthropy, notcharity. Shall an old man's repentance knock at the heart of his sonand find not charity there?"
"Repentance?" So this thought was not alone his?
"You will forgive him, Monsieur . . . my brother."
The Chevalier shook his head. "Not to-day nor to-morrow."
"You will not let him of your blood go down to the grave unforgiven;not when he offered this blood to avenge an insult given to you. Thereparation he has made is the best he knows. Only forgive him and lethim die in peace. He is proud, but he is ill. To this hour hebelieves that terrible struggle to be but a dream; but even the dreambrings him comfort. He is seventy; he is old. You take the firststep; come with me. Through all your life you will look back upon thishour with happiness. Whatever the parent's fault may be, there isalways the duty of the child toward that parent. You will forgive him."
"But if I go to him without forgiveness in my heart; if only my lipsspeak?"
"It is in your heart; you have only to look for it."
"Ah well, I will go with you. It is a cup of gall to drink, but I willdrink it. If he is dying . . . Well, I will play the part; but God iswitness that there is no charity in my heart, nor forgiveness, for hehas wilfully spoiled my life."
So the two men moved off toward the marquis's bed-chamber.
"You remain in the hall, Monsieur," said the priest, "till I call you."But as he entered the chamber he purposely left open the door so thatthe Chevalier might hear what passed.
"Ah! it is you," said the marquis. "Let me thank you for bringing thatnurse."
"Sister Benie?"
"Yes. You do not know, then, from what family she originated?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Who knows?"
"The Mother Superior. Monsieur, I have news for you. I bring youpeace."
"Peace?"
"Yes. Monsieur, your son is willing to testify that he forgives youthe wrong you have done him."
The marquis shook as with ague and drew the coverlet to his chin. Aminute went by, and another. The Chevalier listened, waiting for hisfather's voice to break the silence. After all, he could forgive.
"Have you anything to say, Monsieur ?" asked Brother Jacques.
The marquis stirred and drew his hand across his lips. "Where isMonsieur le Comte?"
"He is waiting in the hall. Shall I call . . . ?"
"Wait!" interrupted the marquis. Presently he cleared his throat andsaid in a thin, dry voice: "Tell Monsieur le Comte for me that I amsleeping and may not be disturbed."
"Monsieur," said Jehan that night, "pardon, but do you ever . . . doyou ever think of Margot Bourdaloue?"
The marquis raised himself as though to hurl a curse at his lucklessservant. But all he said was; "Sometimes, Jehan, sometimes!"