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 play at repartee.  Besides, he had already lost too much through his love of this double-edged sword.

“Suppose it was belated paternal love, as well as the sense of justice, that brings me into this desert?” The Chevalier never knew what it cost the proud old man to utter these words.

“Monsieur,” laughing rudely, “you are, and always will be, the keenest wit in France!”

“I am an old man,” softly.  “It is something to acknowledge that I did you a wrong.”

“You have brought the certificate of my birth?” bluntly.

“I searched for it, but unfortunately I could not find it;” and a shadow of worry crossed the marquis’s face.  For the first time in his life he became conscious of incompleteness, of having missed something in the flight.  “I have told you the truth.  I can say no more.  I had some 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, after all, I have a heart.”

“Good heaven!  Monsieur, your mind wanders!” the Chevalier exclaimed.

The marquis swept the salt from the table.  The movement was not impatient; rather resigned.  “There is nothing more to be said.  You may go.  Our paths shall not cross again.”

The Chevalier bowed, turned, and walked toward the door through which he had entered.  He stopped at the threshold and looked back.  The grey eyes met grey eyes; but the son’s burned with hate.  The marquis, listening, heard the soft pat of moccasined feet.  He was alone.  He scowled, 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 the brain, hers the pride of the heart.  I have lost something; what is it?” 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 recollection of passing into one of the council chambers, attracted possibly by the lights.  Tumult was in his heart, chaos in his brain; rage and exultation, unbelief and credulity.  He floated, drifted, dreamed.  His father!  It was so fantastic.  That cynical, cruel old man here in Quebec!—­to render common justice! . . .  A lie!  He had lied, then, that mad night?  There was a ringing in the Chevalier’s ears and a blurring in his eyes.  He raised his clenched hands, only to drop them limply, impotently.  All these months wasted, all these longings and regrets for nothing, all this suffering to afford Monsieur le Marquis the momentary pleasure of seeing his own flesh and blood writhe!  Hate.  As hot lead sinks into the flesh, so this word sank into the Chevalier’s soul, blotting out charity and forgiveness.  Forgive?