“Perhaps I was contemplating what a happiness it would be to bring about your salvation.”

“Ah!  I remember now.  I told you that if ever I changed my mind regarding worship I should make my first confession to you.  Yes, I remember 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 ill than 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 hang me if that dream of mine hasn’t numbed my legs.”  The marquis held out a 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 some fool-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 a shadow.  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 becoming great and respected,” ironically.  “Besides, the sight of the stubborn fool would send me into spasms.  After all the trouble I have taken for his sake!  You do well to take the orders.  You do not marry, and you have no ungrateful sons.  It was not enough to confess that I lied to him; 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 is a fool . . . like his father.  To throw away a marquisate and the income 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, my mind was occupied with softer things.  Would you not like the love of women, endless gold, priceless wines, and all that the world gives to the 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 had the marquis placed his finger on the raw!  Envy?  All his life he had envied the rich and the worldly; all his life he had struggled between his cravings and his honesty.  Had he not shaved his crown that his head might have a pallet to sleep on and his hunger a crust?  His nails indented his palms, but he felt no pain.  He was grateful for the cool of the morning air.  Down below he saw the Vicomte d’Halluys tramping about in company with some soldiers.  The Jesuit stared at that picturesque face.  Where had he seen it prior to that night at the Corne d’Abondance?