His voice had risen steadily, losing its music but gaining a thrilling intenseness.  Strange words for a priest, thought the Chevalier, who had spoken with irony aforethought.  Glories of the world, the love of women; did not all priests forswear these?  Perhaps his eyes expressed his thought, for he noted a faint color on the priest’s checks.

“I am speaking as a moral physician, Monsieur,” continued the priest, his composure recovered; “one who seeks to observe all spiritual diseases in order to apply a remedy.”

“And is there a remedy for a case such as you have described?” asked the Chevalier, half mockingly.

“Yes; God gives us a remedy even for such an ill.”

“And what might the remedy be?”

“Death.”

“What is your religious name, Monsieur?” asked the Chevalier, strangely subdued.

“I am Father Jacques, protege of the kindly Chaumonot.  But I am known to my brothers and friends as Brother Jacques.  And you, Monsieur, are doubtless connected with the court.”

“Yes.  I am known as the Chevalier du Cevennes, under De Guitaut, in her Majesty’s Guards.”

“Cevennes?” the priest repeated, ruminating.  “Why, that is the name of a mountain range in the South.”

“So it is.  I was born in that region, and it pleased me to bear Cevennes as a name of war.  I possess a title, but I do not assume it; I simply draw its revenues.”  The Chevalier scowled at his buckles, as if some disagreeable thought had come to him.

The priest remarked the change in the soldier’s voice; it had grown harsh and repellent.  “Monsieur, I proceed from Rouen to Rochelle; are you familiar with that city?”

“Rochelle?  Oh, indifferently.”

The Jesuit plucked at his lips for a space, as if hesitant to break the silence.  “Have you ever heard of the Marquis de Perigny?”

The Chevalier whirled about.  “The Marquis de Perigny?  Ah, yes; I have heard of that gentleman.  Why do you ask?”

“It is said that while he is a bad Catholic, he is generous in his charities.  Father Chaumonot and I intend to apply to him for assistance.  Mazarin has not been very liberal.  Ah, how little they dream of the length and breadth and riches of this France across the sea!  Monsieur le Marquis is rich?”

“Rich; but a bad Catholic truly.”  The Chevalier laughed without merriment.  “The marquis and charity?  Why not oil and water?  They mix equally well.”

“You do not seem quite friendly toward the Marquis?” suggested Brother Jacques.

“No; I am not particularly fond of Monsieur le Marquis,” patting the pommel of his sword.

“Monsieur le Marquis has wronged you?” asked the priest, a fire leaping into his eyes.

“It is a private affair, Monsieur,” coldly.

“Pardon me!” Brother Jacques made a gesture of humility.  He rolled the bread crumbs into a ball which he dropped into the bowl.  Presently he pushed aside the bowl and rose, his long black cassock falling to his ankles.  He drew his rosary through his belt and put on his shovel-shaped hat.