“Then I shall send for him and Monsieur le Comte?”

“Wait till I am sure that I can stand the sight of him.  Is Sister Benie without?  Call her.  She quiets me.  Brother Jacques may come in half an hour; after him, Monsieur le Comte.  I wish to have done with all things and die in peace.”

So Jehan went in search of Sister Benie.  When she came in her angelic face was as white as the collaret which encircled her throat, and the scar was more livid than usual.  Alas, the marquis’s mind had gone a-wandering again:  the coal dimmed.  She put her hand on his brow to still the wagging head.

“It was so long ago, Margot,” he babbled.  “It was all a mistake. . . .  A fool plunges into all follies, but a wise man avoids what he can.  I have been both the wise man and the fool. . . .  And I struck you across the face with the lash?  Ah, the poor scar!” He touched the scar with his hand, and she wavered.  “I loved you.  It is true.  I did not know it then.  You are dead, and you know that I loved you.  Do you think the lad has really forgiven me for what I have done to him? . . .  I am weary of the contest; Death sits on his horse outside the door.”

She was praying, praying for strength to go through this ordeal.

“Where did you go, Margot?” he asked.  “I searched for you; you were gone.  Where did you go that day?”

Outside, in the corridor, Jehan was listening with eyes distended.  And the marquis did not know, being out of his mind again!

“Hush, Henriot!” said Sister Benie.  Tumult was in her heart.  His icy hand closed over hers, which was scarce warmer; all the blood was in her heart.  Her arms ached with longing to wrap this poor form to her breast.  This was the supreme hour of her expiation.

“Henriot?” she called softly.  “Henriot?” Thirty years of forgiveness and love thrilled in that name.

Jehan stole away.  All this was not for his ears.  Only God had the right to listen.

“Margot, are you still there?  Henriot!  I have not heard that name in thirty years.”

She knew that delusion held him in its grasp, that he saw her only in fancy, else she must have flown.

“Can you forgive me, Margot? . . .  I have no faith in women. . . .  I have your letter still; in a casket at Perigny.  It is yellow with age, and crumbles to the touch.  Where did you go?  After madame died I was lonely. . . .  All, all are phantoms!” Then his delusion took another turn.  He saw her no more.  “Monsieur de Longueville, you lie when you say that I received billets from madame.  I know a well-trodden place behind the Tuileries.  Perhaps you will follow me? . . .  Richelieu dead?  What, then, will become of France, Jehan?  Has Monsieur le Comte come in yet?”