There were no tears in her eyes.  Those reservoirs had emptied and dried twenty years ago.  But her heart cried.  A new pain stabbed her, causing the room to careen.  She kissed him on the forehead.  It was all beyond her capacity for suffering.  Her love belonged to God, not to man.  To remain was to lose her reason.  She would go before the delusion passed.  In the corridor she would kneel and pray for this dark soul which was about to leap toward the Infinite.  On the threshold she came face to face with Brother Jacques, whose pallor, if anything, exceeded her own.  She stopped, undecided, hesitant. . . .  Was it the color of his eyes?

“I have come, Sister, to give Monsieur le Marquis absolution.”  His tone was mild and reassuring.  Stuck between his gown and his belt was the letter Jehan had given him to read.  He had not looked at it yet.  “Monsieur le Marquis has called for me.”

“You have full powers?” uncertain and distressed.  She did not like the fever in his eyes.

“I am fully ordained.  I may not perform mass because of my mutilation, though I am expecting a dispensation from his Holiness the pope.”  He held out his hand, and her distrust subsided at the sight of those reddened stumps.  “You are standing in my way, Sister.  Seek Monsieur le Chevalier, if you will be so kind.  He is in the citadel.”

She moved to one side, and he passed into the room.  When he reached the bedside, he turned.  Sister Benie dropped her gaze, stepped into the corridor, and softly closed the door.  Brother Jacques and the marquis were alone.  The mask of calm fell from the priest’s countenance, leaving it gloomy and haggard.  But the fever in his eyes remained unchanged.

“It is something that you have forgiven me, Margot,” the marquis murmured.  His fancy had veered again.  His eyes were closed; and Brother Jacques could see the shadow of the iris beneath the lids.

“Margot?” Brother Jacques trembled.  “He wanders!  Will he regain lucidity?”

A quarter of an hour passed.  The moonbeam on the wall moved perceptibly.  Once Brother Jacques pulled forth the letter and glanced again at the address.  It was singular.  It recalled to him that night when this old man had pressed D’Herouville to the wall.  “To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, to be delivered into his hands at my death.”  The priest wondered whose death this meant.  He did not replace the letter in his belt, but slipped it into the pocket of his robe, thoughtlessly.

“Paul? . . .  Ah! it is Brother Jacques.  Curse these phantoms which recur again and again.  But my son,” eagerly; “he is well?  He is uninjured?  He will be here soon?”

“Yes, my father.”

“Once you asked me to call you if ever I changed my mind regarding religion.  I will test this absolution of yours.”

“Presently.”

“Eh?”

“I said presently, my father.”