“I loved your mother.”

“Love?  That is a sacred word, Monsieur; you soil it.  What was it you said that night at Rochelle? . . .  That for every soul you have sent out of the world, you have brought another into it?  Perhaps this fellow is my brother, and I know it not; this woman my sister, and I pass her by.”

“I would have provided for you.”

To Brother Jacques it seemed that his sword of wrath had been suddenly twisted from his hand.  The sweat stood out on his forehead.

“If you were turned away from my door, it was not my hand that opened it.”

“I asked for nothing but bread,” said Brother Jacques, finding his voice.

“Thirty years ago . . .  I have forgotten.  Margot never told me.”

“It was easy to forget.  I have never known, what love is . . . from another.”

“Have I?” with self-inflicted irony.

“I sought it; you repelled it.”

“I knew not how to keep it, that was all.  If I should say to you, ’My son, I am sorry.  I have lived evilly.  I have wronged you; forgive me; I am dying’!” The marquis was breathing with that rapidity which foretells of coming dissolution.  “What would you say, Jesuit?”

Brother Jacques stood petrified.

“That silence is scarce less than a curse,” said the marquis.

Still Brother Jacques’s tongue refused its offices.

“Ah, well, I brought you into the world carelessly, you have cursed me out of it.  We are quits.  Begone!” There was dignity in his gesture toward the door.

Brother Jacques did not stir.

“Begone, I say, and let me die in peace.”

“I will give you absolution, father.”

The fierce, burning eyes seemed to search into Brother Jacques’s soul.  There was on that proud face neither fear nor horror.  And this was the hour Brother Jacques had planned and waited for!  For this moment he had donned the robes, isolated himself, taken vows, suffered physical tortures!  He had come to curse:  he was offering absolution.

“Hypocrite, begone!” cried the marquis, seized with vertigo.  He tried to strike the bell, but the effort merely sent it jangling to the floor.  “Begone!”

“Monsieur!”

“Must I call for help?”

Brother Jacques could stand no more.  He rushed madly toward the door, which he opened violently.  Sister Benie stood in the corridor, transfixed.

“My son?” she faltered.  A pathetic little sob escaped her.  Her arms reached out feebly; she fell.  Brother Jacques caught her, but she was dead.  Her heart had broken.  With a cry such as Dante conceived in his dream of hell, Brother Jacques fell beside her, insensible.

The marquis stared at the two prostrate figures, fumbling with his lips.

Then came the sound of hurrying feet, and Jehan, followed by the Chevalier, entered.

“Jehan, quick!  My clothes; quick!” The marquis was throwing aside the coverlet.