“To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, to be delivered into his hands at my death.”

He eyed the address, undecided.  He was weighing the advisability of letting the Chevalier read it first.  And yet he had an equal right to the reading.  He sighed, drew forth the contents and read . . . read with shaking hands, read with terror, amazement, exultation, belief and unbelief.  He rose quickly; the room, it was close; he breathed with difficulty.  And the marquis had requested that he read it!  Irony!  He had taken it up in his hands twice, and had not known!  Irony, irony, irony!  He opened the window and stepped out upon the balcony.  Above the world, half hidden under the spotless fleece of winter, a white sun shone in a pallid sky.

Brother Jacques’s skin was transparent, his hair was patched with grey, his eyes were hollow, but at this moment his mien was lordly.  His pack lay on the floor beyond, forgotten.  With his head high, his nostrils wide, his arms pressing his sides and his hands clenched, he looked toward France.  The smoke, curling up from the chimneys below, he saw not, nor the tree-dotted Isle of Orleans, nor the rolling mainshore opposite.  His gaze in fancy had traversed more than three thousand miles.  He saw a grand chateau, terraced, with gardens, smooth driveways, fountains and classic marbles, crisp green hills behind all these, and a stream of running water.

Perigny.

He looked again and saw a great hotel, surrounded by a high wall, along the top of which, ran a cheval-de-frise.  Inside all was gloomy and splendid, rich and ancient.  Magnificent tapestries graced the walls, famous paintings, rare cut-glass, chased silver and filigreed gold, and painted porcelain.

Rochelle.

Again; and in his dream-vision he saw mighty palaces and many lights, the coming and going of great personages, soldiers famed in war, statesmen, beautiful women with satin and jewels and humid eyes; great feasts, music, and the loveliest flowers.

Paris.

His!  All these things were his.  It was empire; it was power, content, riches.  His!  Had he not starved, begged, suffered?  These were his, all his, his by human law and divine.  That letter!  It had lain under the marquis’s eyes all this time, and he had not known.  That was well.  But that fate should so unceremoniously thrust it into his hands!  Ah, that was all very strange, obscure.  The wind, coming with a gust, stirred the beads of his rosary; and he remembered.  He cast a glance at his pack.  Could he carry it again?  He caught up his rosary.  Should he put this aside?  He was young; there were long years before him.  He had suffered half the span of a man’s life; need he suffer longer?

He opened the letter and read it once again.