“To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny:  A necromancer in the Rue Dauphin tells me that I shall not outlive you, which is to be regretted.  Therefore, my honored Marquis, I leave you this peculiar legacy.  When you married the Princess Charlotte it was not because you loved her, but because you hated me who loved her.  You laughed when I swore to you that some day I would have my revenge.  Shortly after you were married a trusted servant of mine left my house to serve me in yours.  And he served me well indeed, as presently you shall learn.  Two days before Madame le Marquise gave birth to your son and heir, a certain handsome peasant named Margot Bourdaloue also entered into the world a son of yours which was not your heir.  Think you that it is Madame la Marquise’s son who ruffles it here in Paris under the name of the Chevalier du Cevennes?  I leave you to answer this question, to solve this puzzle, or become mad over it.  Recollect, I do not say that the Chevalier is not the son of Madame la Marquise; I say, think you he is?  Monsieur, believe me, you have my heartiest sympathy in your trouble.  LOUIS DE BRISSAC.”

“De Brissac?”

Brother Jacques’s brows met in the effort to recall the significance of this name.  Ah! the Grande Madame whom the Chevalier, his brother, loved:  his brother.  His brother.  Brother Jacques had forgotten his brother.  He raised his eyes toward heaven, as if to make an appeal; but his gaze dropped quickly and roved.  Somehow, he could not look to heaven; the sun was too bright.  He saw the figures of a man and woman who were leaning against the parapet.  The man’s arm was clasped around the woman’s waist, their heads were close together, and they seemed to be looking toward the south, as indeed they were.  Lovers, mused Brother Jacques.  Why not he, too?  Had not the marquis said that he was too handsome for a priest?  Why should he not be a lover, likewise?  A lover, indeed, when the one woman he loved was at this very hour praying in the Convent of the Ursulines!  Presently the man below turned his head.  It was the Chevalier. . . .  This time, when Brother Jacques raised his eyes toward God, his gaze did not falter.  He had cursed the author of his being, which was very close to cursing his God.  There was before him, expiation.  He smiled wanly.

His brother.  Slowly he tore the letter in two, the halves into quarters, the quarters into infinitesimal squares.  He took a pinch of them and extended his arm, dropping the particles of paper upon the current of the wind.  They rose, fell, eddied, swam, and rose again, finally to fall on the roofs below.  Again and again he repeated this act, till not a single square remained in his hand.  His brother.  He re-entered the room, shouldered his pack, and passed from the chateau.  The dream of empire was gone; the day of expiation was begun.  Later he was seen making his way toward the parapet.

The Chevalier and madame continued to gaze toward the south, toward the scene of the great catastrophe of their lives.  They had been talking it over again:  the journey through the forest, the conflict at the hut, the day in the hills.