“Is he a Catholic?” curiously.

“Aye, and proud to be.”

The marquis signified his astonishment by wagging his head.  “I should like to see this Indian at mass; it must be very droll.”

“Monsieur,” said Chaumonot, passing over the marquis’s questionable irony, “will you permit me to tell you a short story before approaching the subject of my visit?”

“Rabelaisian?” maliciously.

“No; not a monstrous story, but one relative to an act of kindness which took place many years ago.”

“Well, if I am not interested I shall interrupt you,” said the marquis.  He swept his hand toward the wine, but the priests and the Iroquois respectfully declined.  “Proceed.”

“Once upon a time,” began Chaumonot, his eyes directed toward the bronze console which supported the mantel, “there lived a lad whose father was a humble vine-dresser.  At the age of ten he was sent to Chatillon, where he lived with his uncle, a priest, who taught him Latin and Holy history.  This did not prevent him from yielding to the persuasion of one of his companions to run off to Beaune, where the two proposed to study music under the Fathers of Oratory.  To provide funds for the journey, he stole a dozen livres from his uncle, the priest.  Arriving at Beaune, he became speedily destitute.  He wrote home to his mother for money.  She showed the letter to his father, who ordered him home.  Stung by the thought of being branded a thief in his native town, he resolved not to return, but in expiation to set out forthwith on a pilgrimage to Rome.  Tattered and penniless, he took the road to Rome.  He was proud, this boy, and at first refused to beg; but misery finally forced his pride to its knees, and his hand stretched forth from door to door.  He slept in open fields, in cowsheds, in haystacks, occasionally finding lodging in a convent.  Thus, sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of wandering vagabonds, he made his way through Savoy and Lombardy in a pitiable condition of destitution and disease.  At length he arrived at Ancona, where the thought occurred to him of visiting the Holy House of Loretto, and of applying for succor of the Holy Virgin.  Patience, Monsieur; only a moment more.”

The marquis, leaning on his cane, was distorting his lips and wrinkling his eyebrows.

“The lad’s hopes were not disappointed.  He had reached the renowned shrine, knelt, paid his devotions, when, as he issued from the chapel door, he was accosted by an elegant cavalier, who was having some difficulty with a stirrup.  He asked the wretched boy to hold the horse, and for this service gave him five Spanish pistoles of gold.”

The expression on the marquis’s face was now one of animation.

“Is it possible!  I recall the episode distinctly.  I was on the way to my marriage.”

“Well, Monsieur le Marquis, I have never forgotten that service.  I have always treasured that act of kindness.  For those five pistoles renewed life, took me to my journey’s end, and eventually led me into the Society of Jesus.  I have always desired the pleasure of meeting you and thanking you personally.”  Chaumonot’s face beamed.