“You are wrong, Monsieur,” replied Brother Jacques quietly.  “I should go to further lengths of disapprobation.  I should say that Monsieur le Marquis’s philosophy is the cult of fools and of madmen, did I not know that he was simply testing our patience when he advanced such impossible theories.”

“What! two of them?” sarcastically.  “I compliment you both upon risking my good will for an idea.”

Chaumonot sighed more deeply.  The marquis motioned him to his chair.

“Sit down, Monsieur; you have gained my respect.  Frankness in a Jesuit?  Come; what has the Society come to that frankness replaces cunning and casuistry?  Bah!  There never was an age but had its prude to howl ‘O these degenerate days!’ Corrupt and degenerate you say?  Yes; that is the penalty of greatness, richness, and idleness.  It began with the Egyptians, it struck Rome and Athens; it strikes France to-day.  Yesterday we wore skins and furs, to-day silks and woolens, to-morrow . . . rags, mayhap.  But listen:  human nature has not changed in these seven thousand years, nor will change.  Only governments and fashions change . . . and religions.”

There was a pause.  Chaumonot wondered vaguely how he could cope with this man who was flint, yet unresponsive to the stroke of steel.  Had the possibility of the thousand livres become nothing?  Again he sighed.  He glanced at Brother Jacques, but Brother Jacques was following the marquis’s lead . . . sorting visions in the crumbling, glowing logs.  As for the Indian, he was admiring the chandelier.

“Monsieur,” said Brother Jacques, breaking the silence, but not removing his gaze from the logs, “it is said that you have killed many men in duels.”

“What would you?” complacently.  “All men fight when need says must.  I never fought without cause, just or unjust.  And the Rochellais have added a piquant postscript that for every soul I have despatched . . .”

“You speak of soul, Monsieur?” interrupted Chaumonot.

“A slip of the tongue.  What I meant to say was, that for every life I’ve sent out of the world, I’ve brought another into it,” with a laugh truly Rabelaisian.

Brother Jacques’s hands were attacked by a momentary spasm.  Only the Indian witnessed this sign of agitation; but the conversation was far above his learning and linguistic resources, and he comprehended nothing.

“Well, Monsieur Chaumonot,” said the marquis, who was growing weary of this theological discussion, “Here are your livres in the sum of one thousand.  I tell you frankly that it had been my original intention to subject you to humiliation.  But you have won my respect, for all my detestation of your black robes; and if this money will advance your personal ambitions, I give it to you without reservation.”  He raised the bag and cast it into Chaumonot’s lap.

“Monsieur,” cried the good man, his face round with delight, “every night in yonder wilderness I shall pray for the bringing about of your conversion.  It will be a great triumph for the Church.”