“You are wasting your breath.  I am not giving a thousand livres for an ‘Absolvo te.’  Perhaps, after all,” and the marquis smiled maliciously, “I am giving you this money to embarrass Monsieur du Rosset, the most devout Catholic in Rochelle.  I have heard that he has refused to aid you.”

“I shall not look into your purpose,” said Chaumonot.

“Monsieur,” said Brother Jacques musically, “I am about to ask a final favor.”

“More livres?” laughing.

“No.  There may come a time when, in spite of your present antagonism, you will change your creed, and on your death-bed desire to die in the Church.  Should that time ever come, will you promise me the happiness of administering to you the last sacraments?”

For some time the marquis examined the handsome face, the bold grey eyes and elegant shape of this young enthusiast, and a wonder grew into his own grey eyes.

“Ah well, I give you my promise, since you desire it.  I will send for you whenever I consider favorably the subject of conversion.  But supposing you are in America at the time?”

“I will come.  God will not permit you to die, Monsieur, before I reach your bedside.”  The young Jesuit stood at full height, his eyes brilliant, his nostrils expanded, his whole attitude one of religious fervor . . . so Chaumonot and the marquis thought.

At this moment the Chevalier and his company of friends arrived; and they created some noise in making their entrance.  To gain the dining-hall, where they always congregated, the company had to pass through the grand salon.  The Chevalier had taught his companions to pay no attention to the marquis, his father, nor to offer him their respects, as the marquis had signified his desire to be ignored by the Chevalier’s friends.  So, led by De Saumaise, who was by now in a most genial state of mind, the roisterers trailed across the room toward the dining-hall, laughing and grumbling over their gains and losses at the Corne d’Abondance.  The Chevalier, who straggled in last, alone caught the impressive tableau at the other end of the salon; the two Jesuits and the Indian, their faces en silhouette, a thread of reflected fire following the line of their profiles, and the white head of the marquis.  When the young priest turned and the light from the chandelier fell full upon his face, the Chevalier started.  So did Brother Jacques, though he quickly assumed a disquieting calm as he returned the Chevalier’s salutation.

“What is he doing here?” murmured the Chevalier.  “Devil take him and his eyes;” and passed on into the dining-hall.

When the Jesuits and their Indian convert departed, the marquis resumed his former position, his chin on his hands, his hands resting on his cane.  From time to time he heard loud laughter and snatches of song which rose above the jingle of the glasses in the dining-hall.

“I am quite alone,” he mused, with a smile whimsically sad.