The Grey Cloak Part 13

"The same," less hilariously.

"I thought you had gone to Holland?"

"I can talk Spanish," replied Victor, "but not a word of Dutch. And you? Is it Spain?"

"Nay; when the time comes I'm for New France. I have some property there; a fine excuse to see it. What a joke! How well it will read in Monsieur Somebody's memoirs! What is new?"

"Mazarin has not yet come into possession of that paper. Beaufort will see to that, so far as it lies in his power. I am all at sea."

"And I soon shall be! Come on, then. We are making a night of it."

And the vicomte caught the poet by the arm and dragged him into the private a.s.sembly.

Around a huge silver bowl sat a company of roisterers, all flushed with wine and the attendant false happiness. Long clay pipes clouded the candle-light; there was the jingle of gold and the purr of shuffling cards; and here and there were some given to the voicing of ribald songs. To Victor this was no uncommon scene; and it was not long before he had thrown himself with gay enthusiasm into this mad carouse.

Shortly after the door had closed upon the company of merry-makers and their loud voices had resolved into untranslatable murmurs, three men came into the public room and ranged themselves in front of the fire.

The close fitting, long black ca.s.socks, the wide-brimmed hats looped up at the sides, proclaimed two of them to belong to the Society of Jesus.

The third, his body clothed in nondescript skins and furs, his feet in beaded moccasins, his head hatless and the coa.r.s.e black hair adorned with a solitary feather from a heron's wing and glistening with melting snow, the color of his skin unburnished copper, his eyes black, fierce, restless,--all these marked the savage of the New World. Potboys, grooms, and guests all craned their necks to get a glimpse of this strange and formidable being of whom they had heard such stories as curdled the blood and filled the night with troubled dreams. A crowd gathered about, whispering and nodding and pointing. The Iroquois beheld all this commotion with indifference not unmixed with contempt.

When he saw Du Puys and Bouchard pressing through the crowd, his lips relaxed. These were men whom he knew to be men and tried warriors.

After greeting the two priests, Du Puys led them to a table and directed Maitre le Borgne to bring supper for three. The Iroquois, receiving a pleasant nod from Father Chaumonot, took his place at the table. And Le Borgne, pale and trembling, took the red man's order for meat and water.

"Ah, Captain," said Chaumonot, "it is good to see you again."

"Major, Father; Major."

"You have received your commission, then?"

"Finally."

"Congratulations! Will you direct me at once to the Hotel de Perigny?

I must see the marquis to-night, since we sail to-morrow."

"As soon as you have completed your supper," said Du Puys. Then lowering his voice: "The marquis's son is in yonder room."

"Then the marquis has a son?" said Brother Jacques, with an indescribable smile. "And by what name is he known?"

"The Chevalier du Cevennes."

Strange fires glowed in the young Jesuit's eyes. He plucked at his rosary. "The Chevalier du Cevennes: the ways of G.o.d are inscrutable."

"In what way, my son?" asked Chaumonot.

"I met the Chevalier in Paris." Brother Jacques folded his arms and stared absently at his plate.

CHAPTER VII

THE PHILOSOPHY OF MONSIEUR LE MARQUIS DE PERIGNY

The Hotel de Perigny stood in the Rue des Augustines, diagonally opposite the historic pile once occupied by Henri II and Diane de Poitiers, the beautiful and fascinating d.u.c.h.esse de Valentinois of equivocal yet enduring fame. It was constructed in the severe beauty of Roman straight lines, and the stains of nearly two centuries had discolored the blue-veined Italian marble. A high wall inclosed it, and on the top of this wall ran a miniature cheval-de-frise of iron.

Nighttime or daytime, in mean or brilliant light, it took on the somber visage of a kill-joy. The invisible hand of fear chilled and repelled the curious: it was a house of dread. There were no gardens; the flooring of the entire court was of stone; there was not even the usual vine sprawling over the walls.

Men had died in this house; not always in bed, which is to say, naturally. Some had died struggling in the gloomy corridors, in the grand salon, on the staircase leading to the upper stories. In the Valois's time it had witnessed many a violent night; for men had held life in a careless hand, and the master of fence had been the law-giver. Three of the House of Perigny had closed their accounts thus roughly. The grandsire and granduncle of the present marquis, both being masters of fence, had succ.u.mbed in an attempt to give law to each other. And the apple of discord, some say, had been the d.u.c.h.esse de Valentinois. The third to die violently was the ninth marquis, father of the present possessor of the t.i.tle. History says that he died of too much wine and a careless tongue. Thus it will be seen that the blood in the veins of this n.o.ble race was red and hot.

Children, in mortal terror, scampered past the hotel; at night sober men, when they neared it, crossed the street. Few of the Roch.e.l.lais could describe the interior; these were not envied of their knowledge.

It had been tenanted but twice in thirty years. Of the present generation none could remember having seen it cheerful with lights.

The ignorant abhor darkness; it is the meat upon which their superst.i.tion feeds. To them, deserted houses are always haunted, if not by spirits at least by the memory of evil deeds.

The master of this house of dread was held in awe by the citizens to whom he was a word, a name to be spoken lowly, even when respect tinctured the utterance. Stories concerning the marquis had come from Paris and Perigny, and travel, the good gossip, had distorted acts of mere eccentricity into deeds of violence and wickedness. The n.o.bility, however, did not share the popular belief. They beheld in the marquis a great n.o.ble whose right to his t.i.tle ran back to the days when a marquisate meant the office of guarding the marshes and frontiers for the king. Besides, the marquis had been the friend of two kings, the lover of a famous beauty, the husband of the daughter of a Savoy prince. These three virtues balanced his moral delinquencies. To the popular awe in which the burghers held him there was added a large particle of distrust; for during the great rebellion he had served neither the Catholics nor the Huguenots; neither Richelieu, his enemy, nor De Rohan, his friend. Catholics proclaimed him a Huguenot, Huguenots declared him a Catholic; yet, no one had ever seen him attend ma.s.s, the custom of good Catholics, nor had any heard him pray in French, the custom of good Huguenots. What then, being neither one nor the other? An atheist, whispered the wise, a word which was then accepted in its narrowest cense: that is to say, Monsieur le Marquis had sold his soul to the devil.

Perigny, it is not to be denied, was a sinister sound in the ears of a virtuous woman. To the ultra-pious and the bigoted, it was a letter in the alphabet of h.e.l.l. Yet, there was in this grim chain of evil repute one link which did not conform with the whole. The marquis never haggled with his tradesmen, never beat his servants or his animals, and opened his purse to the poor with more frequency than did his religious neighbors. Those who believed in his total wickedness found it impossible to accept this incongruity.

For ten years the hotel had remained in darkness; then behold! but a month gone, a light was seen s.h.i.+ning from one of the windows. The watch, upon investigation, were informed that Monsieur le Marquis had returned to the city and would remain indefinitely. After this, on several occasions the hotel was lighted cheerfully enough. Monsieur le Marquis's son entertained his n.o.ble friends and the officers from Fort Louis. There was wine in plenty and play ran high. The marquis, however, while he permitted these saturnalia, invariably held aloof.

It was servants' hall gossip that the relations existing between father and son were based upon the coldest formalities. Conversation never went farther than "Good morning, Monsieur le Marquis" and "Good morning, Monsieur le Comte." The marquis pretended not to understand when any referred to his son as the "Chevalier du Cevennes." It was also gossiped that this n.o.ble house was drawing to its close; for the Chevalier had declined to marry, and was drinking and gaming heavily; and to add to the marquis's chagrin, the Chevalier had been dismissed from court, in disgrace,--a calamity which till now had never fallen upon the House of Perigny.

The marquis was growing old. As he sat before the fire in the grand salon, the flickering yellow light playing over his features, which had a background of moving, deep velvet-brown shadows, he might have been the theme of some melancholy whim by Rubens, a stanza by Dante. His face was furrowed like a frosty road. Veins sprawled over his hands which rested on the arms of his chair, and the knuckles shone like ivory through the drawn transparent skin. The long fingers drummed ceaselessly and the head teetered; for thus senility approaches. His lips, showing under a white mustache, were livid and fallen inward.

The large Alexandrian nose had lost its military angle, and drooped slightly at the tip: which is to say, the marquis no longer acted, he thought; he was no longer the soldier, but the philosopher. The domineering, forceful chin had the essentials of a man of justice, but it was lacking in that quality of mercy which makes justice grand.

Over the Henri IV ruff fell the loose flesh of his jaws. Altogether, it was the face of a man who was practically if not actually dead. But in the eyes, there lay the life of the man. From under jutting brows they peered as witnesses of a brain which had acc.u.mulated a rare knowledge of mankind, man's shallowness, servility, hypocrisy, his natural inability to obey the simplest laws of nature; a brain which was set in motion always by calculation, never by impulse. They were grey eyes, bold and fierce and liquid as a lion's. None among the great had ever beaten them down, for they were truthful eyes, almost an absolute denial of the life he had lived. But truth to the marquis was not a moral obligation. He was truthful as became a great n.o.ble who was too proud and fearless of consequences to lie. In his youth he had been called Antinous to Henri's Caesar; but there is a certain type of beauty which, if preyed upon by vices, becomes sardonic in old age.

At his elbow stood a small Turkish table on which were a Venetian bell and a light repast, consisting of a gla.s.s of weakened canary and a plate of biscuits spread sparingly with honey. Presently the marquis drank the wine and struck the bell. Jehan, the marquis's aged valet, entered soon after with a large candelabrum of wax candles. This he placed on the mantel. Even with this additional light, the other end of the salon remained in semi-darkness. Only the dim outline of the grand staircase could be seen.

Over the mantel the portrait of a woman stood out clearly and definitely. It represented Madame la Marquise at twenty-two, when Marie de Medicis had commanded the young Rubens to paint the portrait of one of the few women who had volunteered to share her exile. Madame lived to be only twenty-four, happily.

"Jehan, light the chandelier," said the marquis. His voice, if high, was still clear and strong. "Has Monsieur le Comte ventured forth in this storm?"

"Yes, Monsieur; but he left word that he would return later with a company of friends."

"Friends?" The marquis shrugged. "Is that what he calls them? When do these grasping Jesuits visit me?"

"At eight, Monsieur. They are due this moment, unless they have failed to make the harbor."

"And they bring the savage? Good. He will interest me, and I am dying of weariness. I shall see a man again. Arrange some chairs next to me, bring a bottle of claret, and a thousand livres from the steward's chest. And listen, Jehan, let Monsieur le Comte's servant give orders to the butler for his master. I forbid you to do it."

"Yes, Monsieur," and Jehan proceeded to light the chandelier, the illumination of which brought out distinctly the tarnished splendor of the salon. Jehan retired.

The marquis, to steady his teetering head, rested his chin on his hands, which were clasped over the top of his walking-stick.

Occasionally his eyes roved to the portrait of his wife, and a melancholy, unreadable smile broke the severe line of his lips.

"A beautiful woman," he mused aloud, "though she did not inspire me with love. Beauty: that is the true religion, that is the shrine of wors.h.i.+p, as the Greeks understood it; beauty of woman. Woman was born to express beauty, man to express strength. We detest weakness in a man, and a homely woman is a crime. And so De Brissac pa.s.sed violently? And his oaths of vengeance were breaths on a mirror. Ah well, I had ceased to hate him these twenty years. Did he love yonder woman, or was his fancy like mine, ephemeral? And he married Mademoiselle de Montbazon? That is droll, a kind of tentative vengeance."

His eyes closed and he fell into a dreaming state. Like all men who have known eventful but useless lives, the marquis lived in the past.

The future held for him nothing cut pain and death, and his thought seldom went forth to meet it. Day after day he sat alone with his souvenirs, unmindful of the progress about him, indifferent.

When the valet returned with the wine and the livres, he placed three chairs within easy distance of the marquis, and waited to learn what further orders his master had in mind.

The marquis opened his eyes. "When Messieurs the Jesuits come, show them in at once. The hypocrites come on a begging errand. After I have humiliated them, I shall give them money, and they will say, '_Absolvo te_.' It is simple. And they will promise to pray for the repose of my soul when I am dead. My faith, how easy it is to gain Heaven! A thousand livres, a prayer mumbled in Latin, and look! Heaven is for the going. The thief and the murderer, the fool and the wise man, the rich and the beggared, how they must jostle one another in the matter of precedence! Poor Lucifer! Who will lend Lucifer a thousand livres and an '_Absolvo te_'?"