The Grey Cloak Part 14

Jehan crossed himself, for he was a pious Catholic.

"Hypocrite!" snarled the marquis; "Have I not forbidden you this mummery in my presence? Begone!"

The Swiss clock on the mantel had chimed the first quarter after eight ere the marquis was again disturbed. He turned in his seat to witness the entrance of his unwelcome guests. He smiled, but not pleasantly.

"Be seated, Messieurs," he said, waving his hand toward the chairs, and eying the Iroquois with that curiosity with which one eyes a new species of animal. Next his gaze fell upon Brother Jacques, whose look, burning and intense, aroused a sense of impatience in the marquis's breast. "Monsieur," he said peevishly, "have not the women told you that you are too handsome for a priest?"

"If so, Monsieur," imperturbably, "I have not heard." And while a shade of color grew in his cheeks, Brother Jacques's look was calm and undisturbed.

"And you are Father Chaumonot?" said the marquis turning to the elder.

His glance discovered a finely modeled head, a high benevolent brow, eyes mild and intelligent, a face marred neither by greed nor by cunning; not handsome, rather plain, but wholesome, amiable, and with a touch of those human qualities which go toward making a man whole.

There was even a suspicion of humor in the fine wrinkles gathered around the eyes. The marquis pictured this religious pioneer in the garb of a soldier. "You would be a man but for that robe," he said, when his scrutiny was brought to an end.

"I pray G.o.d that I may be a man for it."

The marquis laughed. He loved a man of quick reply. "What do you call him?" indicating the Indian, whose dark eyes were constantly roving.

"The Black Kettle is his Indian name; but I have baptized him as Dominique."

"Tell him for me that he is a man."

"My son," said Chaumonot, speaking slowly in French, "the white chief says that you are a man."

The Iroquois expanded under this flattery. "The white chief has the proud eye of the eagle."

"Devil take me!" cried the marquis; "but it seems that he talks very good French!"

"It took some labor," replied Chaumonot; "but he was quick to learn, and he is of great a.s.sistance to me."

"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 ma.s.s; it must be very droll."

"Monsieur," said Chaumonot, pa.s.sing 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 dest.i.tute. 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 dest.i.tution 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.

"Be not hasty with your thanks. I have forgotten the purpose I had in mind when I gave you those pistoles. Ah well, I will leave you with the illusion that it was an act of generosity. And as I remember, you were a pitiful looking young beggar." Turning to Brother Jacques, the marquis said: "Have I ever done you a service?"

"No, Monsieur le Marquis; you have never done me a service." There was a strange irony beneath the surface of these words. Chaumonot did not notice it, but the marquis, who was a perfect judge of all those subtile phases of conversation, caught the jangling note; and it caused him to draw together his brows in a puzzled frown.

"Have I ever met you till now?" he asked.

"Not that I know of, Monsieur." The tone was gentle, respectful.

"There is something familiar about your face;" and the marquis stared into s.p.a.ce; but he could not conjure up the memory he sought. He had seen this handsome priestly face before. Where?

Brother Jacques's features were without definite expression.

Presently the marquis roused himself from the past. "I received your letter in regard to funds. How is it that you came to me?"

"You have gained the reputation of being liberal."

"I have several reputations," said the marquis dryly. "But why should I give you a thousand livres? That is a good many."

"Oh, Monsieur, give what you like; only that sum was suggested by me because it is the exact amount needed in our work."

"But I am out of sympathy with your projects and your religion, especially your religion. I am neither a Catholic nor a Huguenot.

Religion which seeks political domination is not a religion, but a party. And what are Catholicity and Huguenotism but political factions, with a different set of prayers? Next to a homely woman, there is nothing I detest so much as politics. I have no religion."

"It would be a great joy," said Chaumonot, "to bring about your conversion."

"You have heard of Sisyphus, who was condemned eternally to roll a stone up a hill? Well, Monsieur, that would be a simple task compared with an attempt to convert me to Catholicism. I believe in three things: life, pleasure, and death, because I know them to exist."

"And pain, Monsieur?" said Brother Jacques softly.

"Ah well, and pain," abstractedly. "But as to Heaven and h.e.l.l, bah!

Let some one prove to me that there exists a hereafter other than silence; I am not unreasonable. People say that I am an infidel, an atheist. I am simply a pagan, even more of a pagan than the Greeks, for they wors.h.i.+ped marble. Above all things I am a logician; and logic can not feed upon suppositions; it must have facts. Why should I be a Catholic, to exterminate all the Huguenots; a Huguenot, to annihilate all the Catholics? No, no! Let all live; let each man wors.h.i.+p what he will and how. There is but one end, and this end focuses on death, unfeeling sod, and worms. Shall I die to-morrow? I enjoyed yesterday.

And had I died yesterday, I should now be beyond the worry of to-morrow. I wish no man's death, because he believes not as I believe. I wish his death only when he has wronged me . . . or I have wronged him. I do not say to you, 'Monsieur, be a heretic'; I say merely, permit me to be one if I choose. And what is a soul?" He blew upon the gold k.n.o.b of his stick, and watched the moisture evaporate.

"Thought, Monsieur; thought is the soul. Can you dissect the process of reason? Can you define of what thought consists? No, Monsieur; there you stop. You possess thought, but you can not tell whence it comes, or whither it goes when it leaves this earthly casket. This is because thought is divine. When on board a s.h.i.+p, in whom do you place your trust?" Chaumonot's eyes were burning with religious zeal.

"I trust the pilot, because I see him at the wheel. I speak to him, and he tells me whither we are bound. I understand your question, and have answered it. You would say, 'G.o.d is the pilot of our souls.' But what proof? I do not see G.o.d; and I place no trust in that which I can not see. Thought, you say, is the soul. Well, then, a soul has the ant, for it thinks. What! a Heaven and a h.e.l.l for the ant? Ah, but that would be droll! I own to but one G.o.ddess, and she is chastening.

That is Folly! She is a liberal creditor. How bravely she lends us our excesses! When we are young, Folly is a boon companion. She opens her purse to us, laughing. But let her find that we have overdrawn our account with nature, then does Folly throw aside her smiling mask, become terrible with her importunities, and hound us into the grave. I am paying Folly, Monsieur," exhibiting a palsied hand. "I am paying in precious hours for the dross she lent me in my youth."

Chaumonot could not contain his indignation against this fallacious reasoning. He knew that his words might lose him a thousand livres; nevertheless he said bravely: "Monsieur le Marquis, it is such men as yourself who make the age what it is; it is philosophy such as yours that corrupts and degenerates. It is wrong, I say, a thousand times wrong. Being without faith, you are without a place to stand on; you are without hope; you live in darkness, and everything before you must be hollow, empty, joyless. You think, yet deny the existence of a soul! Folly has indeed been your G.o.d. Oh, Monsieur, it is frightful!"

And the zealot rose and crossed himself, expecting a fiery outburst and instant dismissal. He could not repress a sigh. A thousand livres were a great many.

But the marquis acted quite contrary to his expectations. He astonished the good man by laughing and pounding the floor with his cane.