THE LAST ROUT
Time doled out to the marquis a lagging hour. There were moments when
the sounds of merriment, coming from the dining-hall, awakened in his
breast the slumbering canker of envy,--envy of youth, of health, of the
joy of living. They were young in yonder room; the purse of life was
filled with golden metal; Folly had not yet thrown aside her cunning
mask, and she was still darling to the eye. Oh, to be young again; that
light step of youth, that bold and sparkling glance, that steady
hand,--if only these were once more his! Where was all the gold Time had
given to him? Upon what had he expended it, to have become thus
beggared? To find an apothecary having the elixir of eternal youth! How
quickly he would gulp the draft to bring back that beauty which had so
often compelled the admiration of women, a Duchesse de Montbazon, a
Duchesse de Longueville, a Princesse de Savoie, among the great; a Margot
Bourdaloue among the obscure!
Margot Bourdaloue. . . . The marquis closed his eyes; the revelry
dissolved into silence. How distinctly he could see that face,
sculptured with all the delicacy of a Florentine cameo; that yellow hair
of hers, full of captive sunshine; those eyes, giving forth the
velvet-bloom of heartsease; those slender brown hands which defied the
lowliness of her birth, and those ankles the beauty of which not even the
clumsy sabots could conceal! He knew a duchess whose line of blood was
older than the Capets' or the Bourbons'. Was not nature the great
Satirist? To give nobility to that duchess and beauty to that peasant!
Margot Bourdaloue, a girl of the people, of that race of animals he
tolerated because they were necessary; of the people, who understood
nothing of the poetry of passing loves; Margot Bourdaloue, the one
softening influence his gay and careless life had known.
Sometimes in the heart of swamps, surrounded by chilling or fetid airs, a
flower blossoms, tender and fragrant as any rose of sunny Tours: such a
flower Margot had been. Thirty years; yet her face had lost to him not a
single detail; for there are some faces which print themselves so
indelibly upon the mind that they become not elusive like the memory of
an enhancing melody or an exquisite poem, but lasting, like the sense of
life itself. And Margot, daughter of his own miller--she had loved him
with all the strength and fervor of her simple peasant heart. And he?
Yes, yes; he could now see that he had loved her as deeply as it was
possible for a noble to love a peasant. And in a moment of rage and
jealousy and suspicion, he had struck her across the face with his
riding-whip.
What a recompense for such a love! In all the thirty years only once had
he heard from her: a letter, burning with love, stained and blurred with
tears, lofty with forgiveness, between the lines of which he could read
the quiet tragedy of an unimportant life. Whither had she gone, carrying
that brutal, unjust blow? Was she living? . . . dead? Was there such a
thing as a soul, and was the subtile force of hers compelling him to
regret true happiness for the dross he had accepted as such? Soul?
What! shall the atheist doubt in his old age?
For more than half an hour the marquis barred from his sight the scene
surrounding, and wandered in familiar green fields where a certain
mill-stream ran laughing to the sobbing sea; closed his ears to the
shouts of laughter and snatches of ribald song, to hear again the
nightingale, the stir of grasses under foot, the thrilling sweetness of
the voice he loved. When he recovered from his dream he was surprised to
find that he had caught the angle of his wife's eyes, those expressive
and following eyes which Rubens left to posterity; and he saw in them
something which was new-born: reproach.
"Yes," said the marquis, as if replying to this spirit of reproach; "yes,
if there be souls, yours must hover about me in reproach; reproach not
without its irony and gladness; for you see me all alone, Madame,
unloved, unrespected, declining and forgotten. But I offer no complaint;
only fools and hypocrites make lamentation. And I am less to this son of
yours than the steward who reckons his accounts. Where place the blame?
Upon these shoulders, Madame, stooped as you in life never saw them. I
knew not, conceited gallant that I was, that beauty and strength were
passing gifts. What nature gives she likewise takes away. Who would
have dreamed that I should need an arm to lean on? Not I, Madame! What
vanity we possess when we lack nothing! . . ."
From the dining-hall there came distinctly the Chevalier's voice lifted
in song. He was singing one of Victor's triolets which the poet had
joined to music:
"_When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe,
I drink the wine from her radiant eyes;
And we sit in a casement made for two
When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe
With a Bacchante's love for a Bacchic brew!
Then kiss the grape, for the midnight flies
When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe,
And I the wine from her radiant eyes!_"
"Madame, he sings well," said the marquis, whimsically. "What was it the
Jesuits said? . . . corrupt and degenerate? Yes, those were the words.
'Tis true; and this disease of idleness is as infectious as the plague.
And this son of mine, he is following the game path through which I
passed . . . to this, palsy and senility! Oh, the subtile poisons, the
intoxicating Hippocrenes I taught him how to drink! And now he turns and
casts the dregs into my face. But as I said, I make no plaint; I do not
lack courage. A pleasant pastime it was, this worldly lessoning; but I
forgot that he was partly a reproduction of his Catholic mother; that
where I stood rugged he would fall; that he did not possess ardor that is
without fire, love that is without sentiment. . . ."
A maudlin voice took up the Chevalier's song . . .
"_When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe
With a Bacchante's love for a Bacchic brew!_"
"Reparation, Madame?" went on the marquis. "Such things are beyond
reparation. And yet it is possible to save him. But how? Behold! you
inspire me. I will save him. I will pardon his insolence, his contempt,
his indifference, which, having my bone, was bred in him. Still, the
question rises: for what shall I save him? Shall he love a good woman
some day? Mayhap. So I will save him, not for the Church, but for the
possible but unknown quantity."
There was a chorus, noisy and out of all harmony. At the end there came
a crash, followed by laughter. Some convivial spirit had lost his
balance and had fallen to the floor, dragging with him several bottles.
Without heeding these sounds, the marquis continued his monologue. "Yes,
I will save him. But not with kindly words, with promises, with appeals;
he would laugh at me. No, Madame; human nature such as his does not stir
to these when they come from the lips of one he does not hold in respect.
The shock must be rude, penetrating. I must break his pride. And on
what is pride based if not upon the pomp of riches? I will take away his
purse. What was his antipathy to Mademoiselle de Montbazon? . . . That
would be droll, upon honor! I never thought of that before;" and he
indulged in noiseless laughter.
The roisterers could be heard discussing wagers, some of which concerned
horses, scandals, and women. Ordinarily the marquis would have listened
with secret pleasure to this equivocal pastime; but somehow it was at
this moment distasteful to his ears.
"My faith! but these Jesuits have cast a peculiar melancholy over me;
this frog's blood of mine would warm to generous impulses! . . . I
wonder where I have seen that younger fanatic?" The marquis mused a
while, but the riddle remained elusive and unexplained. He struck the
bell to summon Jehan. "Announce to Monsieur le Comte my desire to hold
speech with him, immediately."
"With Monsieur le Comte?" cried Jehan.
"Ass! must I repeat a command?"
Jehan hurried away, nearly overcome by surprise.
"A toast!" said the Vicomte d'Halluys: "the Chevalier's return to Paris
and to favor!"
The roisterers filled their glasses. "To Paris, Chevalier, to court!"
"To the beautiful unknown," whispered the poet into his friend's ear.
"Thanks, Messieurs," said the Chevalier. "Paris!" and a thousand flashes
of candle-light darted from the brimming glasses.
The scene was not without its picturesqueness. The low crockery shelves
of polished mahogany running the length of the room and filled with rare
porcelain, costly Italian glass, medieval silver, antique flagons,
loving-cups of gold inlaid with amber and garnets; a dazzling array of
candlesticks; a fireplace of shining mosaics; the mahogany table littered
with broken glass, full and empty bottles, broken pipes, pools of
overturned wine, shredded playing cards, cracked dice, and dead candles;
somber-toned pictures and rusted armor lining the walls; the brilliant
uniforms of the officers from Fort Louis, the laces and satins of the
civilians; the flushed faces, some handsome, some sodden, some made
hideous by the chisel and mallet of vice: all these produced a scene at
once attractive and repelling.
"Vicomte," said the Chevalier, "we are all drunk. Let us see if there be
steady hands among us. I make you a wager."
"On what?"
"There are eight candles on your side of the table, eight on mine. I
will undertake to snuff mine in less time than it takes you to snuff
yours. Say fifty pistoles to make it interesting."
"Done!" said the vicomte.
Perhaps Victor was the soberest man among them, next to the vicomte, who
had jestingly been accused of having hollow bones, so marvelous was his
capacity for wine and the art of concealing the effects. Several times
the poet had crossed the vicomte's glance as it was leveled in the
Chevalier's direction. Each time the vicomte's lips had been twisted
into a half smile which was not unmixed with pitying contempt. Somehow
the poet did not wholly trust the vicomte. Genius has strange instincts.
While Victor admired the vicomte's wit, his courage, his recklessness,
there was a depth to this man which did not challenge investigation, but
rather repelled it. What did that half smile signify? Victor shrugged.
Perhaps it was all his imagination. Perhaps it was because he had seen
the vicomte look at Madame de Brissac . . . as he himself had often
looked. Ah well, love is a thing over which neither man nor woman has
control; and perhaps his half-defined antagonism was based upon jealousy.
There was some satisfaction to know that the vicomte's head was in no
less danger than his own. He brushed aside these thoughts, and centered
his interest in the game which was about to begin.
The vicomte drew his sword, and accepted that of Lieutenant de Vandreuil
of the fort, while the Chevalier joined to his own the rapier of his
poet-friend. Both the vicomte and the Chevalier held enviable
reputations as fancy swordsmen. To snuff a candle with a pair of swords
held scissorwise is a feat to be accomplished only by an expert.
Interest in the sport was always high; and to-night individual wagers as
to the outcome sprang up around the table. "Saumaise," said the vicomte,
"will you hold the watch?"
"With pleasure, Vicomte," accepting the vicomte's handsome time-piece.
"Messieurs, it is now twenty-nine minutes after ten; promptly at thirty I
shall give the word, preceding it with a one-two-three. Are you ready?"
The contestants nodded. Several seconds passed, in absolute silence.
"One-two-three--go!"
The Chevalier succeeded in snuffing his candles three seconds sooner than
the vicomte. The applause was loud. Breton was directed to go to the
cellars and fetch a dozen bottles of white chambertin.
"You would have won, Vicomte," said the Chevalier, "but for a floating
wick."
"Your courtesy exceeds everything," returned the vicomte, bowing with
drunken exaggeration.
The doors slid back, and Jehan appeared on the threshold.
"Monsieur le Comte," he said, "Monsieur le Marquis, your father, desires
to speak to you." Jehan viewed the scene phlegmatically,
"What!" The Chevalier set down his glass. His companions did likewise.
"You are jesting, Jehan."
"No, Monsieur. This moment he commanded me to approach you."
"The marquis wishes to speak to me, you say?" The Chevalier looked about
him to see how this news affected his friends. They were exchanging
blank inquiries. "Tell Monsieur le Marquis that I will be with him
presently."
"Now, Monsieur; pardon me, but he wishes to see you now."
"The devil! Messieurs, accept my excuses. My father is old and is
doubtless attacked by a sudden chill. I will return immediately."
At the Chevalier's entrance the marquis did not rise; he merely turned
his head. The Chevalier approached his chair, frowning.
"Monsieur," said the son, "Jehan has interrupted me to say that you
desired to speak to me. Are you ill?"
"Not more than usual," answered the marquis dryly, catching the sarcasm
underlying the Chevalier's solicitude. "It is regarding a matter far
more serious and important than the state of my health. I am weary,
Monsieur le Comte; weary of your dissipations, your carousals, your
companions; I am weary of your continued disrespect."
"Monsieur, you never taught me to respect you," quietly, the flush gone
from his cheeks.
The marquis nodded toward his wife's portrait, as if to say: "You see,
Madame?" To his son he said: "If you can not respect me as your father,
at least you might respect my age."
"Ah; honest age is always worthy of respect. But is yours honest,
Monsieur? Have you not aged yourself?"
The marquis grew thoughtful at the conflict in view. "Monsieur, when I
asked you to marry Mademoiselle de Montbazon, I forgot to say that she
was not my daughter, but legally and legitimately the daughter of her
father, the Duc de Montbazon."
This curious turn threw the Chevalier into a fit of uncontrollable
laughter. The marquis waited patiently.
"I had no such thought. But your suggestion, had it occurred, might
naturally have appealed to me. The supposition would not have been
unreasonable."
"The lad is a wit!" cried the marquis, in mock admiration.
The Chevalier bowed. "Monsieur, if my presence at your hôtel is not
agreeable to you, I will leave at once. It is a small matter where I
spend the night, as I return to court to-morrow."
"Ah! And what brought about this good fortune which has returned you to
her Majesty's graces?" The marquis never mentioned Mazarin.
"The cause would scarcely interest you, Monsieur," coldly. The
roisterers were becoming hilarious once more, and the Chevalier grew
restive.
"No, nothing interests me; but one grows weary of wine-bibbers and
roisterers, of spendthrifts and sponges."
"Monsieur is old and can not appreciate the natural exuberance of youth."
The marquis fumbled at his lips.
"Surely, Monsieur," went on the Chevalier, the devil of banter in his
tones, "surely you are not going to preach me a sermon after having
taught me life from your own book?"
"Monsieur, attend to me. You have disappointed me in a hundred ways."
"What! have I not proved an apt scholar? Have I not succeeded in being
written in Rochelle as a drunkard and a gamester? Perhaps I have not
concerned myself sufficiently with women? Ah well, Monsieur, I am young
yet; there is still time to make me totally hateful, not only to others,
but to myself."
All these replies, which passed above and below the marquis's guard,
pierced the quick; and the marquis, whose impulse had been good, but
whose approach to the vital point of discussion was without tact, began
to lose patience; and a cold anger awoke in his eyes.
"Monsieur le Comte," he said, rising, "I have summoned you here to
discuss not the past, but the future." He was quite as tall as his son,
but gaunt and with loosely hanging clothes.
"The future?" said the Chevalier. "Best assured, Monsieur, that you
shall have no hand in mine."
"Be not too certain of that," replied the marquis, his lips parting in
that chilling smile with which he had formerly greeted opponents on the
field of honor. "And, after all, you might have the politeness to
remember that I am, whatever else, still your father."
The Chevalier bowed ironically. Had he been less drunk he would have
read the warning which lay in his father's eyes, now brilliant with the
spirit of conflict. But he rushed on to his doom, as it was written he
should. Paris was in his mind, Paris and mademoiselle, whose letter lay
warm against his heart. He turned to his mother's portrait, and again
bowed, sweeping the floor with the plume of his hat.
"Madame, yours was a fortunate escape. Would that I had gone with you on
the journey. Have you a spirit? Well, then, observe me; note the bister
about my eyes, the swollen lips, the shaking hand. 'Twas a lesson I
learned some years ago from Monsieur le Marquis, your husband, my father.
You, Madame, died at my birth, therefore I have known no mother. Am I a
drunkard, a wine-bibber, a roisterer by night? Say then, who taught me?
Before I became of age my foolish heart was filled with love which must
spend itself upon something. I offered this love, filial and respectful,
to Monsieur le Marquis. Madame, the bottle was more responsive to this
outburst of generous youth than Monsieur le Marquis, to whom I was a
living plaything, a clay which he molded as a pastime--too readily, alas!
And now, behold! he speaks of respect. It would be droll if it were not
sad. True, he gave me gold; but he also taught me how to use this
devil-key which unlocks the pathways of the world, wine-cellars and
women's hearts. Respect? Has he ever taken me by the hand as natural
fathers take their sons, and asked me to be his comrade? Has he ever
taught me to rise to heights, to scorn the petty forms and molds of life?
Have I not been as the captive eagle, drawn down at every flight? And
for this . . . respect? Oh, Madame, scarcely! And often I thought of
the happiness of beholding my father depending on me in his old age!"
"You thought that, Monsieur?" interrupted the marquis, his eyes losing
some of their metallic hardness. "You thought that?" What irony lay in
the taste of this knowledge!
"Monsieur," said the Chevalier with drunken asperity, "permit me to say
that you are interrupting a fine apostrophe! . . . And as a culmination,
he would have me wed the daughter of your mortal enemy, his mistress! It
is some mad dream, Madame; we shall soon awake."
"Even immediately," replied the marquis calmly. The Chevalier had
snuffed more than candles this night. He had snuffed also the belated
paternal spark of affection which had suddenly kindled in his father's
breast. "Your apostrophe, as you are pleased to term the maudlin talk of
a drunken fool, is being addressed to my wife."
"Well?" insolently.
"Your mother, while worthy and beautiful, was not sufficiently noble to
merit Rubens's brush. It is to be regretted, but I never had a portrait
of your mother."
The roisterers burst into song again . . . .
"_When Ma'm'selle drinks from her satin shoe
With a Bacchante's love for a Bacchic brew!_"
How this rollicking song penetrated the ominous silence which had
suddenly filled the salon! The Chevalier grew rigid.
"What did I understand you to say, Monsieur?" with an unnatural quietness
which somewhat confused the marquis.
"I said that I never had a portrait of your mother. Is that explicit
enough? Yonder Rubens was my wife." The marquis spoke lightly. The
tone hid well the hot wrath which for the moment obliterated his sense of
truth and justice, two qualities the importance of which he had never
till now forgotten. He watched the effect of this terrible thrust, and
with monstrous satisfaction he saw the shiver which took his son in its
chilling grasp and sent him staggering back. "Then you return to Paris
to-morrow? . . . to be the Chevalier du Cévennes till the end? Ah well!"
How often man over-reaches himself in the gratification of an ignoble
revenge! "We all have our pastimes," went on the marquis, deepening the
abyss into which he was finally to fall. "You were mine. I had intended
to send you about some years ago; but I was lonely, and there was
something in your spirit which amused me. You tickled my fancy. But
now, I am weary; the pastime palls; you no longer amuse."
The Chevalier stood in the midst of chaos. He was experiencing that
frightful plunge of Icarus, from the clouds to the sea. He was falling,
falling. When one falls from a great height, when waters roll
thunderously over one's head, strange and significant fragments of life
pass and repass the vision. And at this moment there flashed across the
Chevalier's brain, indistinctly it is true, the young Jesuit's words,
spoken at the Silver Candlestick in Paris. . . . "An object of scorn,
contumely, and forgetfulness; to dream what might and should have been;
to be proved guilty of a crime we did not commit; to be laughed at!"
Spots of red blurred his sight; his nails sank into his palms; his breath
came painfully; there was a straining at the roots of his hair.
"Monsieur," he cried hoarsely, "take care! Are you not telling me some
dreadful lie?"
"It would be . . . . scarcely worth while." The marquis controlled his
agitation by gently patting the gold knob on his stick. His gaze
wandered, seeking to rest upon some object other than his son. The first
blinding heat of passion had subsided, and in the following haze he saw
that he had committed a wrong which a thousand truths might not wholly
efface. And yet he remained silent, obdurate: so little a thing as a
word or the lack of it has changed the destinies of empires and of men.
A species of madness seized the Chevalier. With a fierce gesture he drew
his sword. For a moment the marquis thought that he was about to be
impaled upon it; but he gave no sign of fear. Presently the sword
deviated from its horizontal line, declined gradually till the point
touched the floor. The Chevalier leaned upon it, swaying slightly. His
eyes burned like opals.
"No, Monsieur, no! I will let you live, to die of old age, alone, in
silence, surrounded by those hideous phantoms which the approach of death
creates from ill-spent lives. Since you have taught me that there is no
God, I shall not waste a curse upon you for this wrong. Think not that
the lust to kill is gone; no, no; but I had rather let you live to die in
bed. So! I have been your pastime? I have now ceased to amuse
you? . . . . as my mother, whoever she may be, ceased to amuse?" His
sardonian laugh chilled the marquis in the marrow. "And I have spent
your gold, thinking it lawfully mine? . . . lorded over your broad lands,
believing myself to be heir to them? . . . been Monsieur le Comte this
and Monsieur le Comte that? How the gods must have laughed as I walked
forth among the great, arrogant in my pride of birth and riches! Poor
fool! Surely, Monsieur, it must be as you say: Heaven and hell are of
our own contriving. Poor fool! And I have held my head so high, faced
the world so fearlessly and contemptuously! . . . to find that I am this,
this! My God, Monsieur, but you have stirred within me all the hate, the
lust to kill, the gall of envy and despair! But live," his madness
increasing; "live to die in bed, no kin beside you, not even the
administering hand of a friendly priest to alleviate the horror of your
death-bed! God! do men go mad this way?"
The marquis was trembling violently. Words thronged to his lips, only to
be crushed back by the irony of fate. For a little he would have flung
himself at his son's feet. He had lied, lied, lied! What could he say?
His tongue lay hot against the palate, paralyzed. His brain was
confused, dazzled, incoherent.
"And now for these sponging fools who call themselves my friends!" The
Chevalier staggered off toward the dining-hall, from whence still came
the rollicking song. . . . It was all so incongruous; it was all so like
a mad dream.
"What are you going to do?" cried the marquis, a vague terror lending him
speech. "I have lied . . ."
"What! have you turned coward, too? What am I going to do? Patience,
Monsieur, and you will see." The Chevalier flung apart the doors. His
roistering friends greeted his appearance with delight. "A toast,
Messieurs!" he cried, flourishing his sword.
Only the Vicomte d'Halluys and Victor saw that something unusual had
taken place.
"Your friend," whispered the vicomte, "appears to be touched with a
passing madness. Look at his eyes."
"What has happened?" murmured Victor, setting down his glass.
"Bah! Monsieur le Marquis has stopped the Chevalier's allowance;" and
the vicomte sighed regretfully. From where he sat he could see the grim,
motionless figure of the marquis, standing with his back to the fire.
"Fill up the goblets, Messieurs; to the brim!" The Chevalier stumbled
among the fallen bottles. He reached the head of the table. Feverishly
he poured out a glass of wine, spilling part of it. With a laugh he
flung the bottle to the floor. "Listen!" with a sweeping glance which
took in every face. "To Monsieur le Marquis, my noble father! Up, up!"
waving his rapier. Yes, madness was in his eyes; it bubbled and frothed
in his veins, burned and cracked his lips. "It is droll! Up, you
beggars! . . . up, all of you! You, Vicomte; you, Saumaise! Drink to
the marquis, the noble marquis, the pious marquis, who gives to the
Church! Drink it, you beggars; drink it, I say!" The sword-blade rang
on the table.
"To the marquis!" cried the drunkards in chorus. They saw nothing; all
was dead within, save appetite.
"Ah, that is well! Listen. All this about you will one day be mine?
Ah! I shall be called Monsieur le Marquis; I shall possess famous
châteaux and magnificent hôtels? Fools! 'twas all a lie! I who was am
not. I vanish from the scene like a play-actor. Drink it, you beggars!
Drink it, you wine-bibbers! Drink it, you gamesters, you hunters of
women! Drink to me, the marquis's . . . bastard!"
Twelve glasses hung in mid air; twelve faces were transfixed with horror
and incredulity; twelve pairs of eyes stared stupidly at the mad
toast-master. In the salon the marquis listened with eyes distended,
with jaw fallen, lips sunken inward and of a color as sickly as blue
chalk. . . . A maudlin sob caught one roisterer by the throat, and the
tableau was broken by the falling of his glass to the table, where it lay
shattered in foaming wine.
"Paul," cried Victor; "my God, Paul, are you mad?"
"I know you not." Then with a sudden wave of disgust, the Chevalier
cried: "Now, one and all of you, out of my sight! Away with you! You
look too hardily at the brand of pleasure on my brow. Out, you beggars,
sponges and cheats! Out, I say! Back to the devil who spawned you!" He
drove them forth with the flat of his sword. He saw nothing, heard
nothing, knew nothing save that he was mad, possessed of a capital
frenzy, the victim of some frightful dream; save that he saw through
blood, that the lust to kill, to rend, and to destroy was on him. The
flat of his sword fell rudely but impartially.
Like a pack of demoralized sheep the roisterers crowded and pressed into
the hall. The vicomte turned angrily and attempted to draw his sword.
"Fool!" cried Victor, seizing the vicomte's hand; "can you not see that
he is mad? He would kill you!"
"Curse it, he is striking me with his sword!"
"He is mad!"
"Well, well, Master Poet; I can wait. What a night!"
It had ceased snowing; the world lay dimly white. The roisterers flocked
down the steps to the street. One fell into a drift and lay there
sobbing.
"What now?" asked the vicomte.
"I am sorry," said the inebriate.
"The devil! The Chevalier has a friend here," laughed the vicomte,
assisting the roisterer to his feet. "Come along, Saumaise."
"I shall wait."
"As you please;" and the vicomte continued on.
Victor watched them till they dwindled into the semblance of so many
ravens. He rubbed his fevered face with snow, and waited.
Meantime the Chevalier returned to the table. "Drink, you beggars;
drink, I say!" The sword swept the table, crashing among the bottles and
glasses and candlesticks, "Take the news to Paris, fools! Spell it
largely! It will amuse the court. Drink, drink, drink!" Wine bubbled
and ran about the table; candles sputtered and died; still the sword rose
and fell. Then came silence, broken only by heavy breathing and the
ticking of the clock in the salon. The Chevalier sat crouched in his
chair, his arm and sword resting on the table where they had at length
fallen.
The marquis recovered from his stupor. He hurried toward the
dining-hall, fumbling his lips, mumbling incoherent sentences. He came
to a stand on the threshold.
"Blundering fool," he cried passionately, "what have you said and done?"
At the sound of his father's voice, the Chevalier's rage returned; but it
was a cold rage, actionless.
"What have I done? I have written it large, Monsieur, that I am only
your poor bastard. How Paris will laugh!" He gazed around, dimly noting
the havoc. He rose, the sword still in his grasp. "What! the marquis so
many times a father, to die without legal issue?"
The marquis raised his cane to strike, so great was his passion and
chagrin; but palsy seized his arm.
"Drunken fool!" he roared; "be bastard, then; play drunken fool to the
end!"
"Who was my mother?"
"Find that out yourself, drunkard! Never from me shall you know!"
"It is just as well." The Chevalier took from his pocket his purse. He
cast it contemptuously at his father's feet.
"The last of the gold you gave me. Now, Monsieur, listen. I shall never
again cross the threshold of any house of yours; never again shall I look
upon your face, nor hear with patience your name spoken. In spite of all
you have done, I shall yet become a man. Somewhere I shall begin anew.
I shall find a level, and from that I shall rise. And I shall become
what you will never become, respected." He picked up his cloak and hat.
He looked steadily into his father's eyes, then swung on his heels,
passed through the salon, thence to the street.
"Paul?" said Victor.
"Is that you, Victor?" quietly.
"Yes, Paul." Victor gently replaced the Chevalier's sword into its
scabbard, and locking his arm in his friend's, the two walked in silence
toward the Corne d'Abondance.
And the marquis? Ah, God--the God he did not believe in!--only God could
analyse his thoughts.
"Fool!" he cried, seeing himself alone and the gift of prescience
foretelling that he was to be henceforth and forever alone,--"senile
fool! Dotard!" He beat about with his cane even as the Chevalier had
beaten about with his sword. "Double fool! to lose him for the sake of a
lie, a damnable lie, and the lack of courage to own to it!" A Venetian
mirror caught his attention. He stood before it, and seeing his
reflection he beat the glass into a thousand fragments.
Jehan appeared, white and trembling, carrying his master's candlestick.
"Ah!" cried the marquis. "'Tis you. Jehan, call your master a fool."
"I, Monsieur?" Jehan retreated.
"Aye; or I promise to beat your worthless body within an inch of death.
Call me a fool, whose wrath, over-leaped his prudence and sense of truth
and honor. Call me a fool."
"Oh!"
"Quickly!" The cane rose.
"God forgive me this disrespect! . . . Monsieur, you are a fool!"
"A senile, doting fool."
"A senile, doting fool!" repeated Jehan, weeping.
"That is well. My candle. Listen to me." The marquis moved toward the
staircase. "Monsieur le Comte has left this house for good and all, so
he says. Should he return to-morrow . . ."
Jehan listened attentively, as attentively as his dazed mind would permit.
"Should he come back within a month . . ." The marquis had by this time
reached the first landing.
"Yes, Monsieur."
"If he ever comes back . . ."
"I am listening."
"Let him in."
And the marquis vanished beyond the landing, leaving the astonished
lackey staring at the vanishing point. He saw the ruin and desolation in
the dining-hall, from which arose the odor of stale wine and smoke.
"Mother of Jesus! What has happened?"