SISTER BENIE AND A DISSERTATION ON CHARITY
Three days passed. At Orléans the settlers had had two or three
brushes with marauding Mohawks. A letter from Father Chaumonot at the
mission in Onondaga reported favorable progress. D'Hérouville was
again out of hospital; and De Leviston had stolen quietly away to
Montreal, where he was shortly to succumb to the plague. Only three
persons knew of the remarkable conflict between the marquis and
D'Hérouville: the son, Brother Jacques, and the Vicomte d'Halluys, who
possessed that mysterious faculty of finding out many things of which
the majority were unaware. As for the marquis, Brother Jacques
fostered the belief that it had been only a wild dream.
Each morning Madame de Brissac watched with growing eagerness the
lading of the good ship Henri IV. It seemed impossible to her that the
deception in regard to the Chevalier could continue much longer. Where
was the dénouement on which she had builded so fondly? She had put it
off so many times that perhaps it was now too late. Sooner or later
Victor would slip, and the mask would be at an end. And why not? Why
not have done with a comedy which had grown stale? Why not tell
Monsieur du Cévennes that she was Gabrielle Diane de Montbazon, she
whose miniature he had crushed beneath the heel of his riding boot?
Rather would she tell him than leave it to the offices of D'Hérouville
or the vicomte. Surely her purpose had been to bring him to his knees
and then laugh! Relent? Not while her cup still held a drop of pride.
She had been mad indeed. To have come here to Quebec with purpose and
impulse undefined! Daily she mocked her weakness. Truly she was the
daughter of her mother, extravagant, unbalanced, blown hither and
thither by caprice as a leaf is blown by an autumn wind.
The thought of him stirred her as nothing had ever before stirred her.
It was hate, it was wounded pride crying out for vengeance, it was the
barb of scorn urging her to give back in kind. And, heaven above! he
had been on his knees, and she had dallied with the moment of revenge
even as a cat dallies with a mouse. Diane! She detested the name.
Fool! And yet, why was he here? What was this sudden veil of mystery
which hid him from her secret eyes? Victor knew, and yet his love for
her was not so great that he could tell her another's secret. And the
governor knew, D'Hérouville, and the vicomte; and they were as silent
as stone. Love? A fillip of her finger for love! Happy indeed was
she to learn that neither the marquis nor the Chevalier would return to
France on the Henri IV. Such a way have the women.
Monsieur le Marquis lay in his bed, the bed from which he was to rise
but once again in life. His thin fingers had drawn the coverlet
closely under his chin, and from time to time they worked
spasmodically. His head, scarce less white than the pillow beneath it,
went on nodding from side to side, as if in perpetual negation to those
puzzling questions which occupied his brain. His eyebrows were
constantly bending, and his grey eyes burned with a fever which was
never to be subdued. Across the foot of the bed lay a golden bar of
morning sunlight.
"How long must I lie in this cursed bed?" he asked.
Brother Jacques left the window and came to the bedside. "Perhaps a
month, Monsieur; it all depends upon your patience."
"Patience? I have little against my account. When does the Henri IV
sail?"
"A week from to-day."
"In bed or on foot, I shall sail with it. I am weary of trees, and
rocks, and water. I desire to see the cobbles of Rochelle and Périgny
before I die. Have you no canary in this abominable land?"
"The physician denies you wine, Monsieur."
"And what does that fool know about my needs?" demanded the invalid,
stirring his feet as if striving to cast aside the sunlight. "Draw the
shutter; the sun bites into my eyes. I abhor sunshine in bed. I am
seventy, and yet I have risen with the sun for more than sixty-five
years. Have you any books?"
"Only of a religious and sacred character, and a volume of the letters
of the Order." Brother Jacques offered these without confidence.
"Drivel! Find me something lively: Monsieur Brantôme, for instance.
Surely Monsieur de Lauson has these memoirs in his collection."
"I shall make inquiries." Brother Jacques was not at ease.
A long pause ensued.
It was the marquis who broke it. "Why do you come and stand at the
side of the bed and stare at me when you suppose I am sleeping? I have
watched you, and it annoys me."
"I shall do so no more, Monsieur."
"But why?"
"Perhaps I was contemplating what a happiness it would be to bring
about your salvation."
"Ah! I remember now. I told you that if ever I changed my mind
regarding worship I should make my first confession to you. Yes, I
remember distinctly. Well, Monsieur, you have still some time to wait.
I am not upon my death-bed."
The priest turned aside his head.
"Eh? Has that fool of a blood-letter made an ante-mortem?"
"No, Monsieur. But the strongest and youngest of us retire each night,
not knowing if we shall rise with the morrow. And you are more ill
than you think. It is what they call the palsy. It can not be cured.
But your soul may be saved. There is time."
"Palsy? Bah! The wine always stopped my head from wagging. And hang
me if that dream of mine hasn't numbed my legs." The marquis held out
a hand. "And in my dream I believed this hand to be holding a sword!
It was a gallant fight, as I remember. I was Quixote, defending some
fool-thing or other."
"Have you ever thought of the future, Monsieur?"
"Death? My faith, no! I have been too busy with the past. The past,
the past!" and the marquis closed his eyes. "It walks beside me like a
shadow. If I were not too old . . . I should regret . . . some of it."
"There is relief in confession."
"I have nothing to confess."
"Shall I seek Monsieur le Chevalier?"
"No. Do not disturb him. He has his affairs. He is busy becoming
great and respected," ironically. "Besides, the sight of the stubborn
fool would send me into spasms. After all the trouble I have taken for
his sake! You do well to take the orders. You do not marry, and you
have no ungrateful sons. It was not enough to confess that I lied to
him; I must strain the buckles at my knees. But not yet."
"Lied?"
"Why, yes. I told him that he was . . . But what is it to you? He is
a fool . . . like his father. To throw away a marquisate and the
income of a prince! Curse this bed!" with sullen fury.
"Perhaps, Monsieur, the bed is of your own making."
"Ah! So we also indulge in irony? If this bed is of my own making, my
mind was occupied with softer things. Would you not like the love of
women, endless gold, priceless wines, and all that the world gives to
the worldly? Come; what secret envy is yours, you who sleep on straw,
in clammy cells, and dine on crusts?"
Brother Jacques went back to his window. He was pale. How deftly had
the marquis placed his finger on the raw! Envy? All his life he had
envied the rich and the worldly; all his life he had struggled between
his cravings and his honesty. Had he not shaved his crown that his
head might have a pallet to sleep on and his hunger a crust? His nails
indented his palms, but he felt no pain. He was grateful for the cool
of the morning air. Down below he saw the Vicomte d'Halluys tramping
about in company with some soldiers. The Jesuit stared at that
picturesque face. Where had he seen it prior to that night at the
Corne d'Abondance?
Up and down the winding path settlers, soldiers, merchants, trappers
and Indians straggled, with an occasional seigneur lending to the scene
the pomp of a vanished Court. Far away the priest could see a hawk,
circling and circling in the summer sky. Now and then a dove flashed
by, and a golden bumblebee blundered into the chamber.
"I will fetch Sister Benie," Brother Jacques said at length. He
dreaded to remain with this fierce-eyed old man from whom nothing
seemed hidden, not even secret thought. "She is an excellent nurse."
"She will please me better than Monsieur le Comte."
The title stirred Brother Jacques strangely.
"But give her to understand," added the marquis, "that I want no
canting Loyola. Who is this Sister Benie?"
"She is of the Ursulines."
"No, no; I mean, what does she look like and of what family."
"I have never studied her visual beauty," coldly. Brother Jacques was
anxious to be gone.
"I have known priests who were otherwise inclined. I suppose you can
see her soul. That is interesting."
"I will go at once in quest of her;" and Brother Jacques went forth.
The marquis turned a cheek to his pillow. "Jehan!"
"Yes, Monsieur," answered the old lackey from his corner.
"I do not like that young priest. He is all eyes; and he makes me
cold."
Brother Jacques meanwhile found Sister Benie in one of the Indian
schoolrooms.
"Sister, are you too busy to attend the wants of a sick man?"
"Who is the sick man, my son?"
"Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny."
"He is very ill?" laying down her hooks.
"He can not leave his bed. He wishes some one to read to him. I would
gladly do it, only I should not have the quieting effect."
The blue eyes of the nun had a range that was far away. Brother
Jacques eyed her curiously.
"I will go," she said presently. "Is not the Chevalier du Cévennes the
marquis's son?"
"He is."
"And is Monsieur le Marquis of a patient mind?"
"I confess that he is not. That is why it is difficult for me to wait
upon his wants. He is a disappointed man; and being without faith, he
is without patience. However, if you are too busy . . ."
"Lead me to him, my son," quietly.
Thus it was that the marquis, waking from the light sleep into which he
had fallen after Brother Jacques's departure, espied a nun sitting in a
chair by the window facing south, the shutters of which had been thrown
wide open again. The room was warm with sunshine. The nun was not
aware that Jehan sat in a darkened corner, watching her slightest move,
nor that the marquis had awakened. She was dreaming with unclosed
eyes, the expression on her face one of repose. The face which the
marquis saw had at one time been very beautiful. Presently the
marquis's scrutiny became a stare. . . . That scar; what did it recall
to his wandering mind? A fit of trembling seized him and took the
strength from his propping arm. The creaking of the bed aroused her.
[Illustration: "She was dreaming with unclosed eyes."]
This strange land was full of phantoms. Only the other night he had
seen a face resembling Marie de Montbazon's. Bah!
"You are Sister Benie?" he said at once, narrowing his eyes. "Faith,"
he thought, "if all nuns were like this woman, Christianity were easy
to embrace."
"Yes, Monsieur," replied the nun. "Brother Jacques has sent me to you.
What may I do for you?"
"You were young once?"
This unusual question apparently had no effect upon her serenity. "I
am still young. Those who give their hearts unreservedly to God never
grow old."
The marquis's hand moved, restlessly. "How long have you been in
Quebec?"
"Fifteen years, Monsieur. Shall I read to you?"
"No. You came from France?" with a sick man's persistence.
"Yes, Monsieur. Is there something besides reading I can do?"
"Do I look ill?" querulously.
"You are burning with fever." She drew the cool palm of her hand
across his heated forehead.
"Jehan!" called the marquis. The touch of that hand had caused him an
indescribable sensation.
"I am here, Monsieur," replied Jehan.
Sister Benie leaned back out of the sunlight.
"A pitcher of water; I am thirsty."
Jehan took the pitcher fumblingly. He was yellow with fear and wonder.
"You have seen my son?" asked the marquis, when the door closed.
"You ought to be proud of such a son, Monsieur."
The marquis was a bit disconcerted. "I know him well. Do you think he
will become great and respected?"
"He has already become respected." She was vaguely distressed and
puzzled.
"But will he become great?"
"That is for God to decide."
"Of what consists greatness?"
"It is greatness to forgive."
The marquis turned his head away. He was chagrined. "Monsieur le
Comte will never become great then. He will never forgive me for being
his father."
"Ah, Monsieur, I do not like that tone of yours. There have been words
between you, and you are not forgiving. Do you not love your son?"
"The love of children is the woman's part; man plays it but ill.
Perhaps there were some things which I failed to learn." Love his son?
A grim smile played over his purple lips. Why, he had ceased even to
love himself!
To her eyes the smile resembled a spasm of pain. "Does your head
ache?" she asked. She put her arm under his head and placed it more
comfortably on the pillow.
"Yes, my head is always aching. I have not lived well, and nature is
claiming her tithes." He closed his eyes, surrendering to the restful
touch of the cool palm. By and by he slept; and she sat there watching
till morning merged into drowsy noon. The agony was begun. And while
he slept the mask of calm left her face, revealing the soul. From time
to time she raised her eyes toward heaven, and continually her lips
moved in prayer.
"Monsieur Paul," said Breton gaily, "do we return to France on the
Henri IV?"
"No, lad; nor on many a ship to come and go."
Breton's heart contracted. "But Monsieur le Marquis . . . ?"
"Will return alone. Go with him, lad; you are homesick. Go and marry
old Martin's daughter, and be happy. It would be wrong for me to rob
you of your youth's right."
"But you, Monsieur?"
"I shall remain here. I have my time to serve. After that, France,
maybe . . . or become a grand seigneur."
The Chevalier put on his hat. He had an idle hour.
Breton choked back the sob. "I will remain with you, Monsieur, for the
present. I was wondering where in the world that copy of Rabelais had
gone. I had not seen it since we left the ship Saint Laurent." The
lad patted the book with a fictitious show of affection.
"Possibly in the hurry of bringing it here you dropped it, and some
one, seeing my name in it, has returned it."
"Never to see France again?" murmured Breton, alone. "Ah, if only I
loved her less, or Monsieur Paul not so well!" Even Breton had his
tragedy.
The Chevalier perched himself upon one of the citadel's parapets. The
southwest wind was tumbling the waters of the river and the deep blues
of the forests seemed continually changing in hues. Forces within him
were at war. He was uneasy. That his father had fought D'Hérouville
on his account there could be no doubt. What a sorry world it was,
with its cross-purposes, its snarled labyrinths! The last meeting with
his father came back vividly; and yet, despite all the cutting, biting
dialogue of that interview, Monsieur le Marquis had taken up his cause
unasked and had gone about it with all the valor of his race. He was
chagrined, angered. Had the old days been lived rightly and with
reason; had there been no ravelings, no tangles, no misunderstandings,
life would have run smoothly enough. Had this strange old man, whom
fate had made his father, come with repentance, but without mode of
expression, without tact? Three thousand miles; 'twas a long way when
a letter would have been sufficient. But the cruelty of that lie, and
the bitterness of all these weeks! If his thrusts that night had been
cruel, he knew that, were it all to be done over again, he should not
moderate a single word. The lie, the abominable lie! One does not
forgive such a lie, at least not easily. And yet that duel! He would
have given a year of his life to see that fight as Brother Jacques
described it. It was his blood; and whatever pits and chasms yawned
between, the spirit of this blood was common. Perhaps some day he
could forgive.
And Diane, she had mocked him, not knowing; she had laughed in his
face, unconscious of the double edge; she had accused him and he had
been without answer. Heaven on earth! to win her, to call her his, to
feel her breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair in his
nostrils! Hedged in, whichever way he turned, whether toward hate or
love! He clutched the handle of his rapier and knotted the muscles of
his arms. He would fight his way toward her; no longer would he
supplicate, he would demand. He would follow her wherever she went,
aye, even back to France! For what had he to lose? Nothing. And all
the world to gain.
Man needs obstacles to overcome to be great either in courage or
magnanimity; he needs the sense of injustice, of wrong, of unmerited
contempt; he needs the wrath against these things without which man
becomes passive like non-carnivorous animals. And had not he
obstacles?--unrequited love, escutcheon to make bright and whole?
From a short distance Brother Jacques contemplated the Chevalier,
gloomily and morosely. Envy, said the marquis, gibing. Yes, envy;
envy of the large life, envy of riches, of worldly pleasures, of the
love of women. Cursed be this drop of acid which seared his heart:
envy. How he envied yon handsome fellow, with his lordly airs, the
life he had led and the gold he had spent! And yet . . . Brother
Jacques was a hero for all his robes. He cast out envy in the thought,
and made his way toward the Chevalier, whose face showed that at this
moment he was not very glad to see Brother Jacques.
"My brother, your father is very ill."
"That is possible," said the Chevalier, swinging to the ground. He did
not propose to confide any of his thoughts to the priest. "He is old,
and is wasteful of his energies."
"Yes, he has wasted his energies; in your cause, Monsieur, remember
that. Your father had nothing in common with D'Hérouville. Their
paths had never crossed . . . and never will cross again."
The Chevalier kicked the stones impatiently. So Brother Jacques
understood why the marquis had fought the Comte d'Hérouville?
"May I be so bold as to ask what took place between you and Monsieur le
Marquis on the night of his arrival in Quebec?"
"I must leave you in ignorance," said the Chevalier decisively.
"He may never leave his bed."
The Chevalier bit the ends of his mustache, and remained silent.
"He came a long way to do you a service," continued the priest.
"Who can say as to that? And I do not see that all this particularly
concerns you."
"But you will admit that he fought the man who . . . who laughed."
The Chevalier let slip a stirring oath, and the grip he put on the hilt
of his sword would have crushed the hand of an average strong man.
"Monsieur, it is true that your father has wronged you, but can you not
forgive him?"
The Chevalier stared scowlingly into the Jesuit's eyes. "Would you
forgive a father who, as a pastime, had temporarily made you . . . a
bastard?"
The priest's shudder did not escape the searching eyes of the
Chevalier. "Ha! I thought not. Do not expect me, a worldly man, to
do what you, a priest, shrink from."
"Do not put me in your place. Monsieur. I would forgive him had he
done to me what he has done to you."
The Chevalier saw no ambiguity. "That is easily said. You are a
priest, I am a worldling; what to you would mean but little, to me
would be the rending of the core of life. My father can not undo what
he has done; he can not piece together and make whole the wreck he has
made of my life."
"Have you no charity?" persuasively.
The Chevalier spread his hands in negation. He was growing restive.
"Will you let me teach you?" Brother Jacques was expiating the sin of
envy.
"You may teach, but you will find me somewhat dull in learning."
"Do you know what charity is?"
"It is a fine word, covered with fine clothes, and goes about in pomp
and glitter. It builds in the abstract: telescopes for the blind,
lutes for the deaf, flowers for the starved. Bah! charity has had
little bearing on my life."
"Listen," said Brother Jacques; "of all God's gifts to men, charity is
the largest. To recognize a sin in oneself and to forgive it in
another because we possess it, that is charity. Charity has no
balances like justice; it weighs neither this nor that. Its heart has
no secret chambers; every door will open for the knocking. Mercy is
justice modified. Charity forgives where justice punishes and mercy
condones. Your bitter words were directed against philanthropy, not
charity. Shall an old man's repentance knock at the heart of his son
and find not charity there?"
"Repentance?" So this thought was not alone his?
"You will forgive him, Monsieur . . . my brother."
The Chevalier shook his head. "Not to-day nor to-morrow."
"You will not let him of your blood go down to the grave unforgiven;
not when he offered this blood to avenge an insult given to you. The
reparation he has made is the best he knows. Only forgive him and let
him die in peace. He is proud, but he is ill. To this hour he
believes that terrible struggle to be but a dream; but even the dream
brings him comfort. He is seventy; he is old. You take the first
step; come with me. Through all your life you will look back upon this
hour with happiness. Whatever the parent's fault may be, there is
always the duty of the child toward that parent. You will forgive him."
"But if I go to him without forgiveness in my heart; if only my lips
speak?"
"It is in your heart; you have only to look for it."
"Ah well, I will go with you. It is a cup of gall to drink, but I will
drink it. If he is dying . . . Well, I will play the part; but God is
witness that there is no charity in my heart, nor forgiveness, for he
has wilfully spoiled my life."
So the two men moved off toward the marquis's bed-chamber.
"You remain in the hall, Monsieur," said the priest, "till I call you."
But as he entered the chamber he purposely left open the door so that
the Chevalier might hear what passed.
"Ah! it is you," said the marquis. "Let me thank you for bringing that
nurse."
"Sister Benie?"
"Yes. You do not know, then, from what family she originated?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Who knows?"
"The Mother Superior. Monsieur, I have news for you. I bring you
peace."
"Peace?"
"Yes. Monsieur, your son is willing to testify that he forgives you
the wrong you have done him."
The marquis shook as with ague and drew the coverlet to his chin. A
minute went by, and another. The Chevalier listened, waiting for his
father's voice to break the silence. After all, he could forgive.
"Have you anything to say, Monsieur ?" asked Brother Jacques.
The marquis stirred and drew his hand across his lips. "Where is
Monsieur le Comte?"
"He is waiting in the hall. Shall I call . . . ?"
"Wait!" interrupted the marquis. Presently he cleared his throat and
said in a thin, dry voice: "Tell Monsieur le Comte for me that I am
sleeping and may not be disturbed."
"Monsieur," said Jehan that night, "pardon, but do you ever . . . do
you ever think of Margot Bourdaloue?"
The marquis raised himself as though to hurl a curse at his luckless
servant. But all he said was; "Sometimes, Jehan, sometimes!"