THE ABSOLUTION OF MONSIEUR LE MARQUIS DE PERIGNY
The Château Saint Louis shimmered in the November moonlight. It was a
castle in dream. Solitude brooded over the pile as a mother broods
over an empty cot. High above the citadel the gilded ball of the
flagstaff glittered like a warm topaz. Below, the roofs of the
warehouses shone like silver under gauze. A crooked black line marked
the course of the icy river, and here and there a phantom moon flashed
upon it. The quiet beauty of all this was broken by the red harshness
of artificial light which gleamed from a single window in the château,
like a Cyclopean eye. Stillness was within. If any moved about on
this floor it was on tiptoe. Death stood at the door and peered into
the darkest corners. For the Marquis de Périgny was about to start out
upon that journey which has no visible end, which leaves no trail
behind: men setting out this way forget the way back, being without
desire.
Who shall plumb the depth of the bitterness in this old man's heart, as
he lay among his pillows, his head moving feebly from side to side, his
attenuated fingers plucking at the coverlet, his tongue stealing slowly
along his cracked and burning lips. Fragments of his life passed in
ragged panorama. His mind wandered, and again became keen with the
old-time cynicism and philosophy, as a coal glows and fades in a fitful
wind. In all these weeks he had left his bed but once . . . to find
that his son was lost in the woods, a captive, perhaps dead. Too late;
he had always been too late. He had turned the forgiving hand away.
And how had he wronged that hand?
"Margot?" he said, speaking to a shadow.
Jehan rose from his chair and approached his master. His withered,
leathery face had lost the power to express emotion; but his faded eyes
sparkled suspiciously.
"Monsieur?" he said.
"What o'clock is it?" asked the marquis, irritably.
"It is midnight, Monsieur."
"Monsieur le Comte has not come in yet? With his sponging friends, I
suppose; drinking and gaming at the Corne d'Abondance." Thus had the
marquis spoken in the Rochelle days. "A sip of wine; I am cold."
Jehan put his arm around the thin shoulders of his master and held the
glass to the trembling lips. A hectic flush superseded the pallor, and
the delusion was gone. The coal glowed. "It is you, Jehan? Well, my
faithful henchman, you will have to continue the journey alone. My
relays have given out. Go back to Périgny in the spring. I shall be
buried here."
Jehan shivered. The earth would be very cold here.
"The lad was a prophet. He told me that I should die in bed like this,
alone, without one of my blood near me at the end. He spoke of
phantoms, too. . . . They are everywhere. And without the consolation
of a friendly priest!"
"Monsieur, do you know me?"
"Why, yes, Jehan."
"Brother Jacques and Monsieur le Comte returned this day from the
wilderness. I have seen them."
The marquis's hands became still. "Pride has filled my path with black
pits. Jehan, after all, was it a dream?"
"What, Monsieur?"
"That duel with D'Hérouville"
"It was no dream, Monsieur."
"That is well. I should, like to see Monsieur le Comte. He must be a
man now."
"I will call him."
"Presently, presently. He forgave me. Only, I should like to have him
know that my lips lied when I turned him away. Brother Jacques; he
will satisfy my curiosity in the matter of absolution. Death? I never
feared it; I do not now. However, I leave with some regret; there were
things which I appreciated not in my pursuit of pleasure. Ah well, to
die in bed, Jehan, was not among my calculations. But human
calculations never balance in the sum total. I have dropped a figure
on the route, somewhere, and my account is without head or tail. I
recall a letter on the table. See if it is there, Jehan."
Jehan searched and found a letter under a book.
"What does it say?"
"'To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at
my death'," Jehan read.
"From . . . from my son?"
"I do not know, Monsieur."
"Open it and read it."
"It is in Latin, Monsieur, a language unknown to me," Jehan carefully
explained.
"Give it to me;" but the marquis's fingers trembled and shook and his
eyes stared in vain. "My eyes have failed me, too. I can not
distinguish one letter from another. Give it to Brother Jacques when
he comes. He is a priest; they all read Latin."
"Then I shall send for him and Monsieur le Comte?"
"Wait till I am sure that I can stand the sight of him. Is Sister
Benie without? Call her. She quiets me. Brother Jacques may come in
half an hour; after him, Monsieur le Comte. I wish to have done with
all things and die in peace."
So Jehan went in search of Sister Benie. When she came in her angelic
face was as white as the collaret which encircled her throat, and the
scar was more livid than usual. Alas, the marquis's mind had gone
a-wandering again: the coal dimmed. She put her hand on his brow to
still the wagging head.
"It was so long ago, Margot," he babbled. "It was all a mistake. . . .
A fool plunges into all follies, but a wise man avoids what he can. I
have been both the wise man and the fool. . . . And I struck you
across the face with the lash? Ah, the poor scar!" He touched the
scar with his hand, and she wavered. "I loved you. It is true. I did
not know it then. You are dead, and you know that I loved you. Do you
think the lad has really forgiven me for what I have done to him? . . .
I am weary of the contest; Death sits on his horse outside the door."
She was praying, praying for strength to go through this ordeal.
"Where did you go, Margot?" he asked. "I searched for you; you were
gone. Where did you go that day?"
Outside, in the corridor, Jehan was listening with eyes distended. And
the marquis did not know, being out of his mind again!
"Hush, Henriot!" said Sister Benie. Tumult was in her heart. His icy
hand closed over hers, which was scarce warmer; all the blood was in
her heart. Her arms ached with longing to wrap this poor form to her
breast. This was the supreme hour of her expiation.
"Henriot?" she called softly. "Henriot?" Thirty years of forgiveness
and love thrilled in that name.
Jehan stole away. All this was not for his ears. Only God had the
right to listen.
"Margot, are you still there? Henriot! I have not heard that name in
thirty years."
She knew that delusion held him in its grasp, that he saw her only in
fancy, else she must have flown.
"Can you forgive me, Margot? . . . I have no faith in women. . . . I
have your letter still; in a casket at Périgny. It is yellow with age,
and crumbles to the touch. Where did you go? After madame died I was
lonely. . . . All, all are phantoms!" Then his delusion took another
turn. He saw her no more. "Monsieur de Longueville, you lie when you
say that I received billets from madame. I know a well-trodden place
behind the Tuileries. Perhaps you will follow me? . . . Richelieu
dead? What, then, will become of France, Jehan? Has Monsieur le Comte
come in yet?"
There were no tears in her eyes. Those reservoirs had emptied and
dried twenty years ago. But her heart cried. A new pain stabbed her,
causing the room to careen. She kissed him on the forehead. It was
all beyond her capacity for suffering. Her love belonged to God, not
to man. To remain was to lose her reason. She would go before the
delusion passed. In the corridor she would kneel and pray for this
dark soul which was about to leap toward the Infinite. On the
threshold she came face to face with Brother Jacques, whose pallor, if
anything, exceeded her own. She stopped, undecided, hesitant. . . .
Was it the color of his eyes?
"I have come, Sister, to give Monsieur le Marquis absolution." His
tone was mild and reassuring. Stuck between his gown and his belt was
the letter Jehan had given him to read. He had not looked at it yet.
"Monsieur le Marquis has called for me."
"You have full powers?" uncertain and distressed. She did not like the
fever in his eyes.
"I am fully ordained. I may not perform mass because of my mutilation,
though I am expecting a dispensation from his Holiness the pope." He
held out his hand, and her distrust subsided at the sight of those
reddened stumps. "You are standing in my way, Sister. Seek Monsieur
le Chevalier, if you will be so kind. He is in the citadel."
She moved to one side, and he passed into the room. When he reached
the bedside, he turned. Sister Benie dropped her gaze, stepped into
the corridor, and softly closed the door. Brother Jacques and the
marquis were alone. The mask of calm fell from the priest's
countenance, leaving it gloomy and haggard. But the fever in his eyes
remained unchanged.
"It is something that you have forgiven me, Margot," the marquis
murmured. His fancy had veered again. His eyes were closed; and
Brother Jacques could see the shadow of the iris beneath the lids.
"Margot?" Brother Jacques trembled. "He wanders! Will he regain
lucidity?"
A quarter of an hour passed. The moonbeam on the wall moved
perceptibly. Once Brother Jacques pulled forth the letter and glanced
again at the address. It was singular. It recalled to him that night
when this old man had pressed D'Hérouville to the wall. "To Monsieur
le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at my death."
The priest wondered whose death this meant. He did not replace the
letter in his belt, but slipped it into the pocket of his robe,
thoughtlessly.
"Paul? . . . Ah! it is Brother Jacques. Curse these phantoms which
recur again and again. But my son," eagerly; "he is well? He is
uninjured? He will be here soon?"
"Yes, my father."
"Once you asked me to call you if ever I changed my mind regarding
religion. I will test this absolution of yours."
"Presently."
"Eh?"
"I said presently, my father."
"Father? . . . You say father?"
"Yes. But a moment gone you spoke of Margot Bourdaloue."
"What is that to you?" cried the marquis, raising himself on an elbow,
though the effort cost him pain.
"She was my mother," softly.
The marquis fell back among his pillows. The gnawing of a mouse behind
the wall could be heard distinctly. Brother Jacques was conscious of
the sound.
"My mother," he repeated.
"You lie, Jesuit!"
"Not at this hour, my father."
"Son of Margot Bourdaloue, you! . . . Ah!" The marquis rose again,
leaning on both arms. "Have you come to mock my death-bed?"
"Truth is not mockery."
"Away, lying Jesuit!"
The priest stooped. "Look well into my face, Monsieur; look well. Is
there not something there to awaken your memory?" Brother Jacques
brought his face within a span of the marquis's. "Look!"
"The eyes, the eyes! . . . Margot, a son? . . . What do you want?"
The marquis moistened his lips.
"To make your last hour something like the many I have lived. Where is
the woman you wronged and cast aside, my mother?"
The marquis's arms gave way.
"Ah, but I have waited for this hour!" said Brother Jacques. All the
years of suffering returned and spread their venom through his veins.
"I have starved. I have begged. I have been beaten. I have slept in
fields and have been bitten by dogs. I have seen you feasting at your
table while I hungered outside. I have watched your coach as it rolled
through the château gates. One day your postilion struck me with his
whip because I did not get out of the way soon enough. I have crept
into sheds and shared the straw with beasts which had more pity than
you. I thought of you, Monsieur le Marquis, you in your château with
plenty to eat and drink, and a fire toasting your noble shins. Have I
not thought of you?"
"I am an old man," said the marquis, bewildered. This priest must be a
nightmare, another of those phantoms which were crowding around his bed.
"How I longed for riches, luxury, content! For had I not your blood in
my veins and were not my desires natural? I became a priest because I
could starve no longer without dying. I have seen your true son in the
forests, have called him brother, though he did not understand. You
cursed him and made him an outcast, wilfully. I was starving as a lad
of two. My mother, Margot Bourdaloue, went out in search of bread. I
followed, but became lost. I never saw my mother again; I can not even
remember how she looked. I can only recall the starved eyes. And you
cursed your acknowledged son and applied to him the epithet which I
have borne these twenty years. Unnatural father!"
"Unnatural son," murmured the marquis.
"I have suffered!" Brother Jacques flung his arms above his head as if
to hurl the trembling curse. "No; I shall not curse you. You do not
believe in God. Heaven and hell have no meaning."
"I loved your mother."
"Love? That is a sacred word, Monsieur; you soil it. What was it you
said that night at Rochelle? . . . That for every soul you have sent
out of the world, you have brought another into it? Perhaps this
fellow is my brother, and I know it not; this woman my sister, and I
pass her by."
"I would have provided for you."
To Brother Jacques it seemed that his sword of wrath had been suddenly
twisted from his hand. The sweat stood out on his forehead.
"If you were turned away from my door, it was not my hand that opened
it."
"I asked for nothing but bread," said Brother Jacques, finding his
voice.
"Thirty years ago . . . I have forgotten. Margot never told me."
"It was easy to forget. I have never known, what love is . . . from
another."
"Have I?" with self-inflicted irony.
"I sought it; you repelled it."
"I knew not how to keep it, that was all. If I should say to you, 'My
son, I am sorry. I have lived evilly. I have wronged you; forgive me;
I am dying'!" The marquis was breathing with that rapidity which
foretells of coming dissolution. "What would you say, Jesuit?"
Brother Jacques stood petrified.
"That silence is scarce less than a curse," said the marquis.
Still Brother Jacques's tongue refused its offices.
"Ah, well, I brought you into the world carelessly, you have cursed me
out of it. We are quits. Begone!" There was dignity in his gesture
toward the door.
Brother Jacques did not stir.
"Begone, I say, and let me die in peace."
"I will give you absolution, father."
The fierce, burning eyes seemed to search into Brother Jacques's soul.
There was on that proud face neither fear nor horror. And this was the
hour Brother Jacques had planned and waited for! For this moment he
had donned the robes, isolated himself, taken vows, suffered physical
tortures! He had come to curse: he was offering absolution.
"Hypocrite, begone!" cried the marquis, seized with vertigo. He tried
to strike the bell, but the effort merely sent it jangling to the
floor. "Begone!"
"Monsieur!"
"Must I call for help?"
Brother Jacques could stand no more. He rushed madly toward the door,
which he opened violently. Sister Benie stood in the corridor,
transfixed.
"My son?" she faltered. A pathetic little sob escaped her. Her arms
reached out feebly; she fell. Brother Jacques caught her, but she was
dead. Her heart had broken. With a cry such as Dante conceived in his
dream of hell, Brother Jacques fell beside her, insensible.
The marquis stared at the two prostrate figures, fumbling with his lips.
Then came the sound of hurrying feet, and Jehan, followed by the
Chevalier, entered.
"Jehan, quick! My clothes; quick!" The marquis was throwing aside the
coverlet.
"Father!" cried the Chevalier.
"Jehan, quick! My clothes; quick!" the marquis cried. "My clothes, my
clothes! Help me! I must dress!"
With trembling hands Jehan did as his master bade him. The Chevalier,
appalled, glanced first at his father, then at Brother Jacques and
Sister Benie. He leaned against the wall, dazed; understood nothing of
this scene.
"My shoes! Yes, yes! My sword!" rambled the dying man, in the last
frenzy. "Paul said I should die in bed, alone. No, no! . . . Now,
stand me on my feet . . . that is it! . . . Paul, it is you? Help me!
Take me to her! Margot, Margot? . . . There is my heart, Jehan, the
heart of the marquis. . . . Take me to her? And I thought I dreamed!
Take me to her! . . . Margot?" He was on his knees beside her,
kissing her hands and shuddering, shuddering.
"Margot is dead, Monsieur," said the aged valet. The tears rolled down
his leathery cheeks.
"Margot!" murmured the Chevalier. He had never heard this name before.
What did it mean? "Father?" He came swiftly toward the marquis.
"Dead!" The marquis staggered to his feet without assistance. He
swung dizzily toward the candles on the mantel. He struck them. "Away
with the lights, fools." The candles rolled and sputtered en the
floor. "Away with them, I say!" Toward the table he lurched, avoiding
the Chevalier's arms. From the table he dashed the candles. "Away
with the lights! The Marquis de Périgny shall die as he lived . . . in
the dark!"
He fell upon the bed, his face hidden in the pillows. When the
Chevalier reached his side he was dead.