As Jean stepped over the threshold he unconsciously paused, the sudden
transition from sunlight to semi-darkness causing him to blink. All the
windows of the room were heavily curtained.
At the upper end of the chamber was a huge canopied bed on a dais. On
this lay Pierre Lafitte, the outline of his body thrown into strong
relief by the wavering light of the tall candles grouped at his head
and feet. On his breast, beneath his crossed hands, lay a crucifix.
At the sound of Jean’s entrance the dying man slowly turned his head,
and it could be seen that his mustache and imperial, once the proud
object of his tender care, had lost their well-groomed air, in the same
strange manner that he himself appeared to have lost his former debonair
worldliness.
In less than a moment Jean was at his side, tenderly taking one of his
brother’s hands in his own.
“How are you feeling, Pierre?”
The other smiled faintly.
“I am at peace—almost.”
“Nonsense! We’ll have you up and about in another week, Pierre. Don’t be
so pessimistic.”
Pierre made a weak sign of negation.
“The sands of my life are running out, _mon frère_,” he whispered,
weakly; “it is useless to blind yourself to the truth. Don’t weep,
brother mine, for it hurts me—it _hurts_!” A groan escaped him.
Jean dashed away the moisture from his eyes.
“It is but the smoke from these candles that makes my eyes smart,” he
lied. For a few moments he was silent, head bent, as he awkwardly patted
the hand of his dying brother. The latter felt a burning drop on his hand.
“Grieve not, Jean. I am to die ... it is written. I feel no fear; on the
contrary, I am happy. I shall soon be with our sainted _maman_.”
Jean gripped the coverlets fiercely.
“Oh, that we could have gone together! Pierre, _mon_ Pierre, I cannot
let you go alone—I cannot—I cannot!” he sobbed, “into the cold—into the
unknown.... You were made for the light, _mon frère_, for the sunshine—”
“Hush, Jean! I go willingly. And my stay in Purgatory shall be bearable,
for above I shall always see our sainted _maman_—waiting, waiting.”
Jean buried his face in the bedclothes to hide his anguish, and his
brother caressed his hair. What greater bitterness could come to man
than that he should watch a dear one die—pass away from sight and
hearing—before one’s eyes! The crushing heart-ache of it! The stars
shine on—the sun goes on its accustomed way—yet, how can they?
Again Jean was a child—a boy—a youth. But always the younger brother—the
youth whose hero Pierre had been. With the rapidity of lightning a swift
succession of scenes passed through his mind—incidents from his boyhood
days, youthful memories.... And always there had been Pierre—brother
Pierre. Father, mother, and brother, all in one! His father Jean
could not remember, and his mother but dimly, but there had _always_
been Pierre! Pierre with his understanding sympathy; Pierre with his
ever-ready aid; Pierre with his helpful advice; Pierre with his unstinted
love! Jean groaned aloud. Again he was the little boy, fearful of
shadows, and Pierre was his knight-defender....
The ghostly sands of the infinite hour glass trickled ceaselessly,
inexorably. But his thoughts sped on.
Unconsciously he prayed aloud, while Pierre listened, and slow tears
welled up in his eyes and over. At the foot of the bed grinned the figure
of Death, but at the head smilingly wept a beautiful woman with the dark
eyes of Jean—
Then, together, they repeated a prayer in unison—a prayer that they had
together nightly made in the far-off days of Jean’s boyhood. Strangely
enough, it was neither their “Ave Marias,” nor any other prayer used
exclusively by those of their faith. It was a prayer used by countless
faiths—a universal plea to the one existing Deity. What matter if His
prophet be Moses, Christ, Mohammed, or Confucius?
“Our Father, Who Art in Heaven,
Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come,
Thy will be done,
On earth as it is in heaven....”
As they chanted on, Jean’s voice grew louder—so loud, indeed, as to be
heard in the next room. When he began the next stanza, though he knew it
not, the old Capuchin and Virginia were both on their knees, repeating it
with him. And Virginia was sobbing....
“Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our trespasses
As we forgive those who trespass against us;
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil,
For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory,
Forever and ever. Amen.”
The prayer was not particularly appropriate, but it soothed them.
When the two brothers had finished they were both silent for a long
while, each busy with his own thoughts, and both unashamedly weeping. But
weeping as only brave men weep—men who are not ashamed of their tears.
The simple little prayer had brought a slight relief to both of them.
“Jean,” said the dying man, at length, “I have a confession to make—and
dread it.” He shuddered.
The younger Lafitte tenderly kissed his brother’s hand by way of answer.
His heart was too full to allow him to speak.
“_Mon frère_,” said Pierre Dominique, haltingly, “I have done you a great
wrong....”
“_C’est impossible!_ Forget it, _mon_ Pierre!”
“_Oublier je ne puis._ I cannot forget, _mon frère_.” His voice gathered.
“Jean, my brother, I have done you a great wrong—deceived you—lied to
you, God forgive me!”
Jean trembled violently, suddenly sick with a premonition of what was
to come. Unconsciously, as if to physically ward off the impending
disclosure, he extended his palm.
Pierre, however, once having gained the necessary courage, was not to be
put off. There was a semi-hysterical note in his voice.
“I lied to you—lied to you....”
Strangely enough, Jean did not ask for particulars—he merely stared at
the dying man, fascinated. Pierre Dominique half raised himself on his
elbow; his face was suddenly rendered grotesque—strange—by a curious
chiaroscuro—a blending of light and shade—caused by the uneven flame of
the burning tapers.
“Do you remember, Jean ... at the Rodriquez Canal ... that morning?”
The look in the other’s face suddenly convinced him that Jean
remembered—painfully, “I said—I said that Virginia Grymes loved me—that
I knew it.” His words were coming in gasps, “Well ... I lied to you!” He
sank back on the pillows, choking for lack of breath.
“You—lied—to—me!” repeated Jean, in a daze. He was as if stunned—suddenly
struck treacherously from behind. “You are—mad! You cannot have lied!” he
murmured.
Pierre weakly grasped his hand, his face working.
“I lied, Jean—lied ...” he choked.
“You did not know!” cried Jean, desperately, trying to make his
brother’s load lighter, even though he felt himself mortally stricken.
“I knew,” mechanically said the other, “and I have suffered the tortures
of the damned, Jean ... the tortures that I shall soon suffer in
Purgatory! I knew you loved Virginia ... and I knew she loved—loves you.
And I was jealous and lied!
“Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me, Jean? I loved Virginia
Grymes as I’ve loved no other woman on earth—except little _maman_! Can’t
you realize?”
Jean looked up, his face a picture of suffering—misery.
“Forgive you? Gladly, my brother. I understand—too well. I too, have
loved her—and I understand. Put your mind at ease, _mon_ Pierre. There is
naught to forgive.”
“I have made you suffer.”
“For a short time. But it was nothing. Now I am happy.” There was a
radiance in his face. Pierre Dominique saw it and sighed. Oh, Life,
Life! But Death, grinning hideously at the footboard, stepped nearer—and
sneered.
“Then I am happy. And can die happy, Jean....” But his face belied his
avowed happiness.
“Yes, _mon frère_.”
“You will marry Virginia....”
“If she will have me!” humbly. Pierre smiled. The expression on his face
was simply indescribable: envy—regret—longing—bitterness....
“Never fear. She has always loved you and still does. But, as I said,
you two will marry. I know it. And you should appreciate her worth,
_mon_ Jean. A good woman is man’s greatest blessing. As François—good
old François—says, we cannot do without them—nor should we. Man born of
woman is brought up by woman—trained by woman—and, as he is given life by
woman, could not live without her. Virginia is representative of all that
is best in womanhood. Cherish her—if not for your own sake, for—mine....”
He trembled.
“And Jean....”
“_Oui, mon frère._” The pathos of his voice!
“If there should be a son—and there must be, for you must perpetuate
the race of Lafitte ... if there should be a son, I say—will you name
him—‘Pierre’—and tell him of the uncle whom—he—never—knew?”
The tears were coursing down Jean’s lean cheeks.
“Yes, my brother ... by the living God, I _swear_ it!... If we shall be
blessed with a son, he shall be Pierre Dominique Lafitte, and I only hope
that he’ll be as brave—and good—and noble—as his uncle!” He sobbed again.
Farcical this scene may seem, but these two were in sober earnest. All
men are—when in the shadow of the inexorable Angel of Death—the divine
messenger of finality.
For a long minute there was silence. Then:
“Jean....”
“_Oui, mon frère._”
“You’ve always looked like the little _maman_.... I am about to go to
her.... Kiss me, Jean....” He was now too weak to even turn his head
... a strange light shone in the dying man’s face. Jean, leaning over
tenderly, reverently kissed his brother on the lips.... “Good-by,
_mon_—Jean....” His eyes were glazing.
“No—no!” cried Jean, suddenly alarmed. “Don’t leave me. Pierre!” He
sobbed wildly ... a taper flickered....
As if by a superhuman effort of the will, Pierre aroused himself
temporarily from his semi-coma.
“That—is—not—the—Lafitte—way, Jean,” he whispered. “Tell—me—good-by!”
Already, step by step, he could see that grinning specter at the foot of
the canopied bed advancing, his sable wings horribly unfolding, his bony
hand beckoning with horrible insistence.
Jean suddenly straightened, and he grasped his brother’s hand tightly.
He, too, had caught sight of the inexorable march of the specter and
realized the futility of resistance.
“_Au revoir, mon frère!_” firmly.
“Till we meet again,” not “good-by”!
Pierre Dominique Lafitte smiled, weakly.
The sable specter was almost upon him, but he cared not, for there, above
him in a shaft of golden light, hovered the figure of a woman ... and her
eyes were like those of Jean....
“Little _maman_ ...” murmured Pierre contentedly, shuddered, and closed
his eyes.
With a great cry Jean sank to his knees, convulsively kissing his
brother’s hand ... calling....
The door was pushed open. He was conscious of a crowd surging into the
closed candle-lit room. The air was stifling—strangling. His head was
light, his feet were slipping away into nothingness. The face of his
dead brother was growing indistinct before his very eyes....
Suddenly silence. Then, “_Chapeux bas!_” exclaimed a voice.
“Hats off!” indeed....
Pierre Dominique had entered the Valley of the Shadow.