nor
the other? An atheist, whispered the wise, a word which was then
accepted in its narrowest cense: that is to say, Monsieur le Marquis
had sold his soul to the devil.

Perigny, it is not to be denied, was a sinister sound in the ears of a
virtuous woman. To the ultra-pious and the bigoted, it was a letter in
the alphabet of hell. Yet, there was in this grim chain of evil repute
one link which did not conform with the whole. The marquis never
haggled with his tradesmen, never beat his servants or his animals, and
opened his purse to the poor with more frequency than did his religious
neighbors. Those who believed in his total wickedness found it
impossible to accept this incongruity.

For ten years the hotel had remained in darkness; then behold! but a
month gone, a light was seen shining from one of the windows. The
watch, upon investigation, were informed that Monsieur le Marquis had
returned to the city and would remain indefinitely. After this, on
several occasions the hotel was lighted cheerfully enough. Monsieur le
Marquis's son entertained his noble friends and the officers from Fort
Louis. There was wine in plenty and play ran high. The marquis,
however, while he permitted these saturnalia, invariably held aloof.
It was servants' hall gossip that the relations existing between father
and son were based upon the coldest formalities. Conversation never
went farther than "Good morning, Monsieur le Marquis" and "Good
morning, Monsieur le Comte." The marquis pretended not to understand
when any referred to his son as the "Chevalier du Cevennes." It was
also gossiped that this noble house was drawing to its close; for the
Chevalier had declined to marry, and was drinking and gaming heavily;
and to add to the marquis's chagrin, the Chevalier had been dismissed
from court, in disgrace,--a calamity which till now had never fallen
upon the House of Perigny.

The marquis was growing old. As he sat before the fire in the grand
salon, the flickering yellow light playing over his features, which had
a background of moving, deep velvet-brown shadows, he might have been
the theme of some melancholy whim by Rubens, a stanza by Dante. His
face was furrowed like a frosty road. Veins sprawled over his hands
which rested on the arms of his chair, and the knuckles shone like
ivory through the drawn transparent skin. The long fingers drummed
ceaselessly and the head teetered; for thus senility approaches. His