l, and a fool's folly
has brought you to Quebec! A nun? I should die! Why did I come? In
mercy's name, why? . . . A letter?" An oblong envelope, lying on the
floor, attracted her attention. She took it up with a deal more
curiosity than she had the book. "To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny,"
she read, "to be delivered into his hands at my death." She studied
the scrawl. It was not the Chevalier's; and yet, how strangely
familiar to her eyes! Should she send it directly to the marquis or to
the son? She debated for several moments. Then she touched the bell
and summoned the woman whom the governor had kindly placed at her
service.

"Take this book and letter to Monsieur du Cevennes, and if he is not
there, leave it in his room." Her lack of curiosity saved her. Some
women would have opened the letter, read, and been destroyed. But
madame's guiding star was undimmed.

It was just before the evening mess that the Chevalier, on entering his
room, saw the volume and the letter. He gave his attention immediately
to the letter; and, became strangely fascinated. It was addressed to
his father! "To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, to be delivered into
his hands at my death." Whose death? The Chevalier rested the letter
on the palm of his hand. How came it here? He inspected the envelope.
It was unsealed. He balanced it, first on one hand, then, on the
other. Was it the wine that caused the shudder? Whose death? kept
ringing through his brain. How the gods must have smiled as they
played with the fate of this man! Terror and tragedy, and only an
opaque sheet of paper between! Whose death? The envelope was old, the
ink was faded. What was written within? Did the contents in any way
concern him? It was within a finger's reach. But he hesitated, as a
blind man hesitates when the guiding hand is suddenly withdrawn. "To
Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, to be delivered into his hands at my
death."

"It is his, not mine; let him read it. Breton, lad, here's your
Rabelais, come back I know not how. But here is a letter which you
will deliver to Jehan, who in turn will see that it reaches its owner."

Thus, the gods, having had their fill of play, relented.

CHAPTER XXIII

A MARQUIS DONS HIS BALDRIC

They were men, the marquis and his contemporaries. They were born in
rough times, they lived and died roughly. They were men who made
France what it was in life and is to-day in history, resp