he letters
of the Order." Brother Jacques offered these without confidence.

"Drivel! Find me something lively: Monsieur Brantome, 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