he 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'Herouville to the wall. "To Monsieur
le Marquis de Perigny, 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 wai