"I searched for it, but unfortunately I could not find it;" and a shadow of worry crossed the marquis's face. For the first time in his life he became conscious of incompleteness, of having missed something in the flight. "I have told you the truth. I can say no more. I had some hope that we might stand again upon the old footing."
"I shall not even visit your grave."
"I might turn over, it is true," a flare in the grey eyes. "And, after all, I have a heart."
"Good heaven! Monsieur, your mind wanders!" the Chevalier exclaimed.
The marquis swept the salt from the table. The movement was not impatient; rather resigned. "There is nothing more to be said. You may go. Our paths shall not cross again."
The Chevalier bowed, turned, and walked toward the door through which he had entered. He stopped at the threshold and looked back. The grey eyes met grey eyes; but the son's burned with hate. The marquis, listening, heard the soft pat of moccasined feet. He was alone. He scowled, but not with anger. The chill of stone lay upon his flesh.
"It is my blood," he mused; "my blood and hers: mine the pride of the brain, hers the pride of the heart. I have lost something; what is it?" He slid forward in his chair, his head sunk between his shoulders. Thus the governor, returning, found him.
As for the Chevalier, on leaving his father he had a vague recollection of passing into one of the council chambers, attracted possibly by the lights. Tumult was in his heart, chaos in his brain; rage and exultation, unbelief and credulity. He floated, drifted, dreamed. His father! It was so fantastic. That cynical, cruel old man here in Quebec!—to render common justice! … A lie! He had lied, then, that mad night? There was a ringing in the Chevalier's ears and a blurring in his eyes. He raised his clenched hands, only to drop them limply, impotently. All these months wasted, all these longings and regrets for nothing, all this suffering to afford Monsieur le Marquis the momentary pleasure of seeing his own flesh and blood writhe! Hate. As hot lead sinks into the flesh, so this word sank into the Chevalier's soul, blotting out charity and forgiveness. Forgive? His laughter rang out hard and sinister. Only God could forgive such a wrong. How that wrinkled face roused the venom in his soul! Was the marquis telling the truth? Had he lied? Was not this the culmination of the series of tortures the marquis had inflicted upon him all these years: to let him fly once more, only to drag him down into swallowing mire from which he might never rise? And yet … if it were true!—and the pall of shame and ignominy were lifted! The Chevalier grew faint.
Diane! From beyond the wilderness spoke a voice, the luring voice of love. Diane! He was free to seek her; no barrier stood between. He could return to France. Her letter! He drew it forth, his hands trembling like a woman's. "France is large. If you love me you will find me. … I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times." There was still the delicate odor of vervain—her perfume—clinging to it. Ah, if that terrible old man were not lying again! If he but spoke the truth!
As he strode back and forth his foot struck something. He bent and picked up the object. It was a grey mask with a long curtain. He carried it to the candle-light and inspected it. A grey mask: what was such a thing doing in Quebec? There were no masks in Quebec save those which nature herself gave to man, that ever-changing mask called the human face. A grey mask: what did it recall to him? Ah! Like a bar of light the memory of it returned to him. The mysterious woman of the Corne d'Abondance! But this mask could not be hers, since she was by now in Spain. With a movement almost unconscious he held the silken fabric close to his face and inhaled … vervain!