"What is your religious name, Monsieur?" asked the Chevalier, strangely subdued.
"I am Father Jacques, protégé of the kindly Chaumonot. But I am known to my brothers and friends as Brother Jacques. And you, Monsieur, are doubtless connected with the court."
"Yes. I am known as the Chevalier du Cévennes, under De Guitaut, in her Majesty's Guards."
"Cévennes?" the priest repeated, ruminating. "Why, that is the name of a mountain range in the South."
"So it is. I was born in that region, and it pleased me to bear Cévennes as a name of war. I possess a title, but I do not assume it; I simply draw its revenues." The Chevalier scowled at his buckles, as if some disagreeable thought had come to him.
The priest remarked the change in the soldier's voice; it had grown harsh and repellent. "Monsieur, I proceed from Rouen to Rochelle; are you familiar with that city?"
"Rochelle? Oh, indifferently."
The Jesuit plucked at his lips for a space, as if hesitant to break the silence. "Have you ever heard of the Marquis de Périgny?"
The Chevalier whirled about. "The Marquis de Périgny? Ah, yes; I have heard of that gentleman. Why do you ask?"
"It is said that while he is a bad Catholic, he is generous in his charities. Father Chaumonot and I intend to apply to him for assistance. Mazarin has not been very liberal. Ah, how little they dream of the length and breadth and riches of this France across the sea! Monsieur le Marquis is rich?"