"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'Hérouville to the wall. "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, 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."