Brother Jacques's skin was transparent, his hair was patched with grey, his eyes were hollow, but at this moment his mien was lordly. His pack lay on the floor beyond, forgotten. With his head high, his nostrils wide, his arms pressing his sides and his hands clenched, he looked toward France. The smoke, curling up from the chimneys below, he saw not, nor the tree-dotted Isle of Orléans, nor the rolling mainshore opposite. His gaze in fancy had traversed more than three thousand miles. He saw a grand château, terraced, with gardens, smooth driveways, fountains and classic marbles, crisp green hills behind all these, and a stream of running water.
Périgny.
He looked again and saw a great hôtel, surrounded by a high wall, along the top of which, ran a cheval-de-frise. Inside all was gloomy and splendid, rich and ancient. Magnificent tapestries graced the walls, famous paintings, rare cut-glass, chased silver and filigreed gold, and painted porcelain.
Rochelle.
Again; and in his dream-vision he saw mighty palaces and many lights, the coming and going of great personages, soldiers famed in war, statesmen, beautiful women with satin and jewels and humid eyes; great feasts, music, and the loveliest flowers.
Paris.
His! All these things were his. It was empire; it was power, content, riches. His! Had he not starved, begged, suffered? These were his, all his, his by human law and divine. That letter! It had lain under the marquis's eyes all this time, and he had not known. That was well. But that fate should so unceremoniously thrust it into his hands! Ah, that was all very strange, obscure. The wind, coming with a gust, stirred the beads of his rosary; and he remembered. He cast a glance at his pack. Could he carry it again? He caught up his rosary. Should he put this aside? He was young; there were long years before him. He had suffered half the span of a man's life; need he suffer longer?
He opened the letter and read it once again.
"To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny: A necromancer in the Rue Dauphin tells me that I shall not outlive you, which is to be regretted. Therefore, my honored Marquis, I leave you this peculiar legacy. When you married the Princess Charlotte it was not because you loved her, but because you hated me who loved her. You laughed when I swore to you that some day I would have my revenge. Shortly after you were married a trusted servant of mine left my house to serve me in yours. And he served me well indeed, as presently you shall learn. Two days before Madame le Marquise gave birth to your son and heir, a certain handsome peasant named Margot Bourdaloue also entered into the world a son of yours which was not your heir. Think you that it is Madame la Marquise's son who ruffles it here in Paris under the name of the Chevalier du Cévennes? I leave you to answer this question, to solve this puzzle, or become mad over it. Recollect, I do not say that the Chevalier is not the son of Madame la Marquise; I say, think you he is? Monsieur, believe me, you have my heartiest sympathy in your trouble. LOUIS DE BRISSAC."
"De Brissac?"