The marquis, leaning on his cane, was distorting his lips and wrinkling his eyebrows.
"The lad's hopes were not disappointed. He had reached the renowned shrine, knelt, paid his devotions, when, as he issued from the chapel door, he was accosted by an elegant cavalier, who was having some difficulty with a stirrup. He asked the wretched boy to hold the horse, and for this service gave him five Spanish pistoles of gold."
The expression on the marquis's face was now one of animation.
"Is it possible! I recall the episode distinctly. I was on the way to my marriage."
"Well, Monsieur le Marquis, I have never forgotten that service. I have always treasured that act of kindness. For those five pistoles renewed life, took me to my journey's end, and eventually led me into the Society of Jesus. I have always desired the pleasure of meeting you and thanking you personally." Chaumonot's face beamed.
"Be not hasty with your thanks. I have forgotten the purpose I had in mind when I gave you those pistoles. Ah well, I will leave you with the illusion that it was an act of generosity. And as I remember, you were a pitiful looking young beggar." Turning to Brother Jacques, the marquis said: "Have I ever done you a service?"
"No, Monsieur le Marquis; you have never done me a service." There was a strange irony beneath the surface of these words. Chaumonot did not notice it, but the marquis, who was a perfect judge of all those subtile phases of conversation, caught the jangling note; and it caused him to draw together his brows in a puzzled frown.
"Have I ever met you till now?" he asked.
"Not that I know of, Monsieur." The tone was gentle, respectful.
"There is something familiar about your face;" and the marquis stared into space; but he could not conjure up the memory he sought. He had seen this handsome priestly face before. Where?