He had seen the shudder. He dropped the maimed
hand below the level of the table.
"You ride, however?" suggested the Chevalier.
"A Spanish mule, the gift of Father Vincent."
"Her Majesty's confessor?"
"Yes."
"You are a Jesuit?"
"I have the happiness to serve God in that order. I have just
presented my respects to her Majesty and Cardinal Mazarin. I am come
from America, my son, to see his Eminence in regard to the raising of
funds for some new missions we have in mind; but I have been
indifferently successful, due possibly to my lack of eloquence and to
the fact that my superior, Father Chaumonot, was unable to accompany me
to Paris. I shall meet him in Rouen."
"And so you are from that country of which I have heard so much of
late--that France across the sea?" The Chevalier's tones expressed
genuine interest. He could now account for the presence of the
mutilated hand. Here was a man who had seen strange adventures in a
strange land. "New France!" musingly.
"Yes, my son; and I am all eagerness to return."
The Chevalier laughed pleasantly. "Pardon my irrelevancy, but I
confess that it excites my amusement to be called 'son' by one who can
not be older than myself.
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