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?
Brother Jacques's features were without definite expression.
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