"
"It is his, not mine; let him read it. Breton, lad, here's your
Rabelais, come back I know not how. But here is a letter which you
will deliver to Jehan, who in turn will see that it reaches its owner."
Thus, the gods, having had their fill of play, relented.
CHAPTER XXIII
A MARQUIS DONS HIS BALDRIC
They were men, the marquis and his contemporaries. They were born in
rough times, they lived and died roughly. They were men who made
France what it was in life and is to-day in history, resplendent. The
marquis never went about his affairs impetuously; he calculated this
and balanced that. When he arrived at a conclusion or formed a
purpose, it was definite. He never swerved nor retreated. To-night he
had formed a purpose, and he proceeded toward it directly, as was his
custom.
"Jehan, my campaign rapier," he said.
"Campaign rapier, Monsieur!" repeated the astonished lackey. Monsieur
le Marquis had not worn that weapon in almost ten years.
"Take care, Jehan; you know that I am not particularly fond of
repeating commands. Certainly my old basket-hilt took the journey with
me."
Jehan went rummaging among his master's personal effects, and soon
returned.
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