. . But what is it to you? He is
a fool . . . like his father. To throw away a marquisate and the
income of a prince! Curse this bed!" with sullen fury.
"Perhaps, Monsieur, the bed is of your own making."
"Ah! So we also indulge in irony? If this bed is of my own making, my
mind was occupied with softer things. Would you not like the love of
women, endless gold, priceless wines, and all that the world gives to
the worldly? Come; what secret envy is yours, you who sleep on straw,
in clammy cells, and dine on crusts?"
Brother Jacques went back to his window. He was pale. How deftly had
the marquis placed his finger on the raw! Envy? All his life he had
envied the rich and the worldly; all his life he had struggled between
his cravings and his honesty. Had he not shaved his crown that his
head might have a pallet to sleep on and his hunger a crust? His nails
indented his palms, but he felt no pain. He was grateful for the cool
of the morning air. Down below he saw the Vicomte d'Halluys tramping
about in company with some soldiers. The Jesuit stared at that
picturesque face. Where had he seen it prior to that night at the
Corne d'Abondance?
Up and down the winding path settlers, soldiers, merchants, trappers
and Indians straggled, with an occasional seigneur lending to the scene
the pomp of a vanished Court.
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