"Monsieur le
Comte will never become great then. He will never forgive me for being
his father."
"Ah, Monsieur, I do not like that tone of yours. There have been words
between you, and you are not forgiving. Do you not love your son?"
"The love of children is the woman's part; man plays it but ill.
Perhaps there were some things which I failed to learn." Love his son?
A grim smile played over his purple lips. Why, he had ceased even to
love himself!
To her eyes the smile resembled a spasm of pain. "Does your head
ache?" she asked. She put her arm under his head and placed it more
comfortably on the pillow.
"Yes, my head is always aching. I have not lived well, and nature is
claiming her tithes." He closed his eyes, surrendering to the restful
touch of the cool palm. By and by he slept; and she sat there watching
till morning merged into drowsy noon. The agony was begun. And while
he slept the mask of calm left her face, revealing the soul. From time
to time she raised her eyes toward heaven, and continually her lips
moved in prayer.
"Monsieur Paul," said Breton gaily, "do we return to France on the
Henri IV?"
"No, lad; nor on many a ship to come and go.
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