"He may never leave his bed."
The Chevalier bit the ends of his mustache, and remained silent.
"He came a long way to do you a service," continued the priest.
"Who can say as to that? And I do not see that all this particularly
concerns you."
"But you will admit that he fought the man who . . . who laughed."
The Chevalier let slip a stirring oath, and the grip he put on the hilt
of his sword would have crushed the hand of an average strong man.
"Monsieur, it is true that your father has wronged you, but can you not
forgive him?"
The Chevalier stared scowlingly into the Jesuit's eyes. "Would you
forgive a father who, as a pastime, had temporarily made you . . . a
bastard?"
The priest's shudder did not escape the searching eyes of the
Chevalier. "Ha! I thought not. Do not expect me, a worldly man, to
do what you, a priest, shrink from."
"Do not put me in your place. Monsieur. I would forgive him had he
done to me what he has done to you."
The Chevalier saw no ambiguity. "That is easily said. You are a
priest, I am a worldling; what to you would mean but little, to me
would be the rending of the core of life.
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