Only God knew; for neither the son
understood the father nor the father the son. Well, so be it. He was
now without weight upon his shoulders; he was conscience free; he had
paid his obligations, obligations far beyond his allotted part. It was
inevitable that their paths should separate. There had been too many
words; there was still too much pride.
"Tell Monsieur le Comte for me that I am sleeping and may not be
disturbed!"
He had stood there in the corridor and writhed as this blade entered
his soul and turned and turned. Rage and chagrin had choked him,
leaving him utterly speechless. So be it. Forevermore it was to be
the house divided. . . . It was after two o'clock when the Chevalier
went back to his bed. The poet was in slumber, and his face looked
careworn in repose.
"Poor lad! He is not happy, either. Only the clod knows content as a
recompense for his poverty. Good night, Madame; to-morrow, to-morrow,
and we shall see!"
And the morrow came, the rarest gem in all the diadem of days. There
was a ripple on the water; a cloudless sky; fields of corn waving their
tasseled heads and the broad leaf of the tobacco plant trembling,
trembling.
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