He did not replace the
letter in his belt, but slipped it into the pocket of his robe,
thoughtlessly.
"Paul? . . . Ah! it is Brother Jacques. Curse these phantoms which
recur again and again. But my son," eagerly; "he is well? He is
uninjured? He will be here soon?"
"Yes, my father."
"Once you asked me to call you if ever I changed my mind regarding
religion. I will test this absolution of yours."
"Presently."
"Eh?"
"I said presently, my father."
"Father? . . . You say father?"
"Yes. But a moment gone you spoke of Margot Bourdaloue."
"What is that to you?" cried the marquis, raising himself on an elbow,
though the effort cost him pain.
"She was my mother," softly.
The marquis fell back among his pillows. The gnawing of a mouse behind
the wall could be heard distinctly. Brother Jacques was conscious of
the sound.
"My mother," he repeated.
"You lie, Jesuit!"
"Not at this hour, my father."
"Son of Margot Bourdaloue, you! . . . Ah!" The marquis rose again,
leaning on both arms. "Have you come to mock my death-bed?"
"Truth is not mockery."
"Away, lying Jesuit!"
The priest stooped.
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