. . That for every soul you have sent
out of the world, you have brought another into it? Perhaps this
fellow is my brother, and I know it not; this woman my sister, and I
pass her by."
"I would have provided for you."
To Brother Jacques it seemed that his sword of wrath had been suddenly
twisted from his hand. The sweat stood out on his forehead.
"If you were turned away from my door, it was not my hand that opened
it."
"I asked for nothing but bread," said Brother Jacques, finding his
voice.
"Thirty years ago . . . I have forgotten. Margot never told me."
"It was easy to forget. I have never known, what love is . . . from
another."
"Have I?" with self-inflicted irony.
"I sought it; you repelled it."
"I knew not how to keep it, that was all. If I should say to you, 'My
son, I am sorry. I have lived evilly. I have wronged you; forgive me;
I am dying'!" The marquis was breathing with that rapidity which
foretells of coming dissolution. "What would you say, Jesuit?"
Brother Jacques stood petrified.
"That silence is scarce less than a curse," said the marquis.
Still Brother Jacques's tongue refused its offices.
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