Not even the
Chevalier could gather a single ray of light from the grim old valet.
He was silence itself.
Two weeks, and then Brother Jacques rose, put on his gown and his
rosary and his shovel-shaped hat. The settlers, soldiers, trappers and
seigneurs saw him walk alone, day after day, along the narrow winding
streets, his chin in his collar, his shoulders stooped, his hands
clasped behind his back. It was only when some child asked him for a
blessing that he raised his eyes and smiled. Sometimes the snow beat
down upon him with blinding force and the north winds cut like the lash
of the Flagellants. He heeded not; winter set no chill upon his flesh.
One morning he resolved to go forth upon his expiation. He made up his
pack quietly. Drawn by an irresistible, occult force, he wandered into
the room of the chateau where the tragedy had occurred. . . . The
letter! He felt in the pocket of his gown. He drew a stool to the
window which gave upon the balcony overlooking the lower town and the
river, and sat down.
"To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, to be delivered into his hands at
my death."
He eyed the address, undecided.
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