t 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. My father can not undo what
he has done; he can not piece together and make whole the wreck he has
made of my life."

"Have you no charity?" persuasively.

The Chevalier spread his hands in negation. He was growing restive.

"Will you let me teach you?" Brother Jacques was expiating the sin of
envy.

"You may teach, but you will find me somewhat dull in learning."

"Do you know what charity is?"

"It is a fine word, covered with fine clothes, and goes about in pomp
and glitter. It builds in the abstract: telescopes for the blind,
lutes for the deaf, flowers for the starved. Bah! charity has had
little bearing on my life."

"Listen," said Brother Jacques; "of all God's gifts to men, charity is
the largest. To recognize a sin in oneself and to forgive it in
another because we possess it, that is charity. Charity has no
balances like justice; it weighs neither this nor that. Its heart has
no secret chambers; every door will open for the knocking. Mercy is
justice modified. Charity forgives where justice punishes and mercy
condones. Your bitter words were directed against philanthropy, not
charity. Shall an old man's repentance knock at the heart of his son
and find not charity there?"

"Repentance?" So this thought was not alone his?

"You will forgive him, Monsieur . . . my brother."

The Chevalier shook his head. "Not to-day nor to-morrow."

"You will not let him of your blood go down to the grave unforgiven;
not when he offered this blood to avenge an insult given to you. The
reparation he has made is the best he knows. Only forgive him and let
him die in peace. He is proud, but he is ill. To this hour he
believes that terrible struggle to be but a dream; but even the dream
brings him comfort. He is seventy; he is old.