man's core. Was it rotten, or hard and sound? There
was villainy, but of what kind? The helpless villainy of a Nero, or
the calculating villainy of a Tiberius? When the vicomte presented his
countenance to Brother Jacques, it had undergone a change. It was
masked with humility; all the haughtiness was gone. He plucked
nervously at his chin.

"I will confess to you," he said simply.

"To me?" Brother Jacques recoiled. "Let me call Father Chaumonot."

"To you or to no one."

"Give me a moment to think." Brother Jacques was secretly pleased to
have tamed this spirit.

"To you or to no one," repeated the vicomte. "Do you believe in the
holiness and sacredness of your office?"

"As I believe in God," devoutly. Fervor had at once elevated Brother
Jacques's priestly mind above earthly cunning.

"You will hear my confession?"

"Yes."

The vicomte knelt. From time to time he made a passionate gesture. It
was not a long confession, but it was compact and telling.

"_Absolvo te_," murmured Brother Jacques mechanically, gazing toward
Heaven.

Immediately the solemnity of the moment was jarred by a laugh. The
vicomte was standing, all piety gone from his face; and a rollicking
devil shone from his eyes.

"Now, my curious friend," tapping the astonished priest on the breast,
"I have buried my secret beneath this black gown; tell it if you dare."

"You have tricked me in the name of God?" horrified.

"Self-preservation; your knowledge forced me to it. And it was a
pretty trick, you will admit, casuist that you are."

"And if I should break my vows?" furiously.

"Break your vows and I promise to kill you out of hand."

"From behind?"

"In whatever manner appears most expedient. That fool of a Brissac; he
simply committed suicide. There was no other mode of egress open to
me. It was my life or his. That cloak! Well, that was to tell tales
in case I was seen from a distance. It nearly succeeded. And I will
make an additional confession," throwing back his head, his eyes
narrowing, his whole attitude speaking a man's passion. "Yes, your
keen intuition has put its finger on the spot. I hate the Chevalier,
hate him with a strong man's hate, the unending hate of wounded vanity,
of envy, of thwarted desires. There was a woman, once, whom he lured
away from me; he gained the commission in the Guards over my head; he
was making love to Madame de Brissac, while I, poor fool, loitered in
the antecha