the marquis's eyes all this time, and he had not known. That was well.
But that fate should so unceremoniously thrust it into his hands! Ah,
that was all very strange, obscure. The wind, coming with a gust,
stirred the beads of his rosary; and he remembered. He cast a glance
at his pack. Could he carry it again? He caught up his rosary.
Should he put this aside? He was young; there were long years before
him. He had suffered half the span of a man's life; need he suffer
longer?

He opened the letter and read it once again.

"_To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny: A necromancer in the Rue Dauphin
tells me that I shall not outlive you, which is to be regretted.
Therefore, my honored Marquis, I leave you this peculiar legacy. When
you married the Princess Charlotte it was not because you loved her,
but because you hated me who loved her. You laughed when I swore to
you that some day I would have my revenge. Shortly after you were
married a trusted servant of mine left my house to serve me in yours.
And he served me well indeed, as presently you shall learn. Two days
before Madame le Marquise gave birth to your son and heir, a certain
handsome peasant named Margot Bourdaloue also entered into the world a
son of yours which was not your heir. Think you that it is Madame la
Marquise's son who ruffles it here in Paris under the name of the
Chevalier du Cevennes? I leave you to answer this question, to solve
this puzzle, or become mad over it. Recollect, I do not say that the
Chevalier is not the son of Madame la Marquise; I say, think you he is?
Monsieur, believe me, you have my heartiest sympathy in your trouble_.
LOUIS DE BRISSAC."

"De Brissac?"

Brother Jacques's brows met in the effort to recall the significance of
this name. Ah! the Grande Madame whom the Chevalier, his brother,
loved: his brother. His brother. Brother Jacques had forgotten his
brother. He raised his eyes toward heaven, as if to make an appeal;
but his gaze dropped quickly and roved. Somehow, he could not look to
heaven; the sun was too bright. He saw the figures of a man and woman
who were leaning against the parapet. The man's arm was clasped around
the woman's waist, their heads were close together, and they seemed to
be looking toward the south, as indeed they were. Lovers, mused
Brother Jacques. Why not he, too? Had not the marquis said that he
was too handsome for a priest? Why should he not be a lover, likewise?
A lover