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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 Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at my death." He eyed the address, undecided. He was weighing the advisability of letting the Chevalier read it first. And yet he had an equal right to the reading.
He read the address indifferently "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at my death." The marquis, then, had lost some friend? He put back the letter, placing a book upon it to prevent its being swept to the floor. There was a sound. The marquis had recovered his senses.
"The first time you annoy Monsieur le Chevalier, who is the legitimate son of the Marquis de Périgny. . . ." "Are you quite sure?" the old banter awakening. Suddenly he stared into the priest's face. "My faith, but that would be droll! What is your interest in the Chevalier's welfare? . . . They say the marquis was a gay one in his youth, and handsome, and had a way with the women.
That is all I have to say to you, Monsieur. To a man of your adroit accomplishments it should be enough. I have no interest in the Périgny family save a friendly one." "I dare say." The vicomte let his gaze fall till the spider came within vision. He put a finger under it, and the insect began to climb frantically toward its web.
He gave his attention immediately to the letter; and, became strangely fascinated. It was addressed to his father! "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at my death." Whose death? The Chevalier rested the letter on the palm of his hand. How came it here? He inspected the envelope. It was unsealed. He balanced it, first on one hand, then, on the other.
He read the almost faded address, and his jaw fell. . . . "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at my death." He was not conscious how long a time he stared at that address. Age had unsealed the envelope, and the man in the grey cloak drew out the contents.
"To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny," she read, "to be delivered into his hands at my death." She studied the scrawl. It was not the Chevalier's; and yet, how strangely familiar to her eyes! Should she send it directly to the marquis or to the son? She debated for several moments. Then she touched the bell and summoned the woman whom the governor had kindly placed at her service.
Presently she asked: "And who is this Chevalier du Cévennes?" "A capital soldier, a gay fellow, rich and extravagant. I do not know him intimately, but I should like to. I knew his father well. The Marquis de Périgny was . . ." "The Marquis de Périgny!" interrupted the duchess, half rising from her seat. "Do you mean to tell me that the Chevalier du Cévennes is the son of the Marquis de Périgny?"
"Well, don't be ashamed of it, Victor; Breton here was moping but half an hour ago over the hills of Périgny. And, truth to tell, so was I." "Ha!" cried the poet with satisfaction, "that sounds like Paul of old." "What are the games this afternoon?" asked the Chevalier. "Will there be foils?" "Yes." Victor straightened out his papers and cleared his voice. "And you will take part?" "Certainly."
An atheist, whispered the wise, a word which was then accepted in its narrowest cense: that is to say, Monsieur le Marquis had sold his soul to the devil. Périgny, it is not to be denied, was a sinister sound in the ears of a virtuous woman. To the ultra-pious and the bigoted, it was a letter in the alphabet of hell.
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