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Updated: June 21, 2025
And all the night through, in thought, he followed Brother Philip and his escort as they rode northward, through the forests, up the glens, and over the moors, making direct for Mora's home, to which she and Hugh were travelling by a more roundabout way.
For a long time he had deluged all this hypocritical scheming with gold, with lordly indifference, paying five hundred francs for a ticket to a concert by some Wurtemberg zither-player, or Languedocian flutist, which would have been quoted at ten francs at the Tuileries or the Due de Mora's. On some days young de Géry went out from these sessions actually nauseated.
The prediction of Mora's valet had come true for the marquis: "We may die or lose power; then there will be a reckoning, and it will be terrible." It was terrible.
Whereupon, in silence, the Bishop had risen, and had led the way to the library. Here they now faced one another in final farewell. Each knew that his loss would be the other's gain; his gain, the other's irreparable loss. Yet, at that moment, each thought only of Mora's peace of soul. They did but differ in their conception of the way in which that peace might best be preserved and maintained.
They noticed, as they stopped, that their walk and conversation had led them back in the direction of Mora's grave, which was situated just above a little exposed plateau, whence looking over a thousand closely packed roofs, they could see Montmartre, the Buttes Chaumont, their rounded outline in the distance looking like high waves.
"Nay," said the Knight; "I keep my trust in prayer." They paused at the parapet overhanging the river. "I was successful," said the Knight, "in dealing with Eustace, her nephew. There will be no need to apply to the King. The ambition was his mother's. Now Eleanor is dead, he cares not for the Castle. Next month he weds an heiress, with large estates, and has no wish to lay claim to Mora's home.
Was it the disappointment of seeing the doctor's wife instead of Madame Jansoulet, or was the discredit which the Duc de Mora's death had brought upon the fashionable doctor destined to overflow upon her who bore his name? There was something of both those causes, and perhaps of another as well, in the cold welcome which the baroness accorded Madame Jenkins.
The usher was standing near, waiting. "What is it? Oh! yes, this card. Show him into the gallery, I will be there in a moment." The Duc de Mora's gallery, which was open to visitors twice a week, was to him a sort of neutral territory, a public place where he could see anybody on earth without binding himself to anything or compromising himself.
Climbing up a little bank of clay, we found ourselves on a flat meadow, covered with grass and weeds, through which narrow trails ran to a few scattered palm-thatched huts. With a letter from the jefe, we called at Señora Mora's house. This lady was a widow, whose husband had but lately died; she was well to do, and promised to supply us with animals after we should have had our breakfast.
No. 1811 is as different from these as "Sleep" is from all the rest. In the same room are Mora's "Vacation Time" and Tanner's "Christ at the Home of Lazarus" , both winners of the gold medal.
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