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Updated: May 17, 2025
The smoke, curling up from the chimneys below, he saw not, nor the tree-dotted Isle of Orléans, nor the rolling mainshore opposite. His gaze in fancy had traversed more than three thousand miles. He saw a grand château, terraced, with gardens, smooth driveways, fountains and classic marbles, crisp green hills behind all these, and a stream of running water. Périgny.
To the best of my knowledge, no one will succeed Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny." "So this is what brought him over here? What brought you?" "Friendship for him, an empty purse and a pocketful of ambition." The answer pleased De Lauson, and he nodded. "That is all." "Thank you, Monsieur." "I shall keep you in mind . . . if you escape the gibbet."
It was also gossiped that this noble house was drawing to its close; for the Chevalier had declined to marry, and was drinking and gaming heavily; and to add to the marquis's chagrin, the Chevalier had been dismissed from court, in disgrace, a calamity which till now had never fallen upon the House of Périgny. The marquis was growing old.
"Do not speak that word aloud, Monsieur," interrupted the Chevalier, gloomily, "or I will force it down your throat, though we both tumble over the cliff." D'Hérouville knew the Périgny blood well enough to believe that the Chevalier was in earnest. "It would be your one opportunity," he said; "for you do not suppose I shall do you the honor to cross swords with you." "Most certainly I do.
"Then the Chevalier is not all bad?" said Du Puys. "No. But he is the son of his father. You have met the Marquis de Périgny?" "Only to pass him on the streets. But here comes the host with the punch. What shall the toast be?" "New France." "My compliments on your good taste." And they bowed gravely to each other, drinking in silence.
"Can you forgive me, Margot? . . . I have no faith in women. . . . I have your letter still; in a casket at Périgny. It is yellow with age, and crumbles to the touch. Where did you go? After madame died I was lonely. . . . All, all are phantoms!" Then his delusion took another turn. He saw her no more. "Monsieur de Longueville, you lie when you say that I received billets from madame.
Once Brother Jacques pulled forth the letter and glanced again at the address. It was singular. It recalled to him that night when this old man had pressed D'Hérouville to the wall. "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at my death." The priest wondered whose death this meant.
The Hotel de Périgny stood in the Rue des Augustines, diagonally opposite the historic pile once occupied by Henri II and Diane de Poitiers, the beautiful and fascinating Duchesse de Valentinois of equivocal yet enduring fame. It was constructed in the severe beauty of Roman straight lines, and the stains of nearly two centuries had discolored the blue-veined Italian marble.
If the Chevalier returns, it is the Bastille and forgetfulness. Mazarin is becoming as strict as those pot-hat Puritans yonder in England. He might possibly overlook a duel in the open; but to enter a man's house by the window . . . What more is there to be said? And all this recalls what my father used to say. De Brissac and the Marquis de Périgny were deadly enemies.
For the Marquis de Périgny was about to start out upon that journey which has no visible end, which leaves no trail behind: men setting out this way forget the way back, being without desire.
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