G 
 
 BROKEN 
 ROSAKV 
 
 BX 
 E.DWARD 
 
 PEPLE
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY
 
 She struck a few swift chord:, 
 and sang of the little Picador 
 (SeepagejS]
 
 A 
 
 BROKEN 
 ROSARY 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD PEPLE 
 
 Illustrated by Scotson Clark 
 
 JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON MCMIV
 
 COPYRIGHT BY EDWARD H. PEPLE, 1901 
 COPYRIGHT BY JOHN LAMB, 1904 
 
 First Edition, March, 1904 
 Second Edition, March, 1904
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 She struck a few swift chords, and sang of 
 the little Picador (see page $8) - Frontispiece 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 With a vicious jerk she snapped the fragile 
 string - - - - - - -172 
 
 He loosened the collar of his robe, reveal- 
 ing the doublet of a cavalier beneath - 222 
 
 " Choose ! " 3 8 
 
 2137805
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ALONG the marble colonnade of the Gran 
 Duca's palace, clad in the picturesque attire of 
 royal France the France of Louis XV. 
 walked a young cavalier, leading by the arm a 
 still younger companion whose face was flushed 
 and angry, whose reluctant and uncertain steps 
 told all too plainly of a surfeit of wine, while his 
 voice rose cross and petulant as that of a pam- 
 pered child. 
 
 " Why do you drag me away when the night 
 is not half over? You are not my master! " 
 
 " No, Leon," the other answered soothingly, 
 " not master, but a friend who loves you." Then 
 pointing to the palace, from whence a thousand 
 lights sent out a warm, seductive glow, and the 
 faint, low throb of music followed them to the
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 iron gateway of the garden, he continued gently: 
 " It is hot and close in there, and already you 
 have drunk a deal more wine than is good for 
 you. Come the night is beautiful I want you 
 to walk with me." 
 
 "Walk!" his companion growled. "In the 
 devil's name, why leave a winning game to 
 walk?" 
 
 " The air is better for your blood than dice 
 and drink." 
 
 " Fabien, you're a fool ! " 
 
 Leon jerked his sleeve from the other's grasp 
 and faced him angrily ; his utterance was thick 
 and stumbling ; his great grey eyes were blaz- 
 ing. 
 
 " And what right of yours," he cried, " if I 
 drain a cask? Am I a babe in arms who needs 
 a whining, white-faced nurse forever dawdling 
 at my heels to tell me when I've had enough, 
 and wipe my lips with the corner of an apron ? 
 Leave me in peace ! You sicken me with your 
 endless babbling of friendship. Peste ! Have 
 done with it ! " 
 
 Fabien answered nothing, and the moonlight 
 falling on his pale, calm face showed only pity
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 for the drunken boy who heaped unmerited 
 abuse upon him ; he sighed and drew his velvet 
 cloak about his shoulders, turned on his heel 
 and strode away, while Leon watched him in 
 sullen silence till a flush of shame crept slowly 
 to his beardless cheek. And this was his friend ! 
 A friend from babyhood till now brave, gener- 
 ous, tender as a mother, when his own unthink- 
 ing follies brought sorrow and remorse. Fa- 
 bien! Dearer than a brother, older, cooler, 
 stronger, ever ready to forgive an injury, and 
 now thrust from him in a burst of childish 
 anger. 
 
 For a moment more the boy stood listening ; 
 the retreating footsteps died away, and two hot 
 tears rolled slowly down and clung to his quiv- 
 ering chin. He called, but no answer came. 
 He paused, glanced backward at the palace 
 lights and then ran, staggering, to overtake his 
 friend and beg forgiveness. 
 
 And Fabien listened in indulgence to his fal- 
 tering words of penitence, pressed his shoulder 
 tenderly, and, linking an arm through his, led 
 him away from the wine and gaming tables 
 along the cool, white road past terraced gar- 
 
 3
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 dens, where stately Italian villas reposed in the 
 leafy shadows, under the ruined walls of a once 
 proud castle, now crumbling into dust, till at 
 length they reached the hilltop which over- 
 looked the bay. Here at their feet lay a dusky 
 line of wharves and quays, a wilderness of rest- 
 less ships with fretting anchor chains and creak- 
 ing cordage ; there to the right, within the horse- 
 shoe's bend, slept Naples with her coverlet cast 
 aside to catch the cooling breezes from the sea, 
 and beyond the bay itself stretched out like a 
 rumpled bed of silver, from which the summer 
 moon had risen in the night. Away to the left 
 old Mount Vesuvius hunched his rugged shoul- 
 der across the sky, his snoring head encircled 
 by a wreath of oozing smoke, from whose coils 
 his yellow fangs of flame showed fitfully and 
 sank again to rest. From the hill's crest, like a 
 solitary sentinel, the tiny chapel of Sainte Marie 
 looked down on the sleeping city, and beside it, 
 where the moonlight fell, stood a cracked stone 
 bench half covered with creeping vines. 
 
 Thither Fabien led his friend, thinking the 
 breeze might clear his brain of the fumes of 
 drink and cool the blood which ran too riotously 
 
 4
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 in his veins; but the sloping approach was 
 strewn with stones, and Leon, still unsteady on 
 his feet, tripped and lurched forward, while his 
 rapier, catching between his knees, "threw him 
 heavily to the ground. Fabien sprang to aid him, 
 but Leon pushed him angrily aside and stumbled 
 to his feet in a fury at his mishap ; then, seeking 
 some object on which to vent his spleen, forgot 
 repentance, and again assailed his friend as the 
 cause of his luckless fall. 
 
 " A fine place this," he grumbled, " to bring a 
 gentleman and trip him on the stones and 
 and to laugh at his misfortune ! Mon Dieu ! 
 why could you not have left me to my game ? " 
 
 " But, my boy," his companion pleaded, " I 
 did not laugh at you, and, indeed, I had no 
 thought but sorrow for your hurt. Come, rest 
 for a moment on the bench while I brush your 
 cloak." 
 
 " May the fiends devour your bench . . . and 
 you ! I want none of either ! " 
 
 " But only a moment, Leon. . . . Come, I beg 
 you." 
 
 " Aye, you're always begging," retorted Leon 
 with an ugly sneer, "begging from dawn 
 
 5
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 to midnight. What would you have, my ring 
 my purse?" He flipped a coin from his 
 thumb, and laughed. "Well . . . what more?" 
 
 Fabien bit his lip and gazed in silence out 
 across the bay, then, after a pause, said sadly : 
 " Lon ... I want your love naught else, be- 
 lieve me." 
 
 And Le*on, too drunk to understand the fine 
 restraint and unselfishness of his friend's devo- 
 tion, laughed shrilly at the womanish speech, and 
 offered to buy him a petticoat and a box of 
 rouge; but finding at length that his taunts 
 were met with a bridled tongue, he turned on 
 his heel with a mocking shrug and swung into 
 the road which led to the palace a mile or more 
 away. 
 
 Fabien rose from the bench and followed. 
 " Leon," he called, " whither will you go ? 
 Surely not back to your silly game? The dice 
 are loaded." 
 
 Leon wheeled upon him in a rage. "And 
 what is it to you? " he cried. " Mind your own 
 affairs ! Leave me and mine in peace ! " 
 
 " But, my boy," urged Fabien tenderly, striv- 
 ing to take his arm once more, " 'tis folly to play 
 
 6
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 where you're sure to lose. Come, be advised by 
 an older head." 
 
 Leon struck fiercely at Fabien's detaining 
 hand, and answered, with a curse : " A pest on 
 you and your hateful preaching ! The loss of 
 my last cracked sou would be a paltry price for 
 the riddance of your company ! " Then added, 
 with another tipsy oath, "And besides, you 
 idiot, I was winning three times running." 
 
 " Aye," answered Fabien quietly, " the luck of 
 a fool may win three times for him, but scarcely 
 a fourth, in play with a trickster whose wine is 
 drugged. Diable ! Leon, you are far too drunk 
 to count the dots upon your dice." 
 
 "You lie!" 
 
 A hot flush swept across Fabien's cheek and 
 left it deathly white; his thin hand twitched 
 as it crept toward his rapier hilt, paused, and 
 fell limply to his side. 
 
 " Go, Leon," he said in sadness, " go If you 
 will. ... I trouble you no longer." 
 
 But Lon, now lashed to unreasoning rage, 
 taunted him with cowardice in swallowing the 
 lie, flung his glove into his friend's pale face, and 
 drew his rapier. The older man, with iron will, 
 
 7
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 controlled his anger for the sake of the boy he 
 loved, and because of the fiery wine which the 
 crafty duca had administered in the hope of 
 plucking a golden pheasant to the bone. Fabien 
 had seen the trap, and led his friend away, to 
 the ill-disguised annoyance of both the "trickster 
 and his dupe, for their host had scowled and 
 chewed a disappointed oath, while Leon left the 
 table grudgingly ; and now, as the drug burned 
 fiercely in his veins, his grosser passions bub- 
 bled to the surface, and he stood before his gen- 
 tlest friend with an eager, threatening sword. 
 Poor boy, thought Fabien, he knows not \vhat 
 he does, and turns his hand against me in the 
 sickness of his mind. 
 
 " Leon," he asked, " what madness is this 
 which has come upon you ? Would you prove 
 me indeed a coward in causing me to wound a 
 wine-crazed child? Put up your rapier and 
 have done with this causeless quarrel. I have 
 no part in it, and sought only to fish you from 
 the meshes of a net. There, take my hand and 
 make an end of folly and unreason." 
 
 For answer Leon struck him heavily upon 
 
 the mouth with his hard-clenched fist. Fabien 
 
 8
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 reeled and fell, and when he rose a stream of 
 blood was flowing from his lip and slowly drib- 
 bled down on his satin doublet. 
 
 "Follow!" 
 
 Without another word he led the way behind 
 the chapel where the moonlight fell upon a 
 patch of soft, smooth sward. He was far the 
 better swordsman, with longer reach and firmer 
 wrist, a practised blade which answered to a 
 clear, cool brain; opposed to him, a beardless 
 youth, transformed by poisoned drink into a 
 madman, whose fury rendered him incapable 
 even of self-defence. 
 
 Fabien sighed as he cast his cloak behind 
 him on the turf, and ere he drew his sword he 
 sought once more by gentle reasoning to stay 
 his companion's rage; but Leon was in no 
 mood for reason ; the cold voice only maddened 
 him, and he struck without warning at his 
 friend's unguarded breast. Fabien leaped aside 
 and caught the lunging point upon his arm ; it 
 slid along its way, ripping the satin sleeve from 
 wrist to shoulder. 
 
 "A foul thrust, Leon," he murmured re- 
 proachfully, and stood on guard. 'Twill 
 
 9
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 VVry \M^/ 
 
 bring you shame when you remember it to- 
 morrow." 
 
 morrow. 
 
 Leon heeded nothing. With a snarl of rage 
 he sprang at his antagonist, the once-loved 
 Fabien seeming to his disordered brain but a 
 thing to kill. Again and again he flung his 
 supple body forward, lunging at throat and 
 chest in deadly hate; and Fabien, with ever- 
 watchful eye and shifting foot, parried each 
 vicious thrust, and in return gave none; the 
 while his calm ' voice rose above the slithering 
 rasp of steel, pleading with a madman's lust for 
 blood, calling, soothing, till his words were 
 drowned in the jarring crash of rapier hilts tight 
 locked in uplifted hands. 
 
 Once more they swung apart ; once more the 
 boy plunged fiercely at his foe, and then of a 
 sudden his blade was twisted from his grasp, 
 spun in the moonlight like a silver wheel and 
 stuck, quivering, in the earth. Fabien laughed. 
 
 With the cry of a wounded beast, Leon 
 stooped and seized his rapier, attacking with an 
 open guard; no longer guided by the duel's 
 code, but in blind fury lashing out before him, 
 
 as though he held a whip, till Fabien, fending 
 
 10
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 off the storm of blows, could scarce prevent his 
 foe from rushing on his point. 
 
 "In God's name, Leon, have a care!" he 
 cried, and retreating swiftly, caught his heel in 
 the throat-strap of his discarded cloak, tripped, 
 and fell prone upon his back. A thin, keen 
 rapier licked out, met flesh, and pinned him to 
 the earth. 
 
 For one long moment Leon stood, his fingers 
 clutched in his dripping locks, staring in horror 
 at the stricken thing that quivered at his feet ; 
 and then, with a cry of half unhuman agony, 
 fell sobbing beside his friend. The cry was 
 taken up and flung from stone to stone, and 
 echoed " Fabien ! Fabien ! " till it sank to a 
 stifled whisper and was lost in the lapping sea. 
 
 With a rush of blinding tears the sobered boy 
 poured forth a torrent of endearments where a 
 moment since fell curses and abuse. With lips 
 to cheek and brow he babbled incoherently a 
 pitiless storm of self-denunciation, a soul-racked 
 prayer launched wildly at unheeding heaven, 
 a passionate appeal that a dying man might 
 live. 
 
 ' Forgive ! Forgive ! " he moaned. " Ah. holy 
 ii
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 God, I know not what I did ! Fabien, forgive ! 
 Forgive ! " 
 
 Fabien smiled and feebly pressed his hand ; 
 the black blood gushed from his speechless lips ; 
 he shivered and was still. 
 
 Long Leon sat, as a mother might cling to 
 the body of her babe, rocking dumbly to and 
 fro, the limp head pillowed on his breast till his 
 vest was stained with a crimson smudge. At 
 length he rose, and lifting the burden in his 
 arms, staggered beneath its weight toward the 
 chapel. The oaken door swung inward to a 
 pressure of his foot; a draught of chilling air 
 puffed out in his fevered face, and a frightened 
 bat swirled by, brushing his cheek with a 
 clammy wing. With laboured breath he groped 
 his way along the ghostly aisles, tottering on to 
 the chancel rail, where the unlit candles slit the 
 murky gloom, and the Christ hung limp and 
 pallid from his cross. At the altar's foot he laid 
 his burden down, then fled like a thing ac- 
 cursed he knew not whither. 
 
 The grating winches dragged up an anchor 
 chain ; the clumsy hull swung round in an ebb- 
 
 12
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 ing tide, and the fruit ship Santa Baba, bound 
 with her cargo for Le Harve, slid silently out 
 to sea. 
 
 The sailors looked askance at a huddled 
 figure lying on the deck, whose fine, patrician 
 face was hidden in his outstretched arms, whose 
 once rich garments, now soiled and disarranged, 
 showed ugly stains, which caused the watch to 
 cross himself and mumble a half-forgotten 
 prayer. But the grim-faced captain lolling at 
 the helm gazed calmly across his bows and 
 whistled an idle tune, for gold was rare and 
 throats were cheap in Naples, and if the S ignore 
 paid a double fare in good and lawful coin, the 
 Signore might seek the devil in the way which 
 pleased him best. Basta ! It was no affair of 
 his! 
 
 The huddled figure tossed in sleepless agony 
 until the moon went down. A cold wind rose 
 and flung gaunt, white-lipped waves against 
 the vessel's side, each an accusing, clamorous 
 tongue that cried out " Fabien ! Fabien ! " and 
 plunged away into the darkness. The main- 
 mast, with its heavy spar, towered upwards in 
 the gloom, like some gigantic cross whence
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 the phantom of a colossal Christ looked down 
 reproachfully, and in the vessel's wake old 
 Mount Vesuvius sank behind the curving sea, 
 his flaring crest a crimson stain against the 
 sky.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Vive le Roi / The crowd still shouted, although 
 the king had already passed by, and the last of 
 his escort was disappearing round the corner; 
 but their monarch had smiled most genially 
 upon them, so now they stood about in noisy 
 knots, discussing the subject of the king's re- 
 turn from Rouen. True, there was nothing of 
 special moment in this event, yet Louis passed 
 not every day, and a train of clattering men at 
 arms in glittering harness and polished helms 
 was ample cause to bring the people flocking 
 from their doors, even without the presence of 
 the royal leader. 
 
 Louis had sat upon his chestnut stallion that 
 plunged and curveted beneath his master's rein, 
 while at his side rode a favorite courtier, Gas- 
 ton Due de la Fere, a new-made husband with 
 mended morals and a splendid velvet cloak, who 
 scattered silver pennies from a purse which, 
 rumor said, was inexhaustible; so the rabble
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 shouted joyously and forgot that Louis' fist was 
 hidden in his glove. 
 
 Tailors were there who dissertated wisely on 
 the cost and fit of the riders' hose and doublets, 
 artisans and smiths still reeking from the forge, 
 cobblers and dusty bakers, a swarm of wriggling, 
 grime-stained children tangled in strangers' legs 
 and bawling lustily ; shrill-tongued mothers who 
 gossiped among the men or sought in frantic 
 unavail for their offspring lost in the shifting 
 crowd. Beggars of every unwashed hue whined 
 pleadingly for sous, or deftly explored un- 
 guarded pockets to spare their owner's time in 
 making change. Cripples were much in evi- 
 dence, their maimed and bandaged limbs seem- 
 ing marvelously restored to health and vigour 
 in the scramble for scattered coins. And dogs 
 dogs that fought among themselves in riotous 
 delight on any pretext claiming the interest 
 and attention of the people next to the king 
 himself. 
 
 Before the doorway of the jeweller stood the 
 blazoned carriage of the Marquis Dubris, sur- 
 rounded by a gaping throng of idlers who waited 
 
 for a glimpse of the lordly owner; some in 
 
 16
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 simple curiosity, others to fling a jest or 
 two of spiced but unsavoury flavour, for the 
 marquis was not a favourite with the poor of 
 Paris. 
 
 Directly across the way stood the shop of 
 Monsieur Dreux, a maker of artistic gowns, who 
 boasted that his customers numbered the richest 
 Parisian belles, and even a haughty dame or two 
 from the court itself. From an iron balcony on 
 the building's upper story a handsome woman 
 with splendid eyes, young, but no ingenue, 
 looked boldly out on the scene below; she 
 waited in impatience for her carriage to appear, 
 and if one might judge by the grim compres- 
 sion of her lips, the driver would rue his tardi- 
 ness and hold the memory long. Many a gaze 
 was lifted to the balcony, and many a whisper 
 sank into too willing ears. 
 
 "Who is she?" asked a soldier in a dirty 
 leather coat and muddy boots, as he craned his 
 neck for a better view. " del ! the face and 
 figure of an angel i " 
 
 A painted girl beside him tittered in reply: 
 "An angel, yes, but her wings are like your 
 
 boots, mon ami; 'twill take a mighty rubbing 
 2 17
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 to make them clean again. God save you, sir, 
 she is Madame le Corbeau ! " 
 
 A barber, standing at the soldier's elbow, 
 laughed, then vastly pleased to find an easy 
 auditor, poured forth a volley of unsought in- 
 formation, the while his thumb and finger 
 worked unconsciously, as though his shears 
 were snipping at his listener's straggling locks : 
 
 " Ah, sir, you well may stare at Madame le 
 Corbeau the most beautiful of women. Paris 
 holds none else to equal her. What ! You have 
 never heard of her? Morbleu ! my friend, 
 surely you're a stranger in the city. Madame le 
 Corbeau? Every one knows Madame le Cor- 
 beau and best of all the devil. Why, sir, she 
 was once the mistress of the Due de la Fere he 
 who passed just now on the king's left hand- 
 but they say she spent his gold so fast that the 
 wary due took fright, departing with such sud- 
 denness as to leave his feathered hat behind. 
 How do I know these things? Sir, I am hon- 
 oured by the confidence of many courtly gentle- 
 men who chat agreeably while I dress their hair, 
 and your pardon, sir I may say without of- 
 fence that your own needs trimming sadly. My 
 
 18
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 shop is just round the corner; you cannot miss 
 it if you try. But speaking of the due did 
 you note his face when he spied Miladi on the 
 balcony ? No ? Mon Dieu ! his cheek flushed 
 red as his crimson sash, and he straightway 
 scattered pennies among the beggars to cover 
 his confusion. But, ah, the lady! Ha! No 
 boggling there! She looked straight at him 
 with half-closed eyes, and smiled disdainfully. 
 La, sir, some say the story has another side, but 
 what may one pick for the wagging of such idle 
 tongues ? For my part- 
 Here the mouth of the little man was stopped 
 abruptly by a sudden excited movement in the 
 crowd. Across the street from the jeweller's 
 doorway stepped the Marquis Dubris, a short, 
 coarse man with a bloated countenance, thick 
 overhanging brows and a mouth of cruel inso- 
 lence. The idlers fell back in precipitance to 
 give him passage to his carriage, when Bobo, a 
 hunchback beggar, jostled by the press, sought 
 safety in a hobbling flight toward the curb. 
 Alas for poor Bobo's haste! His wooden 
 crutches slid on the polished stones, and the 
 beggar, to save a painful fall, clutched wildly at 
 
 19
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 the skirt of the marquis's satin coat. The mar- 
 quis, with a brutal oath, lifted his cane and 
 struck struck viciously, and Bobo fell, his 
 cheek laid bare as by a sabre cut ; and, rolling 
 on his face, held up one feeble arm to shield his 
 defenceless head. Once more the cane hissed 
 through the air and caught the hunchback 
 sharply on his curving spine. Bobo screamed 
 out in agony, sobbed, and was still, while from 
 the motley throng of watchers an angry growl 
 broke forth, rose and fell in a storm of hoots 
 and curses. They hissed and groaned, but with 
 a rabble's cowardice remained inactive, venting 
 their rage in threatening cries and execrations. 
 The marquis, hemmed in on every side and 
 spurred to boiling wrath, lifted his heavy stick 
 again, when a firm white hand shot out, closed 
 on the cane, and wrenched it from his grasp. A 
 roar of joy burst out from a hundred throats ; 
 the marquis spun upon his heel and faced a priest 
 a tall, pale priest, whose great grey eyes looked 
 calmly into his own and waited. For a moment 
 taken at a disadvantage, the noble fumed and 
 spluttered helplessly, whereat a great laugh went 
 
 up and stung him like a banderillero's dart in 
 
 20
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 the flesh of a baited bull. His face turned 
 ghastly pale, then livid in his passion ; a foul 
 oath fell from his purple lips, and his sword 
 flashed out, its' point presented at the broad, 
 deep chest of the priest who barred his. path. 
 
 " Out of my way," screamed the maddened 
 marquis, " or I'll truss you like a fowl ! " 
 
 " Peace ! " said the priest. " Put up your 
 sword." 
 
 The voice was low and passionless, unstirred 
 by any touch of anger or of fear, but firm, un- 
 wavering as the tone of a mother to her erring 
 child, while Dubris glared at him with a look of 
 rancorous hate, his weak chin trembling in im- 
 potent fury. 
 
 " Stand back ! " he shouted. 
 
 " No." 
 
 ' Then die ! " the marquis shrieked, and 
 stepped backward for his thrust. 
 
 Through the huddled rabble a gasp of horror 
 surged, and sank into breathless silence. No 
 hand was raised to save the father's blood ; no 
 man to fling himself between that splinter of 
 gleaming steel and the priest who staked his life 
 
 for a hunchbacked beggar moaning at his feet; 
 
 21
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 and so they waited in stupid fascination while 
 one might count a score, watching the figures 
 in the centre of their human ring. The noble- 
 man, a painted peacock, in lace and brocaded 
 satin, his vulgar face distorted and inflamed with 
 fury, his thick, coarse figure crouched to back 
 his lunge; the priest, calm, motionless, un- 
 moved, in the simple garments of his holy call- 
 ing ; his [spotless white serge cassock fell from 
 throat to sandal, while over it a wide, black 
 mantle hung, its loose end flung like a toga's 
 fold across his shoulder. The sinewy arm, 
 which might have warded off the threatened 
 stroke, hung passive at his side, but the cold 
 grey eyes, which looked unflinchingly from 
 their pallid patrician frame, held the marquis 
 chained as a man may hold a beast. 
 
 Who can say what passed through the mar- 
 quis's mind in that one hovering instant of in- 
 action, when passion warred with mental cow- 
 ardice when pride must strike or stoop? 
 Whether his stagnant soul shrank pitifully in 
 conscious awe of the holy robe which clothed an 
 unarmed antagonist whether the very evil in 
 
 him cowered, abashed, before that passive mien 
 
 22
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 of power and purity, or if in the features of the 
 man himself, thin, delicate, refined, he read the 
 name of master the master who scorned him 
 for what he was who looked beneath his strut- 
 ting feathers and saw him in his nakedness, a 
 thing ashamed. 
 
 The sword-hand shook; the glittering point 
 which menaced the priest's breast wavered, then, 
 like the marquis's shifting eyes, dropped slowly 
 to the earth. 
 
 Stooping, the priest raised Bobo from the 
 ground and held the half unconscious beggar in 
 his arms, unmindful of the trickling ooze which 
 dyed his vestments with a crimson smudge; 
 then turning to Dubris, he spoke scarce audibly, 
 his low, rich voice for the first time trembling 
 in its sorrowful intensity: 
 
 " Go you in peace. ... I judge you not . . . 
 but remember, sir, that where you sow . . . there 
 also shall you reap . . . and when, in passion, 
 you seek a fellow-creature's blood . . . may God 
 forgive you you know not what you do ! " 
 
 The marquis hung his head, and without a 
 word, turned round and shuffled toward his 
 carriage. A snarling murmur rose ; hard hands 
 
 23
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 stretched out to drag him in the dust, and 
 vengeful curses bubbled to bearded lips ; but the 
 father raised his hand, and a sudden hush fell 
 on the rabble, while the nobleman, his naked 
 sword still held in his shaking grasp, crept like 
 a sentenced criminal into his coach. The horses 
 plunged through the scattering crowd ; a white, 
 affrighted face looked for an instant from the 
 carriage window, and was gone. 
 
 The priest, with the bleeding beggar in his 
 arms, strode silently away, while a handsome 
 woman, watching from a balcony, clutched at 
 the iron railing with her jewelled hands, and 
 wondered. Her splendid eyes still followed him 
 till his coal-black cowl was swallowed up in the 
 ragged crowd that pressed upon his heels. 
 
 24
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE candles in the salon of Madame le Cor- 
 beau burned brightly from their silver candela- 
 bra, and beneath them half a score of merry, 
 gay-dressed cavaliers were chatting with as many 
 women in rouge and satin. Some gossiped 
 laughingly, passing in and out upon the balcony 
 through wide rear windows reaching to the 
 floor, while others stood beside a table spread 
 with fruit and wine, jesting across the rims of 
 their brimming glasses ; a brilliant picture with 
 its changing tints of silk and velvet, its flash of 
 colour, a glint of gold, and the rich appoint- 
 ments of the room itself a shade too pure in 
 taste for the coarse-tongued laughter shrilling 
 from a painted woman's lips. 
 
 A girl with a reckless face and a spiteful 
 mouth, seated before a harpsichord, strummed 
 noisily. 
 
 " Peste, Lizette!" cried a tawdry beauty 
 called La Rose, " you set one's teeth on edge. 
 
 25
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Come, give us a song in which we all may join 
 a merry one well anything you please." 
 
 " As you will," replied Lizette in a careless 
 tone, and, turning to several gentlemen stand- 
 ing near, said sneeringly : " La Rose is begging 
 that I play ' King Grape,' a song which was 
 written by her latest lover. I 'm sure 'twill give 
 her pleasure and besides she can air her 
 cracked contralto. Come, Messieurs ; I believe 
 you know the chorus." 
 
 La Rose blushed furiously and turned away, 
 but on being urged by many laughing gentle- 
 men, was at last appeased, and sang in a deep, 
 rich voice the rollicking lines of a drinking song : 
 
 " King Grape is a king of kings, I ween ; 
 He holds his court in a vineyard green, 
 
 'Neath the shade of a lordly vine, 
 Where the blood of the bursting fruit runs red, 
 And the gleam of a golden sun is shed 
 
 On rivers of sparkling wine. 
 His crystal flagon is tossed on high 
 A ruby splash in a sapphire sky 
 
 And is borne on the wind's swift wings, 
 From the North to South, from the West to East, 
 To prince and beggar, to sinner and priest, 
 
 Who bow to the king of kings." 
 
 Here the company took up the chorus noisily, 
 
 singing it twice over : 
 
 26
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Then hail to the king 
 
 Whose treasures cling 
 To the breath of the winds that blow, 
 
 And the nectar that drips 
 
 To the eager lips 
 Of the thirsty world below." 
 
 As the chorus ended, a clapping of hands was 
 heard, and Raymond Delese, a handsome, boy- 
 ish cavalier in pearl-gray silk, entered and ad- 
 vanced to the group of singers. 
 
 " Brava ! Brava /" he cried delightedly. 
 
 " Oh ho ! " laughed La Rose. " The vanity of 
 man, applauding a song which he wrote him- 
 self!" And the guests joined heartily in the 
 jesting welcome to the young musician. 
 
 " No, no, dear friends," he protested smilingly, 
 " I deny that charge at least. I applauded the 
 singing rather than the song, but foremost of all 
 I clapped for your leader peerless La Rose. 
 Ah, little one," he added, with a laugh, " that 
 contralto should be heard in opera." 
 
 La Rose placed two white hands behind her 
 back. " I cannot applaud your flattery," she 
 lisped, " as I might your music, and especially 
 when the varnish of your compliment is, alas ! 
 
 so thin; but come, I will reward your gallantry" 
 
 27
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 she pinned a rose upon his coat " for, Ray- 
 mond, you're a clever knave . . . and clever 
 knaves are rare." 
 
 Raymond raised the flower to his lips. " By 
 proxy," he murmured, with a meaning smile, " till 
 the knave may claim a more responsive kiss." 
 
 La Rose made promise with her eyes; then 
 turning to her friends, called cheerily: "Come, 
 another glass and another verse to prove appre- 
 ciation of the song and the saintly rogue who 
 wrote it." 
 
 They sang it merrily in concert, while Ray- 
 mond waved La Rose's fan in lieu of a leader's 
 baton; but the closing lines were interrupted by 
 the sounds of a mighty cheering on the street 
 and the lights of torches flashing through the 
 open windows. 
 
 " Listen ! " cried Lizette, a dainty butterfly 
 who fluttered near the balcony. 
 
 "What is it?" asked another of M. Duval, 
 who stood beside her. " Hark ! they are coming 
 nearer ! " 
 
 " It seems," said the cavalier, with a glance 
 toward the street, " to be a line of maskers on 
 
 their way to a festival." 
 
 28
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " A festival ! What festival ? " 
 
 " Upon my soul, I cannot say." 
 
 " Upon mine, I can," laughed Raymond rue- 
 fully, " I have just escaped from that murderous 
 procession!" The guests pressed round him, 
 eager for an explanation. " I was being driven 
 hither when my carriage was rudely stopped by 
 that howling horde of masked barbarians ; they 
 blocked the streets completely hooting, 
 screeching, cutting capers that would cast de- 
 spair on the king's menagerie. My driver 
 swore superbly, but the rabble gave him better 
 than he sent, and at length four burly bandits 
 clambered through my carriage windows, insist- 
 ing that I help along their festival in the matter 
 of small coin." 
 
 "What!" gasped La Rose. "You were 
 robbed?" 
 
 Raymond shook his head. " No, not exactly 
 robbed persuaded. You see, their arguments 
 were backed by short, fat clubs and jagged pav- 
 ing stones ; so I merely bowed to their superior 
 knowledge of my welfare, exchanging my coin 
 for wholesome information. Look ! " he laughed 
 
 as he held up his open purse. " As empty as 
 
 29
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 my wine-glass. I must beg a sou or two from 
 my generous friends, or foot it home in the early 
 morning." 
 
 " But what is the meaning of the celebra- 
 tion ? " asked Violette, as she passed his wine. 
 
 " Well," said Raymond, " purely as a guess I 
 should say that the barbers were giving a fete in 
 honour of some one who has cut the throat of 
 some one else. The barbers rejoice. Heaven 
 wonders which can be the greater villain the 
 slayer or the slain, and the devil laughs, for he 
 has one rogue, and will get the other." 
 
 " What a ghastly jest ! " simpered Violette, 
 and followed the laughing guests, who were 
 passing out upon the balcony to watch the 
 maskers in the street below. 
 
 "Are you coming, Raymond?" called La 
 Rose. 
 
 " Thanks, no," he answered, " I've had enough 
 of the barbers' handiwork; they shaved me 
 clean." 
 
 Raymond turned and crossed to the room's 
 remaining occupant, a man who, during all the 
 merriment, had sat apart in gloomy silence, 
 
 listening with ill-concealed annoyance to the 
 
 30
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 rasping clatter of their irritating tongues. He 
 was of middle age and heavy frame, with strong 
 and not unhandsome features, marked by learn- 
 ing and experience ; a face of power, yet shad- 
 owed by a look of weariness and suffering, a 
 look of longing for a passion still unsatisfied a 
 hope beyond his hope. Many envied him for 
 his fame and wealth, the first physician of his 
 day, with a private fortune equalling that of the 
 Due de la Fere, King Louis' favourite; but 
 others read, in that stern unbending counte- 
 nance, the stamp of sullen cruelty, where Fate 
 had slashed him with her lines of bitterness and 
 pain. And yet, no patient was ever turned away 
 for lack of fees, and the kindly ring in his deep 
 bass voice belied the harshness of his thin, 
 straight lips and dogged chin. The doctor's 
 cup was a cup whose joy had spilled ; he gave, 
 and forgot the gifts; but his harvests were 
 choked with the thistles. 
 
 " Bon soir, Jardin ! " called Raymond cheerily. 
 " Why so melancholy? " 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," the doctor answered 
 lazily. " I was merely thinking." 
 
 " An evil habit, friend ; get over it. But be-
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 fore you mend your ways tell me your opinion 
 of La Rose." 
 
 " Honestly," the doctor asked, " or shall I mix 
 my medicine with sugar?" 
 
 Raymond smiled. " Thank you, no ; I can 
 swallow it without the sweetening. Well ? " 
 
 " Harmless." 
 
 " Why, what do you mean ? " 
 
 Jardin yawned and tapped his forehead with 
 his finger. " Weak. . . . Pretty enough to look 
 at beyond a doubt sweet as the flower whose 
 name she bears, and yet her brains would less 
 than fill my silver snuff-box." He offered it 
 politely. ''' Try it, Raymond ; it clears the head. 
 Sneeze . . . and forget her !" 
 
 The snuff was smilingly declined ; Jardin re- 
 sumed : 
 
 " La Rose is a happy soul ; but as I said be- 
 fore, quite harmless. A flower which man may 
 pluck and throw away at will ; it is neither rare 
 nor poisonous." 
 
 " Philosopher, sage, and botanist ! " laughed 
 Raymond. " What variety of flower is . . . Le 
 Corbeau ? " 
 
 " Mort Dieu, a poppy!" cried the doctor, 
 32
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 straightening in his chair. "That deadly 
 bloom, as beautiful as deadly, and he who dares 
 inhale its subtle fragrance is lulled to slumber 
 and to dreams of heaven ! " 
 
 He paused, then asked abruptly: 
 " Raymond, did you never eat opium ? " 
 " Helasf" sighed Raymond in mock dejec- 
 tion. " It is the one vice I do not possess." 
 
 " Then don't acquire it ! " Jardin rose, walked 
 the floor, and spoke with harsh intensity. " A 
 man who becomes its victim is lost forever. 
 While under its baleful spell he is happy, con- 
 tent, at peace with himself and all the world, 
 although he knows he is slowly drifting to hide- 
 ous death; but take away his drug and the 
 horrors of hell have claimed him body, mind, 
 and soul ! No rest save in his sweet indulgence 
 no peace save with his tyrant ! " The doctor 
 clenched his hands and added in a low, fierce 
 whisper: "And like the opium-eater is the 
 thrice-accursed wretch . . . who loves Cor- 
 beau!" 
 
 " My dear Jardin," said Raymond in deep 
 concern, " you seem to be serious. I had never 
 supposed that 
 
 3 33
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Yes," replied his friend, and sank wearily to 
 his seat, " I speak straight from the heart what 
 little she has left of it. Ah, Raymond, I would 
 give my wealth to the last poor sou for your 
 sunny disposition and philosophy; you, whose 
 days pass by like the music of your merry 
 songs." 
 
 " Perhaps my tune may change in the final 
 roasting," the musician ventured with a grin. 
 
 " Perhaps . . . and yet you are happy. You 
 write your dainty ballads, as sparkling as the 
 wine you love next best to music. Paris loves 
 them, and Paris loves you . . . and why? Be- 
 cause you are cheerful. Because you are a wit. 
 Because you never take life seriously, and your 
 wine of youth has not gone flat and bitter. 
 Man, man, I envy you. You have a place in 
 life." 
 
 "And you, Jardin?" asked Raymond, with a 
 touch of sadness in his voice. 
 
 " I God help me have eaten of the poppy 
 flower ! " 
 
 Raymond placed his hand affectionately on 
 the other's shoulder. 
 
 " Come, come, Jardin, you grow despondent. 
 34
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 When love becomes too heavy for the heart to 
 bear, then drown it in champagne." He filled 
 two glasses, placing one upon a table at the doc- 
 tor's elbow. " Come, drink with me," he cried, 
 "drink and forget. You'll find it even better 
 than your snuff. And, after all," he added in a 
 tone of banter, " what is love but a little mon- 
 ster who contrives to crush us when once we let 
 him get the whip-hand." He raised his glass : 
 " And so, sacrebleu / you should never let him 
 get it!" 
 
 The doctor shook his head and pushed away 
 the proffered wine. 
 
 " No, no, my friend, your advice has come too 
 late. I've lost the whip-hand, and I only know 
 the lash so keen so cruel God! . . . how 
 well she lays it on ! " 
 
 For a moment neither spoke. Each, busied 
 with his thoughts, sat listening to the boisterous 
 shouts of maskers in the street below and the 
 ceaseless chatter of the guests upon the balcony. 
 Then Raymond broke the silence. 
 
 " Jardin," he said, " your pardon if I touch a 
 wound, but I could never understand how a 
 man of your intelligence became Le Corbeau's 
 
 35
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 prey, when your iron will might set you free, 
 ... or make you master." 
 
 Jardin's reply came slowly, truthfully, but 
 tinged with scoffing self-contempt for the weak- 
 ness which conceived his misery: 
 
 " A sled on a mountain side the trip is easier 
 down than up. . . . First I was Corbeau's phy- 
 sician . . . then I was Corbeau's slave. For 
 her I deserted my wife and my children; for 
 her I squander my wealth and wreck my happi- 
 ness . . . and for what? To be tapped with 
 her ivory fan and called by silly pet names . . . 
 to catch at a few stale crumbs of favour tossed 
 in my face, and then be cast aside for men 
 whom I loathe. Men like that blatant ass, 
 Duchant the poet and novelist who wrings his 
 hands and makes vile rhymes writes stories of 
 love that would shock a vagrant. Men who buy 
 their aristocracy for a handful of dirty gold. 
 Ah, Raymond, it sickens me to the soul. I hate 
 this place, with its shallow coarseness, its odour 
 of stale wine, its taint of sin . . . and yet I 
 come . . . come always . . . and for her ! " 
 
 "Still," said Raymond thoughtfully, "she is 
 different from the rest. Call her heartless 
 
 36
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 cruel what you will and beneath it all lurk 
 polish and refinement, a stamp of birth which 
 even such a life as hers can never quite obliter- 
 ate. Tell me, Jardin, do you know Le Corbeau's 
 name ? Not the nickname we call her by, but 
 that which her father gave her." 
 
 The doctor nodded. " Yes, I know her name 
 and who her parents were, but am not at liberty 
 to tell you, since it came to me by accident, and 
 I gave a pledge of silence. But this much I 
 may say the best and proudest blood of France 
 is in her veins." 
 
 " Crossed with a dash of Satan's," suggested 
 Raymond.* 
 
 " Aye, crossed with a dash of Satan's," Jardin 
 assented bitterly, then added in a burst of pas- 
 sionate vehemence : " I tell you, Raymond, the 
 woman is a devil a heartless, venomous devil, 
 who grinds the hopes of men beneath her heel, 
 and laughs at it laughs at it ! Sometimes she 
 taunts me till I could strangle her . . . but 
 when she smiles . . . ah, then, my friend, I sell 
 my soul the price of a curving lip." 
 
 The deep voice ceased, and the great physi- 
 cian, whom Paris looked upon as a man of iron, 
 
 37
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 buried his face between his two strong hands, 
 and trembled. 
 
 Raymond touched him gently on the shoulder. 
 " Jardin," he urged, " leave Paris for a month ; 
 the change will do you good. Go to my chateau 
 and rest. My horses and wine are yours. Ride ! 
 Drink, my friend, drink as deep as you will, but 
 put Le Corbeau from your mind . . . for once 
 and for all. Go, Jardin ; you are far too good a 
 man to break upon the wheel." 
 
 The doctor looked up wearily and pressed his 
 companion's hand. 
 
 " I thank you, Raymond," he murmured 
 sadly, " I thank you from my heart, but your 
 kindness comes too late. The drug is in the 
 blood ... to take it from me well you know 
 the rest." 
 
 "Go on and nothing can be gained. You 
 yourself have said it." 
 
 Jardin laughed harshly: "A game at cards 
 between the devil and despair . . . and the 
 devil has the deal ! " 
 
 " A losing game for you should either win," 
 urged Raymond earnestly. 
 
 " I know, I know," the doctor frowned, " and 
 38
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 yet the turning of a single trick would make 
 me master where I've been the slave." 
 
 " And you hesitate, Jardin? And why? " 
 
 " Because " 
 
 There was silence for a moment, and the doc- 
 tor dropped his eyes in conscious shame. 
 
 " Because . . . my bread is the bread of the 
 poppy flower. I've eaten . . . and must eat." 
 
 39
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 FURTHER speech between the friends was at 
 this point rudely interrupted, not only by the 
 returning guests with noisy comments on the 
 barbers' festival, but by the entrance of Jardin's 
 bete noire, the poet. Monsieur Duchant was a 
 man of some thirty years, fat, but effeminate, 
 with round and rolling eyes, which showed the 
 whites beneath ; he wore a much-slashed suit of 
 sapphire blue, a sword, and an air of lofty pa- 
 tronage. 
 
 The new arrival rushed effusively toward the 
 guests, who received him with a babel of clatter- 
 ing tongues his own meanwhile, like a ribbon 
 in the wind, fluttering incessantly with greetings 
 and self-contained acknowledgments. 
 
 " Peste, he is here!" exclaimed Jardin dis- 
 gustedly. 'The poet! Dieu ! Raymond, in 
 pity's name, suppress that conceited pig! His 
 ceaseless drivelling drives me mad ! He thinks 
 the whole wide world is grovelling at his minc- 
 ing feet to hear him read his poetry. His 
 
 40
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 poetry! Faugh! Quarrel with him, Raymond 
 run him through, and be my friend for 
 life." 
 
 Raymond grinned, but his answer was lost in 
 shouts of " Vive Duchant ! Long life to the 
 poet ! " which echoed from the laughing com- 
 pany, while La Rose poured wine and presented 
 it to the beaming bard. 
 
 "A glass," she cried, "to the jeweller of 
 rhyme, and then I'm sure, if we plead with him, 
 he will honour us with his latest verse." 
 
 " Duchant ! Duchant ! " cheered the clamour- 
 ing guests as the poet bowed and smirked de- 
 lightedly. 
 
 " A thousand thanks, dear friends," he lisped ; 
 "it is a joy ineffable to live in the hearts of 
 courage, youth, and loveliness. And I ? I claim 
 them all." 
 
 Jardin sighed hopelessly and shrugged his 
 shoulders, but the poet smiled and sipped his 
 wine in serene complacence. 
 
 " And now, Monsieur," begged Violette, " the 
 verses." 
 
 " Alas ! " he murmured languidly and raised 
 his bovine eyes, " my latest verses are not quite
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 finished, but I know the theme will meet your 
 just approval. The poem is called . . . Cor- 
 beau, the Sorceress" 
 
 " Good ! Good ! " declared his listeners, but 
 the doctor bit his lip, and turned away like a 
 man in pain. 
 
 "First tell me," begged Duchant, "has Le 
 Corbeau yet returned ? " 
 
 " No," said La Rose, " but we expect her any 
 moment. She's at the theatre with Monsieur 
 Chatillon, and oh ! mile, you should see the 
 gown she wears black satin with a full-blown 
 poppy flower pinned at the breast another in 
 her hair. Poor Chatillon," she laughed, " I pity 
 him ! But we have a treat in store this evening ; 
 Corbeau has promised to sing for us to the ac- 
 companiment of her new guitar." 
 
 " Ha ! " exclaimed Duchant, " it is so that I 
 have pictured her in verse a guitar with a crim- 
 son ribbon. Strange that I should hit the mark 
 without a hint. Prophetic ! " He turned to the 
 other ladies and continued volubly: " Now, first 
 the inspiration of this poem came to me on 
 Wednesday last as I sat alone in my summer 
 
 garden." 
 
 42
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Come, tell us of it," the ladies urged, push- 
 ing him down into an easy-chair and crowding 
 round him in their eagerness to hear, while the 
 flattered scribbler simpered happily and began 
 his recitation. 
 
 " Oh, the accursed bandit ! " the doctor mut- 
 tered angrily to Raymond. "An iron pike 
 thrust down his throat would fail to stop him 
 gabbling of his poetry. Can you do naught 
 to quiet him ? Pardieu ! He maddens me ! " 
 
 "Better still," laughed Raymond, "I'll make 
 him talk. The tongue of a fool when long 
 enough is a rope to hang him by. Pray bear 
 with him until I knot the noose." He stepped 
 toward the close-packed circle and said pro- 
 testingly : " Ladies, ladies, this is unfair. Be 
 not so greedy with Monsieur Duchant, when 
 we all are eager for his latest and his greatest 
 poem." 
 
 The poet rose with a sweeping bow: "An 
 honour, Monsieur Delese, an honour. But 
 there I shall call you Raymond; for are we 
 not brothers in art you the musician and I the 
 poet?" 
 
 " Monsieur, you overwhelm me," said Ray- 
 43
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 mond modestly. " I love my music, it is true, 
 but never dared to lift my eyes to the height on 
 which stands the great Duchant." 
 
 Some one tittered, but the poet puffed his 
 chest and patted Raymond's shoulder with a 
 much beringed and condescending hand. 
 
 "Courage, my boy," he rippled soothingly, 
 " I've heard your music, and believe me, it has 
 merit a little crude, perhaps, but, on the 
 whole, I pronounce it good." 
 
 The doctor laughed. Duchant went on with- 
 out a pause: " Keep at it, Raymond, and do not 
 despair, and some fine day when you least ex- 
 pect it success will come to you . . . even as 
 it came to me." 
 
 Raymond answered solemnly, but with a 
 twinkle in his eye: "And when it comes . . . 
 may I hope to wear my laurel wreath with half 
 the modesty of the bard, whom France has not 
 yet learned to love. And now, Monsieur, I pray 
 you tell us of the Sorceress." 
 
 The poet swallowed Raymond's doubtful com- 
 pliment, cleared his throat, and raised a flabby 
 hand for silence. 
 
 " First," he said, " I tell how Le Corbeau took 
 44
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 her name, for you know, Messieurs, she is called 
 Corbeau because her hair is black as the raven's 
 wing. And here, I have a dainty bit which 1 
 may call er strong. Hem ! Then I describe 
 her violet eyes those wondrous eyes which no 
 man fathoms." 
 
 "And God help him who tries!" the doctor 
 muttered in a grim aside. 
 
 Duchant continued: "I then weave on the 
 story of how Le Corbeau wields her sceptre o'er 
 the hearts of men, for she is, indeed, a sorceress, 
 and where she wills . . . her lovers must obey. 
 The verse is good, but spare me the rhyme a 
 poet's memory bad detestable ! It is in this 
 wise. . . . Le Corbeau lies asleep a sweet, calm 
 sleep ; her fragrant breath alternately ebbs and 
 flows through parted lips red lips that smile in 
 conscious loveliness above a row of teeth which 
 put our fairest pearls to shame." The poet 
 bowed to the clapping of many hands. " The 
 jealous lashes hide her lustrous eyes, and lie in 
 sable curves upon her cheek ... a winsome 
 cheek, tinged with the peach-blow blush of 
 youth and purity." 
 
 " Bravo ! Bravo ! " 
 
 45
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Delicious ! " chirped La Rose. " The lines 
 are like a sip of sweetest wine." 
 
 " And that last lie," whispered Raymond to 
 Jardin, " is worthy of the polished Ananias." 
 
 Duchant bowed low at La Rose's compliment, 
 and spoke once more: 
 
 " Her snowy bosom falls, to rise again, like 
 dimpling, sun-kissed waves upon the sea, while 
 one small hand lies captive 'neath her head, 
 caressed by raven tresses. One white, white 
 elbow from the couch's edge peeps at a saucy 
 ankle half concealed " 
 
 "Hold! Hold, master poet!" shouted Ray- 
 mond boisterously. 
 
 "Silence!" called La Rose. "Go on, Du- 
 chant." 
 
 The poet frowned, and continued haltingly: 
 " And then and then Le Corbeau sighs, and 
 restless grows " 
 
 " Tickled by some unpoetic fly," the musician 
 interjected, with a laugh, which was taken up 
 by all the assembled gentlemen. 
 
 "God bless the boy!" the doctor breathed 
 with fervour, while La Rose reproached the 
 
 offender angrily. 
 
 46
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Raymond, how dare you ! " 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said in mock contrition, 
 " but I only made a dramatic climax, that was 
 all. The scene was incomplete without the fly." 
 
 " It was most unkind. I blush for you," she 
 answered, and turned consolingly to the ruffled 
 poet: "Never mind him, dear limile; go on 
 with your pretty verses." 
 
 " The poem is spoiled," said Duchant in a 
 surly tone, "and by Monsieur Delese, who 
 seems to have small heart for literature." 
 
 " No, no," they urged ; " go on, go on ! " and 
 slightly mollified by the soothing voice of flat- 
 tery, he once more cleared his throat and began 
 in hesitation : 
 
 " The er the rest I may not tell for fear of 
 jealousy ; and besides it is a secret." 
 
 " Tell us," pleaded Violette. " The part we 
 most wish to hear. A secret? Ho ho! De- 
 lightful!" 
 
 "Friends," said Duchant, as he clasped his 
 hands and rolled his egg-like eyes, " I love Cor- 
 beau!" 
 
 "Most natural," laughed La Rose, "and so 
 do I." 
 
 47
 
 "And I," "And I," "And I," rose aery from 
 every side. 
 
 "And now the secret. Fill your glasses 
 full." The poet wet his lips with wine and 
 whispered impressively: "The secret . . . she 
 loves me in return." 
 
 From the company burst a shout of laughter 
 in which even the ladies joined, while again the 
 doctor muttered in a hoarse aside : 
 
 " Misguided fool ! Le Corbeau loves Corbeau 
 naught else beneath the stars." 
 
 " Ah, laugh if you will," said the scribbler, un- 
 abashed. " I tell you but the truth ; and listen : 
 last night I dreamed a dream so strange and 
 terrible that I needs must w T eave its substance 
 in the loom of verse." 
 
 The guests pressed closely about Duchant, 
 whose weak voice shrilled excitedly as he told 
 his tale in pedantic declamation : 
 
 " I dreamed I sought Corbeau and told her of 
 my love with passion's power. And she, in like 
 words, sobbed the story of her heart. She loved 
 me utterly, and begged with many tears that we 
 should fly to some far country, there to be alone. 
 
 I, eager for the journey, took her in my arms, 
 
 48
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 when lo ! . . . Jardin sprang at me with a naked 
 sword." 
 
 "Sangdieu! and so I would!" the doctor 
 growled, his stern eyes turning on the loose- 
 tongued dreamer, his thin lips straightening in 
 a hard, white line ; but the poet, lost in admira- 
 tion of his own choice words, pursued his theme 
 to its tragic denouement. 
 
 " Quick from its scabbard leaped my eager 
 blade. Clash on clash rerang the music of our 
 steel, and I, retreating from the fury of his 
 thrusts, stumbled and fell to feel Jardin's 
 sharp sword's point press my throat. ... And 
 as I prostrate lay, gasping a prayer or two, I 
 saw Le Corbeau creep as creeps the clean- 
 limbed tiger crouch and spring. . . . And 
 with her eyes agleam with hell's hot fire . . . 
 her jewelled dagger smote Jardin . . . while 
 from her scarlet lips burst, shrill, the cry, 
 'fimile! For my mile!' . . . and I awoke." 
 
 The poet paused, and silence for a moment 
 reigned unbroken, till a white-cheeked woman 
 murmured, " Wonderful ! " 
 
 " Ghastly ! " breathed La Rose. 
 
 " Ridiculous ! " scoffed Raymond, wheeling 
 4 49
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 on the dreamer suddenly : " Now let me be a 
 Daniel to your king, Duchant, and tell you . . . 
 that Le Corbeau cares no more for you than for 
 an idle puff of wind. Pray mark the simile. 
 Love you ? Pah ! Were the devil himself to 
 come in gentlemanly attire, and were he proper 
 and passing good to look upon, I swear Corbeau 
 would kiss his sooty visage from chin to fore- 
 lock!" 
 
 "Stop! On your life be silent!" the poet 
 burst out angrily. 
 
 " Bravo / " exclaimed Jardin in unctuous joy. 
 "At last!" 
 
 Raymond paid no heed to the flaming face 
 and trembling hands of the outraged rhymster 
 made furious by his speech, but continued smil- 
 ingly: 
 
 " She kissed me seven times on yesterday, and 
 put her splendid arms " 
 
 "A lie! A lie! In your teeth, Monsieur 
 Delese, you lie ! " And in a rage, which made 
 him even more absurd than his declamation, 
 Duchant whipped out his sword. 
 
 In an instant wild confusion reigned; the 
 ladies screamed and rushed for safety through 
 
 50
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 the open doors and out upon the balcony, while 
 several gentlemen hastened to interpose between 
 the two contestants. 
 
 "Come, come, Duchant," said one, "it was 
 nothing but a jest. Don't take the man in 
 earnest. Why, he's laughing at you." 
 
 "There are ladies present," another urged. 
 " Put up your blades." 
 
 " Stand back, Messieurs ! " Duchant cried an- 
 grily. " The quarrel is mine, not yours ! Draw, 
 Delese ! I wait you ! Draw ! " 
 
 " It is quite impossible to fight you here," said 
 Raymond, with his blandest smile ; "but if the 
 ladies will permit, and you follow me to the 
 street below, I believe the matter might be set- 
 tled to your taste. Then, too, to-morrow, you 
 may write another sonnet, telling how you swal- 
 lowed half my sword a dainty bit which we 
 might call er strong." 
 
 The doctor laughed delightedly, but the poet 
 stamped his foot in fury. 
 
 " Sir, if you are not a coward draw ! " 
 
 "Now, by St. Gris," said Raymond, as he 
 drew his sword, " I needs must damn poor Pur- 
 gatory with another poet ! "
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 The thin blades gritted one against the other 
 with a rasping hiss, amid the throaty squeaks 
 of women and the plaudits of several gentle- 
 men, who loudly offered wagers on the duel's 
 outcome, while the doctor rubbed his hands in 
 an ecstasy of delight, and cried out merrily : 
 
 " Oh, the glory of it ! Dieu / . . . Don't kill 
 him, Raymond only split his everlasting 
 tongue ! " 
 
 Raymond held his opponent easily, his slen- 
 der body bent in supple grace, and played Du- 
 chant as a cat might tease a mouse, while the 
 poet, on dancing calves, hopped nervously about 
 like grease in a heated griddle, evading the sword 
 that threatened from an hundred points at once. 
 Duchant gave ground, but Raymond pressed 
 relentlessly; a stoop, a lightning feint, and a 
 blade shot deftly across the poet's guard, its 
 keen point disappearing in the roots of his 
 bushy hair; a heave, a backward step, and the 
 rhymester's wig hung dangling from the end of 
 Raymond's sword. A roar of mirth resounded 
 from the watching gentlemen when the poet's 
 pate as bald as his own fat thumb shone 
 luminously in the flickering candle light. Du- 
 
 52
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 chant, made frantic by remorseless banter, 
 flung caution to the winds, and attacked his foe 
 with the fury of a cat ; but his madness only 
 served to mar his wig, for Raymond held it in 
 such a way as to catch each wicked thrust, and 
 the hair flew out in tufts. Lunge followed 
 lunge, and passes met repulse, till the fencers 
 reached the centre of the room, and then a 
 flash of black through the open doorway a 
 guitar, with an upward swing, which struck the 
 swords apart and Le Corbeau stood between 
 the duellists. 
 
 " Messieurs ! . . . " she cried in imperious 
 wrath, " in the devil's name, what means this 
 ruffians' brawl?" 
 
 Her eyes flashed fire as she darted a swift, 
 inquiring glance at the two offenders; then, 
 catching sight of the poet's polished scalp and 
 the tattered wig transfixed on Raymond's blade, 
 her anger vanished like a trampled spark, and 
 from its ashes rose an impish peal of madcap 
 laughter. 
 
 In an instant the company rushed upon her 
 with excited gestures and a Babel of jabbering 
 tongues, each striving to tell his story in a voice 
 
 53
 
 above the rest, till Le Corbeau clapped her hands 
 upon her ears and broke from the clamorous 
 swarm. 
 
 " Quelle Iwrreur ! " she gasped. " Have you 
 all gone mad ? Stop ! Stop instantly ! " 
 
 " But listen, Corbeau," the poet spluttered 
 angrily, as he strove to rearrange his damaged 
 wig, " I drew my sword in your defence. 
 I " 
 
 "The man has insulted you with dreams," 
 shouted Raymond above the din, "dreams of 
 such nauseous imbecility as to " 
 
 "Tis false! I dreamed- 
 
 " Have done ! " Le Corbeau cried in a gust of 
 petulance, which fled again as swiftly as it came. 
 " Pouf! I feared I had plunged before my time 
 through the crust of purgatory. Pouf! " 
 
 " But Corbeau " Duchant still urged. 
 
 She placed her hand upon his mouth. 
 "There, there, I know it without the telling. 
 A game of dice wine that mounted too quickly 
 to the brain " 
 
 " Upon my honour, no ! Listen ! " 
 
 " Well then, a jest a few hot words, or or 
 a woman." And Le Corbeau laughed. " Most 
 
 54
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 likely a woman ; but the cause matters little. If 
 there has been a quarrel . . . then fight it out 
 at another time ; only, for the present, give me 
 peace and silence. Dieu /" she cried, and flung 
 her hands above her head, " my jostled brain is 
 whirling like a top! Will no one give me a 
 glass of wine? . . . Ah! thanks, Raymond. 
 There . . . put up your swords." 
 
 The two blades slid obediently into their 
 sheaths, and Le Corbeau raised her glass. 
 
 "A truce to battle! See," she cried, "our 
 anger sinks with the worthless lees, and only 
 mirth and happiness can swim on the bubbly 
 wine." 
 
 Merrily the glasses clinked; the erstwhile 
 duellists shook hands in a solemn pledge of 
 peace, and a semblance of order being at last 
 restored, the company, with one accord, began 
 to beg Le Corbeau for a song. 
 
 " What shall I sing? " she asked. " Um let 
 me see " 
 
 " The ' Picador,' " suggested Raymond. " By 
 all means sing the ' Picador.' " 
 
 The others voiced approval ; so she smilingly 
 
 consented. 
 
 55
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " But wait ! " cried Raymond. " Corbeau is 
 queen, and the queen shall have a throne." 
 
 " Good, mon ami /" Le Corbeau clapped her 
 hands, and tossed him a wilted poppy flower in 
 reward of gallantry. 
 
 Raymond drew an easy-chair to the centre of 
 the room, and bracing it firmly, draped the 
 whole with a crimson coverlet filched from a 
 near-by lounge, then offered his hand to assist 
 the queen in mounting ; but the queen, with a 
 laugh, sprang lightly upon her throne, and 
 crossing her slippered feet on the seat of the 
 cushioned chair, perched on its back in regal 
 rakishness a queen of witches, crowned with 
 the glamour of her own satanic charm. 
 
 As Le Corbeau tuned her silver-stringed gui- 
 tar, she glanced from time to time through half- 
 closed eyes toward the lounging figure of Jardin, 
 who seemed to take no share in the reckless 
 jollity, but sat apart in moody silence like a 
 spectre at the feast. Presently she spoke, her 
 low voice smooth and soft as a kitten's purr, 
 yet laden with the poisoned sting of irony : 
 
 " Monsieur Jardin . . . is Madame Jardin . . . 
 
 dead?" 
 
 56
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 The doctor scented danger in her tone, and 
 answered cautiously: 
 
 " No, madame. . . . I'm in receipt of no such 
 evil tidings." 
 
 "Ah! . . . Some other loved one, then, I 
 make no doubt." 
 
 " There are none whom I call to mind." 
 
 " Pardon, monsieur," she begged in mock hu- 
 mility, while her red lip curled in sneering inso- 
 lence, "pardon. I feared from your counte- 
 nance, which, on my soul, does credit to a burial 
 inspector . . . that you had lost some relative." 
 
 The doctor met the challenge in her smoulder- 
 ing eyes, and retorted coldly: " No; the roll call 
 is still complete too complete; but I'm in no 
 mood for merry-making, and beg to be a voice- 
 less listener." 
 
 " Then strive to look more cheerful ! " she 
 flashed out angrily. " Ma foi ! You're like a 
 vulture seated on one's bed-post beak and 
 claws!" She snapped her ringers tauntingly. 
 " Pish / . . Be a joyful bird ; else . . . spread 
 your gloomy pinions . . . and fly home to your 
 nest." 
 
 She flung back her head and laughed ; the 
 57
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 company joined her boisterously, but the doctor 
 cursed between his strong, clenched teeth 
 cursed bitterly, and was once more silent. 
 
 " Come, my children," Le Corbeau cried, " we 
 will soothe his sorrowing spirit with the balm of 
 music. Are you ready? " 
 
 " All ready ! " they answered joyously. 
 
 " Then join me in the chorus." 
 
 She struck a few swift chords, and sang of the 
 little Picador, a merry tune, with a quaint, 
 abandoned swing, but a touch of pathos in its 
 haunting melody. 
 
 " The poor little Picador loved a maid, 
 
 But, alas for the Picador's lot ! 
 This maid, so sly, 'had fish to fry,' 
 
 Which related to the Picador not. 
 He told his tale where the moonlight pale 
 
 Her long love-lances shot, 
 But she laughed to scorn her lover lorn, 
 
 For she loved the little Picador not." 
 
 Here the guests joined hands, and forming a 
 circling chain, danced happily round their 
 chosen queen, as they sang the chorus : 
 
 " Dear little Picador queer little Picador 
 
 Tears are soon forgot ; 
 Frail little Picador pale little Picador 
 She loved the little Picador not." 
 58
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Le Corbeau glanced toward Jardin, smiled, 
 and again took up the melody: 
 
 " The poor little Picador picked guitars, 
 
 Though the weather was intensely hot, 
 But he ne'er once played to suit that maid, 
 
 For she loved the little Picador not. 
 So he's hied him, then, to a fierce bull's pen 
 
 The animal came at a trot 
 And the maiden sighed as her lover died, 
 
 Though she loved the little Picador not." 
 
 CHORUS : 
 
 " Bad little Picador mad little Picador 
 
 For love, his death-wound got ; 
 Bold little Picador cold little Picador- 
 She loved the little Picador not. 
 
 " The poor little Picador lies at rest 
 
 In the graveyard's grassy plot, 
 And the maiden wept for the swain who slept, 
 
 Though she loved the little Picador not. 
 She digged a grave for her Picador brave, 
 
 And hastened from the lonely spot, 
 Then went her way, and was married that day, 
 
 For she loved the little Picador not. 
 
 CHORUS: 
 
 " Sleep, little Picador deep, little Picador 
 
 Yours is the ordinary lot, 
 For a maiden's will is a bitter, bitter pill, 
 When she loves a little Picador not"
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHEN the song was finished and the noisy 
 applause had ceased, they besought her to sing 
 again, but she smiled and shook her head. 
 " No, no, I have sung enough." And when 
 they urged her still, she cut them short. " Have 
 done ! " she cried impatiently. " There that 
 ends it ! " then added in a gentler tone : " Ah, 
 by the way, I heard the daintiest little air yes- 
 terday, and could not rest until I learned it. 
 Shall I play it for you? Yes? . . . Then listen 
 to its opening chords half prayer, half hunger- 
 ing love, as though a tempted nun had written it." 
 
 She touched her strings in a plaintive melody, 
 which might indeed have stolen from some 
 heart of ashes, when stirred by the breath of its 
 smouldering spark ; and as she played, the plead- 
 ing measure, like a phantom memory, seemed 
 calling to her inner consciousness, each note a 
 footstep leading her away beyond the glint 
 and glitter of her own salon with its heated air, 
 
 its lights and laughter to a fairer world out- 
 
 60
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 side ; to the garden of peace and purity, wherein 
 no poppy flower might bloom, and its gate was 
 barred by the figure of a priest a tall, pale 
 priest, who looked before him silently . . . and 
 waited. 
 
 The music ceased ; Le Corbeau sat in reverie, 
 her strange eyes fixed on nothingness, her red 
 lips parted, while her full white bosom rose and 
 fell in quickened respiration; then a shout of 
 laughter, like a jarring discord, broke harshly 
 upon her thought, dragging her back to the 
 coarse reality of life and the grating mirth of her 
 shallow-souled companions. 
 
 Raymond bowed obsequiously before her 
 throne. " We are perishing with curiosity," he 
 said. "In the name of pity, save our lives." 
 
 " I was thinking," she answered simply. 
 
 " So we supposed ; but of what? " 
 
 " To-day ... I have seen the strangest sight 
 in Paris." 
 
 "You're indeed to be envied," lisped Du- 
 chant ; " yet, I beg you, share the wonder with 
 your friends less fortunate." 
 
 Le Corbeau paused, and once more answered 
 
 simply : 
 
 61
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " I have seen ... a man." 
 
 Again her guests laughed harshly, and the 
 poet asked with a vapid grin : "And is the sight 
 of a man so truly wonderful that the queen of 
 love sits dreaming like a sphinx? " 
 
 She turned upon him irritably, a dash of scorn 
 in her barbed reply : 
 
 " Oh, I mean a real man ; not such men as 
 pardon me as you ! " 
 
 " Mercy, O queen ! " begged the hard-hit poet, 
 amid the noisy jests of his jeering friends ; but 
 the queen continued earnestly : 
 
 " Not such men as the King of France is 
 pleased to call his courtiers, whose swords are 
 marks of office and not of valour men with a 
 million francs and as many vices, whose days 
 and nights are shuffled in a pointless game of 
 idleness. No ! I speak of a man with a pur- 
 pose in life with courage to back his earnest 
 precepts a man who fights his battles . . . and 
 wins!" 
 
 Jardin looked up with a smile of indolence. 
 "And may I ask," he drawled, "who is this 
 god?" 
 
 "A priest." 
 
 62
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Again their laughter rose, louder, coarser 
 than before, and a volley of waggish wit 
 was forthwith launched by the mocking re- 
 vellers. 
 
 " Hear her, St. Sebastian ! " the poet cried. 
 ' The queen of love will take the veil ! " 
 
 "Has madame lingered at confession?" 
 jeered La Rose. 
 
 " Parbleu ! The poor confessor has my sym- 
 pathy unbounded," tittered Violette, while Ray- 
 mond crossed his hands and called out sol- 
 emnly: 
 
 " Hail to the mother superior ! I shall say 
 one thousand aves, and buy a waxen candle as 
 large as my astonishment." 
 
 The doctor kept his eyes upon the floor, but 
 muttered audibly : 
 
 " I fear one nunnery is damned from chapel 
 to refectory." 
 
 "Messieurs! ..." cried Le Corbeau sharply, 
 half rising in her seat, while a glow of hot re- 
 sentment flushed her cheeks, " Messieurs ! . . . 
 your merriment is most ill-timed ill-placed 
 yet it only draws a sharper line between you . . . 
 and the priest whom I called a man ! " 
 
 63
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "Your pardon," begged Raymond humbly. 
 "Are you, indeed, in earnest?" 
 
 " For once in my life yes. Listen ! . . . I 
 stopped for a moment on the Rue St. Denis to 
 leave a few directions with M. Dreux, who 
 makes my gowns ; and as I waited on his bal- 
 cony who should stalk forth from the jeweller's 
 across the way but the Marquis Dubris. Ray- 
 mond, you know the toad fat eyes, a puffy, 
 purple face a thing that French nobility calls 
 a man." 
 
 " Why, yes," grinned Raymond, " I know the 
 animal. He walks as though the streets of 
 Paris were an insult to his lordly boots; he 
 hates the rabble as he loves his pride, and 
 has a temper which madame herself might 
 envy." 
 
 Le Corbeau smiled. 
 
 "Yes, that is he. Well, the streets were 
 greatly crowded, owing to the passing of the 
 king and his fawning popinjay, the Due de la 
 Fere ; and as the marquis strode toward his car- 
 riage a dirt-stained beggar ran by accident into 
 his noble paunch. With a curse the marquis 
 
 raised his ivory cane and struck the poor wretch 
 
 64
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 across the face, leaving a bloody gash from chin 
 to cheekbone." 
 
 " Shame ! " cried La Rose, while a sympathetic 
 murmur echoed among the listeners and sank 
 to stillness as Le Corbeau told her story with 
 increasing wrath : 
 
 " The canaille hissed and hooted, but it only 
 maddened him the more. Again the cane was 
 raised . . . when a passing priest appeared, 
 caught the uplifted arm, and took away the 
 weapon as one might take a rattle from a 
 child." 
 
 " Delightful ! " Raymond laughed. " And the 
 marquis?" 
 
 " Bursting with passion, turned and drew his 
 sword." 
 
 " The blackguard ! " gasped Duchant. " And 
 then, madame ? " 
 
 " And then the marquis bellowed in his fury, 
 glared at the priest with murder in his soul, and 
 ordered him aside. The priest moved not, nor 
 shrank from man or steel. . . . He watched . . . 
 and blocked the way. The marquis cursed him 
 with a name unspeakable, leaped back, and 
 raised his sword-arm for a thrust." 
 5 65
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! Did he strike?" gasped La 
 Rose in horror. 
 
 Le Corbeau paid no heed, but continued 
 slowly, her great eyes glowing with suppressed 
 excitement, her low voice quivering in uncon- 
 scious reverence, for again, in memory, she 
 gripped the railing of the balcony and watched 
 in wonder while her panting heart stood 
 still: 
 
 " There came a look in the calm white face 
 of the waiting priest which never before have I 
 seen on the face of man a look of fearlessness 
 and contempt and what I saw Dubris saw too, 
 for his sword-point paused as it almost touched 
 the unguarded breast, and then sank slowly to 
 the ground. . . . The father bent and raised the 
 fainting beggar in his arms, turned, stretched 
 forth his hand, and pointed a finger at Dubris. 
 What he said I could not hear, but this I know : 
 the great Dubris this mighty lord of France 
 trembling like a frightened cur, turned and 
 slunk into his carriage . . . even as the stricken 
 beggar had crept into the gutter. . . . Dieu! 
 . . . I have seen a man /" 
 
 For a lingering moment silence rested on the 
 66
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 company, then suddenly gave place to a flutter 
 of excitement. 
 
 " Wonderful ! " cried one. 
 
 " Who is he ? " asked another. 
 
 " I know not. I saw him first to-day." 
 
 " But tell us more," urged Violette. " What 
 was the father like? " 
 
 Le Corbeau smiled in answer, and her eyes 
 grew soft and glowing: 
 
 " Straight as an ash-wood lance an athlete's 
 form. . . . As handsome as a god . . . and 
 young ! " 
 
 A woman sighed; the gentlemen, with ele- 
 vated brows, nudged one another stealthily, but 
 held their peace; Jardin, who, throughout the 
 narrative sat thinking deeply, of a sudden 
 clenched his fist and struck it sharply on the 
 arm of his cushioned chair, then turning, said 
 with his lazy smile : 
 
 " Pardon, madame. I know the man.' 
 
 "You know him!" 
 
 Le Corbeau stepped quickly from her throne, 
 and the company, with eager questionings, sur- 
 rounded the doctor's chair. 
 
 " Who is he ? Come, Monsieur his name 
 6;
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 his history? Tell us," they begged in interest 
 born of human curiosity. The doctor waited 
 until order was restored, and answered care- 
 lessly : 
 
 " Oh, there is little, after all, which one may 
 know of priests, and smaller profit in the knowl- 
 edge once acquired. This one, amongst his 
 order, is known as ' Brother Claudien ' ; but by 
 the poor of Paris he is called ' the Good Samar- 
 itan.'" 
 
 " And worthy of the title," Le Corbeau mur- 
 mured musingly. " Well, what more? " 
 
 " Little, relatively speaking. I saw him but 
 once, at his cloister on the city's outskirts, where 
 he summoned me to see a patient an afflicted 
 brother whose zealous precepts had outrun dis- 
 cretion, and who, therefore, took a vow of 
 silence till his broken jaw was healed. I set 
 it." 
 
 " A pest upon the patient ! " said Le Corbeau 
 pettishly. " What of Brother Claudien ? " 
 
 " I do not know him further than by sight," 
 the doctor answered lazily, " and merely marked 
 him as a splendid specimen of manhood in 
 
 physique, I mean a soldier gone to waste a 
 
 63
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 wrestler hidden in a cassock. However, I have 
 heard of him repeatedly ; he belongs to one of 
 the branches of the Order of St. Dominic, and 
 is neither priest nor friar, but a queer melange 
 of both, his sheep-fold being known as ' The 
 Brotherhood of the House of Peace.' A curious 
 sect, these fellows, who freely shuffle in the 
 worldly pack, yet are bound by the strictest 
 vows of celibacy." 
 
 " Ah, I see," said La Rose. " They can never 
 marry." 
 
 "No," said Jardin; "it is, I believe, among 
 their most sacred pledges." 
 
 "Oh, sages most profound!" Raymond ob- 
 served with mock solemnity. " I think I will 
 join their order." 
 
 "Silence, Raymond!" said Le Corbeau 
 sharply. " Go on, Jardin." 
 
 The doctor paused to smile at his friend's ir- 
 reverence and resumed : 
 
 " A corner of their cloister provides a shelter 
 for the sick and homeless, and abroad the toil- 
 ers practise charity, working daily in the slums 
 of Paris; but as to Brother Claudien, there is 
 
 little more to tell you except, indeed, an unim- 
 
 69
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 portant matter which I learned one day by ac- 
 cident." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 " Um merely the name he bore before his 
 advent into clothes of sacerdotal cut." 
 
 "Tell me," Le Corbeau urged in breathless 
 interest. 
 
 The doctor paused, then with a slight, pecu- 
 liar hardening of the lips, said slowly: 
 
 " Perhaps I should not disclose so secret a 
 matter. His name is Leon la Valiere ... a 
 fine old stock . . . the son of a courtly gentle- 
 man . . . and is said to be a most unusual 
 man." The doctor rose and added lightly: 
 " But then, you know, he comes from a most 
 unusual family. ... His sister has recently be- 
 come the Duchesse de la Fere." 
 
 "WHAT!" 
 
 Le Corbeau faced him, whitening to the lips. 
 
 " Is it possible you have not heard? " the doc- 
 tor asked in half-concealed amusement. " I cry 
 your pardon." 
 
 Jardin had led up craftily to his point. He 
 knew the weak spot hidden in Le Corbeau's 
 
 armor, and had touched her on the raw. 
 
 70
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Monsieur," she said, as she bit her lip, " if 
 this be a jest, it fails most signally in amusing 
 me." 
 
 " On the contrary," he disclaimed, " I speak 
 in sober earnest;" then to the company he 
 added smilingly: " Believe me, ladies, it is quite 
 a fascinating story. The Due de la Fere " here 
 he turned to Le Corbeau and said with his lazy 
 drawl, " I believe you knew him slightly." 
 
 " Why do you taunt me ? " she flashed back 
 angrily. " You know he was my lover, and that 
 he left me for whom I know not, nor care. . . . 
 Well, the rest of your fascinating story ! " 
 
 She crossed the room and testily flung herself 
 upon the lounge, watching Jardin with a swiftly 
 rising temper; while the doctor, as though un- 
 conscious of the fires he lit, addressed the com- 
 pany in the dry, half-serious, half-bantering tone 
 of a raconteur who thoroughly enjoys his story : 
 
 " The Due de la Fere, as you doubtless know, 
 was the wildest blade in Paris, with far more 
 vices than this seasoned coterie rolled into one 
 black pill, del ! What an adjunct to the court 
 of Lucifer. For several years, 'tis said, the due 
 was a sort of marionette for the pleasure of a
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 friend " here the doctor waved his hand signifi- 
 cantly " she to pull the string, while the due 
 danced nimbly to such mad measures as her 
 fertile brain invented for his heels. But sud- 
 denly, two months ago, the due reformed, for- 
 swearing women, wine, and song snapped his 
 patrician fingers beneath the charmer's dainty 
 nose, and then and then, what think you?" 
 
 "What?" asked La Rose. 
 
 " Married ! " The doctor laughed. " Married 
 a yellow-haired maiden with soulful eyes, who 
 goes to mass three times a week . . . and takes 
 her husband with her ! " 
 
 Again the doctor laughed, not coarsely, but 
 long and heartily, as though the moral reforma- 
 tion of the due were a subject for keenest hu- 
 mour. Le Corbeau winced, but remained in- 
 active, while those who watched her marvelled 
 alike at the doctor's rash audacity and the start- 
 ling absence of a furious outburst from the 
 poppy flower; for her tongue of flame was wont 
 to sweep away all barriers opposed to her pas- 
 sionate, despotic will. And though Le Cor- 
 beau 's temper boiled hotly against Jardin, still 
 
 his sudden change of front for the moment stag- 
 
 72
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 gered her; a man who, heretofore, had been like 
 clay in the moulder's hands, now daring to flout 
 her openly and hold up her wounded pride as a 
 target for Parthian shafts of vulgar jesting. The 
 shafts sank deep ; Le Corbeau rose and crossed 
 to where her arch-tormentor stood, rudely brush- 
 ing La Rose aside in her angry haste. 
 
 " Enough of this ! " she cried. " You weary 
 me!" 
 
 " So said the due, if I remember right," re- 
 turned Jardin, with an irritating smile. 
 
 She raised her hand to strike him, dropped it 
 to her side, and then, with a shrug, went back 
 to her seat again and fanned herself excitedly. 
 La Rose smoothed out the rumpled lace upon 
 her shoulder, and turning to Jardin said sweetly: 
 
 " I pray you go on, Monsieur, with the story 
 of the due ; it is really quite refreshing." 
 
 Le Corbeau's dark eyes glittered dangerously 
 as she shot her glance toward La Rose, and a 
 dull flush mounted slowly to her temples. The 
 doctor rubbed his hands and again took up the 
 thread of his interrupted narrative. 
 
 " It seems," he said, then paused and took a 
 pinch of snuff, " it seems that this little saint, 
 
 73
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Cecile la Valiere, has wrought a miracle, for, lo ! 
 she has taken France's greatest sinner and well- 
 nigh canonized him. The due, 'tis whispered, is 
 now a very proper gentleman, and so, my 
 friends, you will readily perceive that Cecile 
 succeeded where even Le Corbeau failed." 
 
 " The insolent ! " Le Corbeau gasped, while 
 Raymond plucked his neighbor's sleeve and 
 whispered slyly : " I think that Satan is prick- 
 ing up his ears. I mark the scent of sulphur." 
 
 The doctor's nose seemed far less sensitive, 
 for he faced his hostess with an air of deep com- 
 miseration : " I fear, madame, that you have a 
 formidable rival in the dainty duchesse ; . . . but 
 then, as they say, her beauty drives the nail . . . 
 and her virtue clinches it." 
 
 Le Corbeau bit her lip till the toothprints 
 showed upon the flesh, but answered nothing. 
 Jardin went on remorselessly: 
 
 " I have never fully understood why you failed 
 to hold the due. I grant your power over men 
 some men but I swear you could never have 
 cut a saint from the cloth of poor La Fere." 
 
 "No," she retorted shortly, "and I never 
 tried. It seems that I make demons of saints, 
 
 74
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 but never saints of any sort. The pattern is 
 out of style, and saints are tedious." 
 
 " Y-e-s," he admitted, with a slow, depreciat- 
 ing shrug, " y-e-s sometimes ; and yet . . . with 
 all your alluring witchery, there are men in Paris 
 with whom you would be ... as a reed in the 
 wind." 
 
 She sprang to her feet in resentful fury, 
 goaded at last beyond forbearance by his scoff- 
 ing tone. 
 
 " No ! " she cried. " There is not a man in 
 Paris no, nor in all of France whom I could 
 not bend to the force of will ! A fig for your 
 due, the dancing marionette who broke his 
 string in weariness! Aye, but he danced my 
 measure," she hissed exultantly, "and would 
 dance it still as you have footed it, Monsieur 
 did I beckon with a finger. No, Jardin, I tell 
 you, no ! You men are all alike your boasted 
 honour melts like wax beneath a woman's touch. 
 All all alike, and where I choose ... I con- 
 quer." 
 
 " Ah ? And by what means ? " 
 
 ' That is my affair. I conquer 1 " 
 
 " Hmp ! " the doctor sniffed and toyed with 
 75
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 his silver snuff-box. " I remain, perforce, a 
 sceptic. There was once a captive fox so runs 
 the tale who bragged among his fellows that 
 did he choose he could spring upon the moon. 
 'Wonderful! ' observed a friend. 'I have often 
 marked your rare agility, and have wondered 
 much why you did not leap from the shallow pit 
 which holds you prisoner.' ' Fool ! ' sneered the 
 fox, 'I never jump for the benefit of doubters.' " 
 
 This fable, made to hand, was received by the 
 listening guests with shouts of laughter, and Le 
 Corbeau, stung to unreasoning passion, played 
 easily into the doctor's net. 
 
 " Monsieur Jardin," she flashed in withering 
 scorn, " I know not what your object is in taunt- 
 ing me and care not but what you dare in 
 ridicule I dare in earnest. Name me a man in 
 France name whom you will and if I fail to 
 win him in one full month, I will kneel at the 
 feet of your milk-faced duchesse and acknowl- 
 edge her my superior." 
 
 " Done ! " the doctor cried. " I make you a 
 wager. I will name you a man in Paris, and 
 bet five hundred thousand francs that your 
 
 charms will fail fail utterly." 
 
 76
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Five hundred thousand francs against 
 what?" she sneered. 
 
 He leaned toward her and answered in an un- 
 dertone : " Yourself ... as my " 
 
 She cut him short with a scornful laugh, and 
 shuddered. 
 
 "Oh, what a fate! ... But I accept it 
 pardi, even that ! I may not reach the moon, 
 Monsieur, but at least I'll leave one scoffer in 
 the pit." She turned her back upon him and 
 faced the company: "Come, fill your glasses, 
 and I'll toast his champion in a pledge to win 
 or lose ! " 
 
 In a moment wine was poured and the com- 
 pany gathered closely round the central figures. 
 Le Corbeau raised her glass, surveyed Jardin 
 defiantly, and called aloud : 
 
 " The champion ! Who is he ? " 
 
 The doctor paused, then answered with his 
 hard, cold smile : 
 
 "Leon la Valiere, . . . the Good Samar- 
 itan ! " 
 
 A gasp of abhorrence burst from the startled 
 listeners as the doctor's scoffing lips profaned 
 the priest ; but Le Corbeau stood unmoved, save 
 
 77
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 that her cheek grew pale, and a trickling stream 
 of wine was spilled from her trembling glass, 
 and dribbled down her white, uplifted arm. She 
 fixed her eyes upon Jardin in a keen, unflinch- 
 ing gaze of loathing and contempt, then slowly, 
 slowly the glass was lowered and flung with a 
 splintering crash at the tempter's feet. 
 
 " Monsieur . . . you have your answer. . . . 
 I decline!" 
 
 " JBrava!" applauded Raymond, and a mur- 
 mur of approval rippled round the circle of 
 spectators. The doctor bowed and softly clapped 
 his hands : 
 
 "Well acted, Corbeau well acted, on my 
 soul!" 
 
 " What mean you? " 
 
 "A simple compliment to madame's art. 
 Where Le Corbeau fails . . . Le Corbeau 's 
 failure is at least dramatic." 
 
 " You are pleased to be satirical, Monsieur." 
 
 " I humbly deny the charge. My champion 
 is beyond your reach. Aye, even yours, Cor- 
 beau. Madame is too intelligent to play a game 
 when she's sure to lose. Madame is mighty, 
 but, alas ! her powers are limited." 
 
 78
 
 She answered coldly: " 'Tis not a question of 
 my power, but of my will." 
 
 " Had madame the power, she would find the 
 will," the doctor retorted sharply; then drop- 
 ping once more into his slow, derisive drawl, 
 said mockingly : " Mon Dieu ! how high a fox 
 can jump ! " 
 
 "Stop!" she commanded angrily. "I've 
 heard enough ! / will not ! " 
 
 She turned on her heel to leave the room, and 
 the doctor saw his victim slipping from his grasp. 
 He squared his jaw, and in one last effort to 
 stab her vanity, called after her: 
 
 " A moment, madame, I pray you." And as 
 she paused on the threshold of her door, he 
 sipped his wine and addressed the company: 
 " The queen of love has refused my wager. 
 Why? Parbleu, 'tis her own affair. . . . But, 
 since she shuns the risk, my offer still stands 
 open to other takers one of equal wit and 
 charm, and whose feather is not so white. Per- 
 haps La Rose might win . . . where Le Cor- 
 beau loses." 
 
 " Jardin !" 
 
 Shrill, sharp, like the cry of a wounded ani- 
 79
 
 mal, maddened with rage and agony, his name 
 seemed wrenched from Le Corbeau's white, 
 drawn lips ; her splendid eyes blazed vengef ully, 
 and her lithe form swayed and crouched as the 
 tiger crouches for his kill. 
 
 "Pouf/" said Jardin, and turned his back 
 upon her in lazy insolence. " Well, my pretty 
 one," he asked La Rose, in his lagging drawl, 
 " what say you to my wager? Come ! " 
 
 And La Rose, the shallow butterfly, half in 
 flattered vanity, half in spite toward a rival, 
 shook her giddy head and simpered in reply : 
 
 " No, no, Monsieur ; your hook is baited with 
 a tempting worm, at which I might snap, and 
 eagerly ; but the Good Samaritan is a holy man, 
 and sooner would I lose my tongue than bring 
 harm to him." 
 
 Le Corbeau laughed derisively, and in an in- 
 stant faced La Rose with all the pent-up venom 
 of her soul, turning from the man who had 
 roused her ire to the woman who stung her 
 pride with thin-veiled mockery ; and when she 
 spoke, her slow voice, tremulous with scorn, bit 
 like a whip-lash on a naked breast : 
 
 " And do you dream that the holy man has 
 80
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 aught to fear from you ? . . . Could peerless La 
 Rose with all her countless charms cause the 
 good priest to forget one single bead upon his 
 rosary?" 
 
 La Rose flushed fiery red, then paled again, 
 and asked defiantly: 
 
 " Could Madame le Corbeau? " 
 
 " I could ! " she stormed. " By the splendor 
 of heaven, did I. choose, I'd make him trample 
 on his rosary forget his faith his cross his 
 all save me." She wheeled upon Jardin and 
 struck him sharply on the cheek with the back 
 of her jewelled hand. " Monsieur Jardin . . . 
 you have dared to cross your sword with mine 
 . . . and though I hold you in contempt . . . 
 still I am minded to see the end of your coward's 
 game." 
 
 " If you can, madame," he retorted coolly. 
 
 " I can and " 
 
 "Madame! Madame!" broke in La Rose 
 imploringly. "I beg you not! Tis wicked! 
 Wicked!" 
 
 "I care not!" 
 
 The guests sprang forward eagerly, some 
 pleading with Jardin, while others sought to 
 6 81
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 soothe the maddened woman's rage. " A pest 
 on you, Monsieur, to anger her! " frowned Vio- 
 lette. Another took Le Corbeau's arm and said 
 entreatingly : "Think, madame, he is a godly 
 man ; think, think, I beg you." 
 
 " Madame ... in the name of mercy ! " 
 sobbed La Rose. 
 
 " I tell you, I care not ! " Le Corbeau snarled, 
 and when her friends, with pleading voices, 
 pressed closely round her, she raised her arms 
 and struck out wickedly, fiercely, madly, sweep- 
 ing them aside. 
 
 " Stop ! " she shrilled. " What care I for this 
 whining priest the idol of the poor?" and she 
 laughed hysterically. "The Good Samaritan! 
 . . . Bah ! ... Is he not a man a man though 
 he wears a cloak and cowl ? ... If I choose to 
 win him man or monk I'll win him still!" 
 
 La Rose sank down upon her knees with a 
 whimpering cry of terror, but the doctor smiled 
 and tossed his glove at Le Corbeau's feet. She 
 stooped for an instant paused then snatching 
 up his gage, she rose to her splendid height and 
 faced him in all the glory of her devilish beauty. 
 
 " Monsieur Jardin !" . . . Her voice rang out, 
 82
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 a shrill-tongued tocsin of unholy exultation: 
 " Monsieur Jardin ! . . . I warn you ... I will 
 win! . . . Win with all the world against me 
 . . . win . . . though I set my heel upon his 
 cross and drag him from the altar of his God ! " 
 The guests shrank from her silently, till the 
 hush was broken by a painted woman weeping 
 bitterly.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 WHEN Le Corbeau woke next morning, a 
 flood of sunlight streamed through the curtains 
 of her bed, causing her eyes to blink distress- 
 fully ; but keener still, a flood of memory stung 
 her awakened conscience harsh, pitiless as the 
 jailer's fist that rouses a slumbering captive by 
 a blow. What madness had she done which 
 seemed so monstrous in the glaring light of day ? 
 What demon's prompting stirred her soul to 
 such an unholy test of woman's power? And 
 the priest Grand Dieu / . . . the priest ! 
 
 Bitterly she cursed her folly in blundering 
 blindly into a trap, but far more bitter still her 
 hot resentment raged against Jardin. He who 
 had roused a sleeping devil in her blood, hoist- 
 ing her pride with his lever of scoffing ridicule 
 to the tottering height of passionate unreason. 
 And when she fell she would see his haunting 
 smile, a smile that burned like acid in an open 
 
 wound, and hear him murmur in a lazy, mock- 
 
 84
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 ing drawl : " Pray, jump again, my pretty fox ; 
 the moon swims low to-night, and you only 
 missed it by a thousand leagues. Encore ! " 
 
 Oh, but he should drink the lees of peni- 
 tence ! The fires of hatred flickered in her half- 
 closed eyes, and her white teeth shut with a 
 sharp, vindictive snap. What recked a priest, 
 so long as she struck Jardin struck him in mid- 
 flight and broke his wings? And yet ah, bet- 
 ter a hundred pangs of deep humility than a 
 cruel stab to the Good Samaritan ! 
 
 She flung her coverings aside and rose in the 
 impulse of her pitying resolve. She would go 
 to Jardin to-day at once appeal to his gener- 
 osity, and make an end to the terms of his evil 
 wager. Surely he, too, must feel the baseness 
 of his act. He would hail her coming with a 
 lightened conscience and join her in a truce to 
 the petty spites which marred their k peace and 
 set their paths with thorns. She would even 
 ask to keep his glove no longer a gage of open 
 war between them, but a pledge to amity and ac- 
 cordant kindliness. 
 
 She summoned her maid and in feverish haste 
 began her toilet, sipped at a cup of chocolate, 
 
 85
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 and gave orders that her carriage wait in half an 
 hour. 
 
 "Rue St. Honore f" she called as she sprang 
 into her seat. " Stop at the door of my physi- 
 cian. Drive quickly, Adolphe; to-day I would 
 go in haste." 
 
 The driver cracked his whip, and Le Corbeau, 
 leaning back among her cushions, was whirled 
 through the crowded thoroughfares till they 
 reached the fashionable quarter and the street 
 in which the doctor lived ; and as her wheels 
 rasped sharply against the curb, Jardin himself 
 stood bowing at her carriage window, hat in 
 hand. 
 
 "Bon jour, madame ! I am honoured far 
 above my merits. Ma foil" he drawled, 
 "what hope for a sinner's vanity when the 
 mountain seeks Mohammed?" 
 
 " Jardin," she said impulsively, " I have come 
 to say " 
 
 She paused and looked him in the eye. No 
 spark of contrition there; but in its place a 
 flickering twinkle of amusement a ghostly glint 
 of humorous disdain. His face was placid, till 
 
 the corners of his mouth twitched restively and 
 
 86
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 curled into a smile that maddening smile 
 more eloquent than his keenest gloating taunt 
 a smile in which she read the answer to her yet 
 unspoken plea; and, further still, she saw that 
 he expected her knew that she would come 
 and pitied her for woman's weakness. Pity!^ 
 Pity ! And from Jardin ! 
 
 A wave of fury surged in her parching throat ; 
 she choked it down and moved her lips to 
 speak. No sound came forth save the whistle 
 of her breath, expelled convulsively; and the 
 doctor waited. 
 
 "Y-e-s?" 
 
 His tone, accompanied by a nameless shrug 
 and a weary elevation of his brows, was the 
 torch that lit the tinder in her soul ; and when 
 she answered him, she set each word on the 
 bowstring of contempt and shot to kill : 
 
 " You dog / . . . I have come to say ... that 
 I yet will nail your skin to the door-post of The 
 House of Peace ! Look, Jardin ! . . . Look on 
 my beauty which has run you mad ! Think of 
 the scourge you place within my reach . . . and 
 when you writhe beneath its lash go ask the 
 
 priest for mercy ! " 
 
 87
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 She called to her driver sharply ; the horses 
 plunged away, and the rear wheel grazed the 
 doctor's knee as he leaped aside. 
 
 Jardin in silence stared at the swiftly disap- 
 pearing carriage till it passed from sight, then 
 sought to deceive himself. He took a pinch of 
 snuff and flicked the dust from his finger-tips ; 
 but his hand was trembling.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 FOR the Poppy Flower the next two days were 
 busy ones. Her initial step was a morning call 
 on M. Fouchet, secretary to the prefect of police, 
 a weazened little man, who, had she so desired, 
 would have stood upon his head, and cheerfully. 
 From him she received a record of the family La 
 Valiere concisely written in a small red book ; 
 and this she studied carefully, from the date on 
 which the parents of the priest left France for 
 Italy until the son, for reasons not clearly stated, 
 returned and entered as a novice in The House 
 of Peace. From the mass of detail she picked 
 her points as a leader might choose his men for 
 a daring enterprise, ranging them artfully till 
 her plan of action was slowly moulded into shape. 
 
 Two salient flaws remained; one she could 
 leave on the lap of chance, but the other must 
 find a remedy. She knitted her brows and 
 scanned the record line by line, and at length 
 her eye lit joyfully on the vital item for which 
 
 she sought. 
 
 89
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "Adrienne ..." she murmured softly. 
 " Adrienne du Langois ..." Then she smiled 
 smiled grimly, and cast her book aside. 
 
 Her one remaining difficulty was swept away 
 by a stroke of unlooked-for fortune. She 
 learned through the gossip of M. Chatillon that 
 the Due de la Fere had been sent that very day 
 to Rouen on some mission for the king. His 
 absence would cover a space of several months ; 
 and owing to his great uncertainty of move- 
 ment, his wife, the duchesse, would remain in 
 Paris awaiting his return. There! There in 
 the home of her recreant lover she would hum- 
 ble Jardin and flout the due. Bon diable ! Fate 
 had made a jest at last, and the Poppy Flower 
 would see that the laugh went round! The 
 duchesse was the sister of the priest, and could 
 Le Corbeau gain an entrance in her house, the 
 rest was easy, " as easy as lying." 
 
 Next morning she left her home, and, attired 
 in a modest gown, sought humble lodgings in an 
 unpretentious quarter of the city. Few would 
 have recognized the flaming Poppy Flower in the 
 timid, shrinking girl who sat all day at her dingy 
 
 window above the shop of the poor couturiere, 
 
 90
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Madame Denise; and yet, could one have 
 watched her eyes as they searched the street in 
 feverish eagerness, his fancy might have conjured 
 up the thought of a crouching panther waiting 
 for its prey. 
 
 When the dusk of evening settled down and 
 the passers-by loomed dim and spectre-like amid 
 the gloom, Le Corbeau spied the tall, lithe 
 figure of the priest, as he swung along with a 
 swift and sinuous stride. His cowl, thrown 
 back, revealed his clear-cut features, clean, pa- 
 trician, yet tempered with a wondrous tender- 
 ness, which had gained for him the adoration of 
 the poor of Paris. 
 
 The heart of the Poppy Flower churned hotly 
 in her breast and seemed to count the approach- 
 ing footsteps with its throbs. The priest was 
 now almost beneath her window ! A sickening 
 chill gripped tightly at her throat, and she hid 
 like a guilty thing behind her curtains, trem- 
 bled, and was afraid. In an instant the weak- 
 ness passed. At a fleeting memory of Jardin 
 she shut her teeth and thrust the blinds apart, 
 then leaning out, called gently down to the 
 Good Samaritan:
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Father." 
 
 The tall priest paused, looked upward, and 
 beheld her a pale Madonna framed in a dingy 
 window. 
 
 " Father," she asked in a faltering tone, " will 
 you not enter? I I would speak with you." 
 
 He bowed and passed into the shop of Ma- 
 dame Denise. Le Corbeau met him at the foot 
 of her narrow stair, and led the way to a shabby 
 little parlor in the rear. She closed the door 
 and faced the priest in deep, unfeigned confu- 
 sion. For a moment he waited silently, then 
 led her to a seat. 
 
 " How, mademoiselle," he asked, with a pleas- 
 ant smile, " may I hope to serve you ? " 
 
 Once more that sickening fear gripped tightly 
 at her throat, but passed as she plunged into the 
 current of her story. She told it clearly, but 
 with many halts and pauses, and a timid mod- 
 esty which furnished colour to the role she acted. 
 In brief, her parents, although of the French 
 nobility, had lived for many years in Genoa, and 
 upon their death both she and her brother, 
 Louis, remained in Italy beneath the guidance 
 
 of an uncle. Their income was an ample one, 
 
 92
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 and all went well until their uncle was drowned 
 at sea ; then Louis was wrongfully suspected of 
 plotting against the government, and was forced 
 to fly in secret for his life. He had promised to 
 join her here, in Paris, but her search for him 
 had proved fruitless, although a weary month 
 had passed since first she came. She had made 
 the voyage alone, was friendless, unprotected in 
 this strange, vast city, her purse she paused, 
 looked up appealingly and dropped her eyes 
 her purse was growing lighter day by day ; her 
 brother might, alas! be dead and she knew 
 not where to turn. She had seen the priest, she 
 said, in the street beneath her window, and had 
 called to him in the hope that his kind advice 
 might guide her ignorant and bewildered steps. 
 
 The priest had listened to her tale with sym- 
 pathetic interest, urging her gently when she 
 faltered in her speech, lending her aid by words 
 of warm encouragement, and when she had fin- 
 ished, promised such assistance as lay within his 
 power; then he rose to take his leave. 
 
 'To-morrow, mademoiselle, with your per- 
 mission, I will send an agent who can doubtless 
 sift the matter easily ; and let us hope that your 
 
 93
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 brother will soon be found. But you have not 
 told me may I ... ask your name ? " 
 
 "Adrienne," she answered simply. "Adri- 
 enne du Langois." 
 
 " What ! " he exclaimed. " Du Langois ! And 
 your father " 
 
 " The Chevalier Bernard." 
 
 The priest held out his hands. 
 
 " My child," he said, with a cordial warmth, 
 "it was more than a trick of chance that 
 prompted you in speaking as I passed nay, 
 rather, the hand of ever-watchful Providence, 
 since it grants me the privilege of aiding one 
 who bears your father's name." 
 
 Le Corbeau gazed in well-assumed astonish- 
 ment as the priest continued:* 
 
 " Your father and mine were the closest 
 friends from boyhood. As a child I remember 
 the Chevalier, a slender gentleman with a 
 pointed beard and a wondrous memory for tales 
 of dwarfs and goblins. Why, you will scarce 
 believe it, mademoiselle, but he gave me my 
 first toy sword." And Claudien laughed. "A 
 mighty brand with which I cut the heads from 
 the flowers in our garden, till my mother slapped 
 
 94
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 my hands and locked the dangerous weapon in 
 her closet. But there," he added in a tone 
 of self-reproach, "in my thoughtless pleasure 
 I had wellnigh forgotten your distress, which I 
 trust may vanish speedily in my sister's home." 
 
 "Your sister!" 
 
 "Yes, my sister, the Duchesse de la Fere, 
 who will welcome you as an honoured guest. 
 You will come with me to-night at once." 
 
 " But, father," she expostulated nervously, 
 " how could I a stranger ask your sister's hos- 
 pitality? No, no impossible! I cannot so im- 
 pose upon your courtesy. Believe me, sir, I 
 
 But the priest laughed merrily, and answered 
 every protest with such wise argument as to 
 leave her no alternative. His sister's home, he 
 said, would prove a safe retreat while inquiry 
 was set on foot on behalf of her brother Louis. 
 Again, the house was overrun with servants, 
 waxing fat in idleness, who would tend her 
 every need; and, furthermore, the Due de la 
 Fere was absent from the city. Thus in com- 
 ing she would perform a deed of Christian char- 
 ity by cheering Cecile in her hours of loneliness. 
 Lastly, were he, the priest, in the place of made- 
 
 95
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 moiselle, he would stalk to the palace of the 
 due, pound on the door with his two great fists, 
 and demand admittance in the name of the 
 chevalier. 
 
 And thus it was settled in the end, that he 
 should first advise the duchesse of her coming 
 and return for mademoiselle at a later hour, 
 when her scanty wardrobe had been arranged 
 and packed. Then he pressed her hand and 
 left her. 
 
 An hour or more flew by, and Le Corbeau sat 
 at her dingy window in an agony of indecision. 
 At the memory of the priest, in his tender- 
 ness and compassion for her false distress, a 
 wave of shame crept slowly from cheek to neck, 
 till her breast grew hot with the stifling glow of 
 guilt. It was not to be borne ! No, not an in- 
 stant more! She rose from her seat and 
 snatched up her dark grey cloak. She would 
 fly from this hateful place home! Home! 
 And yet Jardin! his merciless smile his 
 haunting drawl of irony ! Home to gasp like 
 a fluttering bird in the falcon's claws and still 
 ah, God! it were better so better Corbeau 
 than Claudien ! 
 
 96
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Softly she crept down the creaking stairs to 
 the shop below, where the pinched couturi*ere 
 sat nodding over a half-completed gown. She 
 laid a coin in the sleeping woman's palm, and 
 with a backward glance made stealthily toward 
 the door. Too late! A pair of foam-flecked 
 horses clattered down the cobbled street, and 
 the blazoned carriage of the Due de la Fere was 
 halted beside the curb. The priest sprang out, 
 and ere she could cross the threshold and slip 
 away unseen, he entered and stood before her 
 with a boyish smile of pleasure. 
 
 What followed swam like the dim confusion 
 of a dream. The priest was speaking, but his 
 words seemed meaningless. A tall cocker in 
 silver livery swung her packing case to the boot 
 of the waiting carriage, and in a moment more 
 she was whirled away, with a fleeting glimpse of 
 Madame Denise, roused suddenly from her nap, 
 and staring stupidly while she idly fingered a 
 golden coin, turning it over and over in her 
 work-worn hand. 
 
 They sped across the familiar city, Le Cor- 
 beau struggling with the tangled thoughts that 
 ached through her reeling brain, and beside her 
 7 97
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 chatted the black-cloaked priest, happy, indeed, 
 in his innocent desire to smooth a path for the 
 child of his father's friend. 
 
 By some strange, mocking chance they passed 
 Le Corbeau's home. The darkened windows, 
 like sightless eyes, stared vacantly from their 
 cavities of gloom, and a lace-decked noble 
 rapped vainly upon the door with the hilt of his 
 slender rapier. 
 
 They rolled down the wide white boulevard 
 skirting the Seine, and slackened speed as they 
 reached the gateway of the palace gardens. 
 Once more Le Corbeau felt that icy tightening 
 about her heart. She was entering the home 
 of the Due de la Fere the due, whose wanton 
 mistress she had been the due who had 
 dragged her from a pedestal of purity to the 
 mud of the demi-monde. She heard the wheels 
 as they crunched on the gravelled road a 
 spaniel's rasping bark, and then a glare of 
 light which wellnigh blinded her. . . . The 
 priest was lifting her shrinking weight from the 
 carriage step . . . and his sister, with a childish 
 cry of welcome, sprang forward and kissed her 
 upon the cheek. 
 
 98
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 LE CORBEAU had gained her first strategic 
 point, but at a cost which soiled the gloss of 
 conquest with a smear of shame. Her presence 
 in the home of the Due de la Fere, where the 
 priest might come and go at will, gave her at 
 once a key to the door of treachery, by which 
 she need only enter cautiously and rouse the 
 sleeper from his couch of innocence. And yet 
 at every turn she found herself disarmed by the 
 brother's simple trustfulness and the sister's 
 pure, confiding love. The duchesse, a child in 
 thought and years, saw in the older and more 
 brilliant woman an object for girlish adoration, 
 and opened her warm, impulsive heart to the 
 charm of a new-found idol ; the priest, his sol- 
 emn dignity relaxed by the debt he paid to the 
 memory of the chevalier, found time to come 
 each day in kind solicitude for the feeble health 
 of mademoiselle. 
 
 And Le Corbeau, feigning shaken nerves, as 
 a ruse by which to gain immunity from the pry- 
 
 99
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 ing eyes of visitors and friends, was forced to 
 accept a gentle ministry to false distress, poured 
 out in bounty by the hands of pure unselfish- 
 ness. At times their kindness caused such con- 
 science-stricken pangs, that a word of harshness 
 would have seemed a welcome note ; but, on the 
 other hand, her life so new and strange a life 
 of purity and peace brought recompense. 
 How widely different from the world she had 
 always known; her world, with its jar and clash, 
 its tinselled mockery, its fierce unrest ! To her- 
 self she seemed like a parched traveller who 
 finds at last the cool oasis shade, to lie beneath 
 its sheltering palms in rest unspeakable, forget 
 the heat of the tawny desert's breath, to weep 
 with joy beside a life-restoring spring, to drink 
 and drink and sleep . . . then wake to drink 
 again. 
 
 And so the days sped by, each bringing in its 
 span some proof of love and thoughtfulness, 
 some sly invention for the comfort of the guest 
 an outcome of mysterious plotting by the 
 duchesse and the priest, who placed their heads 
 together and whispered long and earnestly, as 
 
 though the fate of empires swayed between the 
 
 100
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 concoction of a strengthening soup and the 
 ministration of a sheaf of roses plucked from 
 their morning bath of dew. 
 
 Did the day prove warm and clear, Le Cor- 
 beau seemed content to wander through the 
 garden which sloped to the river bank, to loll at 
 ease on some shaded seat, or feed the gold-fish 
 from the rim of a tiny fountain, listening the 
 < while to the childish prattle of Cecile, as busy 
 and as sweet as the stream which bubbled from 
 the marble basin. Here the priest, perchance, 
 would join them for a pleasant hour snatched 
 from his labours in the city, and when the three 
 sat down together, the time would fly on such 
 deceitful wings that Leon as Cecile was fain 
 to call him would rise from his seat in con- 
 sternation, chiding them laughingly as sly con- 
 spirators against his cloth. 
 
 He now came oftener than had been his wont ; 
 but then there were weighty reasons for his 
 coming. Reports to make on his search for the 
 missing brother Louis, who, thus far, baffled 
 every quest ; a moment only, to bring a potent 
 cordial which a brother priest had found effect- 
 ive in cases of failing strength or sluggish blood. 
 
 101
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 He came, deceived by a hundred tricks which 
 conscience plays on unsuspecting man, twisting 
 his pliant pleasures into artful shapes resembling 
 duty. 
 
 And Le Corbeau learned to listen for his 
 footsteps with emotions she herself could scarce 
 define. True, she saw the priest, as yet uncon- 
 scious of his danger, sink swiftly, surely beneath 
 the glamour of her half-exerted spell. She saw 
 him gaze in wondering lethargy, as a dove might 
 watch a snake, and knew she had only to sway 
 her polished coils with a gentle, undulating 
 swing, to bide her time and strike. But how 
 could she strike where pity cried reproof, where 
 practised skill was met by truth and artless in- 
 nocence? A something stayed her a some- 
 thing new and strange ; whence or why it came 
 she knew not ; but it crept upon her slowly, and 
 she wished to weep. 
 
 Two weeks went by, and still Le Corbeau 
 made no signal move, but passed her hours in 
 drowsy indolence. There were moments when 
 she yearned to creep away in the stillness of the 
 night, leaving no trace behind save the memory 
 
 of her living lie. Again, when her pulses 
 
 1 02
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 stirred, a spark of the old Corbeau would fire 
 her blood with the mad, resistless joy of con- 
 quering; her every subtle art, each ripe, volup- 
 tuous charm, was flashed for a burning instant 
 on the dazzled priest, and then at a poignant 
 stab of keen remorse the Poppy Flower would 
 shrink within herself, lest he, lying within her 
 poisoned zone, should inhale the bane exuded 
 from her bloom. 
 
 Alas! her swift caprice, her fickle change 
 from ice to fire, from fire to ice again, served 
 but to weld a mightier chain about the neck of 
 him who knelt and struggled not. He felt its 
 weight, but its links were yet invisible. 
 
 An evening came, an evening long remem- 
 bered by the priest, when he supped with his 
 sister and her guest ; and afterward they sat for 
 an hour or more in a cosy nook beneath the 
 glow of a crimson-shaded lamp, while the 
 duchesse read aloud from a book of fairy tales 
 and Adrienne was busied with embroidery. 
 How soothing it seemed to Leon thus to recline 
 in an easy-chair and forget his daily toils, the 
 sins and miseries of the squalid streets, to listen 
 to the softly modulated tones of his sister's 
 
 103
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 childish voice, and watch the red light play on 
 the face of Adrienne as she pored over the pat- 
 tern of her silken roses. 
 
 The fairy tale was ended ; the wicked dwarfs 
 were howling grievously; the cruel ogre was 
 dead at last, and the radiant princess had come 
 once more into the kingdom of her heart's de- 
 sire. Leon turned to Adrienne and smiled a 
 smile he did not understand. But Adrienne 
 understood, and spoke of other tales, stories of 
 brave adventure and noble sacrifice. She spoke 
 of history and art, of poetry, repeating verse on 
 verse in her low, seductive voice, showing new 
 beauties in the lines he had passed unheeded, 
 and with her sparkling humour brushed away the 
 cobwebs from his dulled imagination. He was 
 like a man, she told him, laughingly, who had 
 looked on fruit his whole life long and had 
 never tasted. She took Cecile's guitar upon her 
 knee and drew from its strings a pleading mel- 
 ody chords she had touched before, on an oft- 
 remembered night when she stooped for the 
 doctor's glove a melody of tears and prayers. 
 In fitful mood the sad refrain was changed to 
 
 the martial notes of a battle hymn, then dropping 
 
 104
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 once more into a dreamy theme, she sang, with 
 a soft, caressing croon, a weird Italian ballad, 
 which she called " The Castle Sprite." And 
 Leon sat with eyelids closed drinking her music 
 thirstily. 
 
 THE CASTLE SPRITE. 
 
 A minstrel stood in a castle grim, 
 
 'Mid crumbling and moss-grown walls, 
 Where the lone owl hoots in the twilight dim 
 
 And flits through the silent halls. 
 And idly his fingers touched his lute, 
 
 As he mused in the shadows drear, 
 When the plaintive notes of a silvery flute 
 
 Fell witchingly on his ear. 
 The whispering low of the fountain's flow, 
 
 In its soft and tremulous swell, 
 And the wild, weird sound of the music, bound 
 
 His soul in a mystic spell. 
 
 The Castle Sprite from an archway danced, 
 
 In nimble and noiseless grace ; 
 Her ivory limbs through a gauze robe glanced, 
 
 Like the smile on her Circean face. 
 Her tresses were tangled, and, glistening, fell 
 
 O'er a figure of faultless line, 
 Her voice was as clear as a tinkling bell, 
 
 Her eyes were sparkling wine. 
 The fire-fly's loom, in the shrouding gloom, 
 
 Flashed pale on her ravishing charms, 
 And the pleading Sprite, in the flickering light, 
 
 Flung open her snow-white arms. 
 105
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 For a moment wavered the minstrel's gaze 
 
 On her passionate, upturned face, 
 And his wild heart leaped in a love-lit blaze, 
 
 As he sank in her soft embrace. 
 He pressed his lips to her blush-red cheek, 
 
 And a laugh of derision sped 
 Through the echoing halls to the turret's peak. 
 
 The youth on the stones ... lay dead. 
 When the moon shines cold on the castle old, 
 
 And the low wind sobs in the trees, 
 The notes of the lute and the sighing flute 
 
 Are borne on the whispering breeze. 
 
 When the song was done and Le Corbeau 
 turned to Leon with a smile, urging that it was 
 now his turn to entertain, he started at her voice 
 and stammered helplessly ; then, for lack of a 
 better theme, he told her in artless words of the 
 lives of those who dwelt in The House of Peace. 
 He told of their simple fare and daily toil ; of 
 their saint-like abbe, who watched like a shep- 
 herd o'er his flock; of harmless sports in the 
 hours of recreating. He told of their hopes and 
 aims in the narrow path which Heaven had 
 pointed out : to spread Christ's message to their 
 fellow-men ; to teach where drudging ignorance 
 had dulled the instinctive wish to learn ; to flash 
 God's light through the darkened doorways of 
 
 the humblest hovels ; to struggle with and for 
 
 106
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 the poor of Paris and make their hearts and 
 bodies clean. And last, to keep their own frail 
 souls as spotless as their white and unsoiled cas- 
 socks, giving to sin and poverty the toil of their 
 hands and minds their hearts to God. 
 
 " Live ye thus," said their abbe tenderly, " in 
 the shadow of The House of Peace." 
 
 The priest had spoken simply, yet a woman 
 listened in dumb despair, and a tear, which was 
 not all evil, glistened and fell like a dewdrop on 
 her silken roses. When he ceased to speak 
 there came a long, unbroken pause ; then Leon 
 arose and said good-night. 
 
 When Le Corbeau reached her chamber, she 
 sat for many hours at the open window which 
 looked across the sluggish waters of the Seine. 
 
 In her heart grew a firm resolve to leave this 
 home of purity to leave it untainted and as fair 
 as the unsoiled cassocks of those who dwelt in 
 the shadow of The House of Peace. Then she 
 rose in woman's wrath, shook her white fist at 
 the city's twinkling lights, and cursed Jardin 
 curses that slid from her bitten lips low, sib- 
 ilant, and long. 
 
 When the palace gates had closed behind the 
 107
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 priest, he fell into a rapid swinging stride 
 which bore him northward on his way toward 
 the cloister. As he strode along the gloomy, 
 ill-lit streets, a something seemed to follow him, 
 a something indefinable and vague, like the 
 shadow of a fleecy cloud that crept across the 
 moon. It stole behind him noiselessly, passed 
 and seemed to bar his way, then vanished, as he 
 paused to soothe a half-clad child that crouched 
 in a darkened doorway sobbing desolately. 
 With a quickened pace he swung through the 
 squalid lanes to the open country beyond the 
 city's line, where the air blew fresh and cool, 
 and the odour of moistened trees refreshed his 
 nostrils with its sweet perfume; but still the 
 shadow followed him, followed until he reached 
 the gate of The House of Peace and was hidden 
 in his cell. 
 
 Long, long he sat in an idle reverie, watching 
 a shaft of moonlight that shot across his room. 
 Beyond the silver bar in the shrouding gloom a 
 faint, warm glow, as from a crimson lamp-shade, 
 filled his cell, and from out its filmy haze the 
 Castle Sprite,, dim nebulous and weird, swayed 
 
 to the whispered pleadings of her flute. He 
 
 108
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 heard the murmuring gurgle of the fountain's 
 song and the ghoulish laugh that stabbed the 
 silence with its lingering peal, to die away in a 
 haunting, echoed whine ..." Fabien ! Fabien ! 
 . . . Forgive! . . . Forgive!" 
 
 A dark cloud swept across the moon; the 
 candle flared in its guttered stand, and Claudien 
 rose and shivered in his lonely cell. He noted, 
 with dull and half-unheeding eyes, that the 
 nail which held his crucifix upon the wall was 
 loosened. To-morrow he would fasten it se- 
 curely to-night he was too weary; and God's 
 disciple cast himself upon his couch and wept 
 he knew not why. 
 
 109
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE sunlight on a bright, warm afternoon 
 poured through the open windows of a richly 
 appointed room in the palace of the due a 
 room in which the duchesse and her guest were 
 wont to pass their hours of idleness and ease. 
 It looked westward across the gardens, catching 
 the warmest sunbeams and the coolest breezes, 
 made sweet and pure as they filtered through 
 the trees and flowered shrubbery. 
 
 Here the duchesse sat alone one morning with 
 her needlework, and as her ever-busy fingers 
 stitched she hummed a happy song; but the 
 words were softly uttered lest they should 
 waken Adrienne, who was sleeping in a room 
 adjoining. 
 
 A visitor had just departed, the Comtesse 
 d'Opaleau, an inquisitive little woman, who had 
 come expressly to see with her own black eyes 
 the guest who avoided sympathetic interest with 
 
 exasperating impudence; but the guest was 
 
 no
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 thoughtlessly asleep, so the comtesse was forced 
 again to content herself with verbal gleanings. 
 Through the duchesse she learned of Adri- 
 enne's fruitless search for her brother Louis, of 
 how she was alone and unprotected in that great 
 and sinful city, until Leon found her by the 
 merest chance and brought her to the palace. 
 
 " Your brother," the comtesse asked in some 
 surprise, " the priest ? " 
 
 "Yes," said the duchesse, "my brother, the 
 priest. The story is a sad one, but I hope to 
 make its ending bright indeed. Could we but 
 discover Louis all would soon be well, and 
 Adrienne's health might mend immediately. 
 She's the dearest girl in all the world, and did 
 my husband know how much I loved her" she 
 laughed amusedly " I fear he would frown in 
 jealousy." 
 
 " Oh, no, madame," the comtesse hastened to 
 assure her. " Were it her brother Louis now 
 perhaps 
 
 "I speak of Adrienne," the duchesse an- 
 swered with a rosy blush, and shifted the talk to 
 firmer ground : " She is very beautiful . . . tall 
 
 and stately, with hair as black as a raven's wing 
 
 in
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 . . . great violet eyes that flash . . . strange 
 eyes, and wonderful. But her great distress of 
 mind has quite unnerved her. She does not 
 mend poor dear and seems so timid. Paris 
 frightens her. Why, she never goes out except 
 into the garden. She says she is far more 
 happy here at home, and calls me sister; and I 
 love her very dearly, for she's good and pure 
 so kind to others, striving to hide her own dis- 
 tress beneath a mask of smiles. But she's sad 
 at times, so sad that Leon is anxious for her 
 health . . . and he comes here every day to see 
 how the patient fares." 
 
 " Every day? . . . The priest? " 
 
 The eyes of the little comtesse grew round in 
 wondering surprise. 
 
 " Why, yes," the duchesse answered naively. 
 "Pray, why not?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing ! I was merely thinking of 
 er of how kind it is of your brother the 
 priest." 
 
 " Leon is kind to every one," Cecile returned 
 in an earnest tone. " Do you know what the 
 people of Paris call him? 'The Samaritan, the 
 
 Good Samaritan.' That is because of his great 
 
 112
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 warm heart, and his hand outstretched to the 
 helpless always. Ah, God keep him ! " she mur- 
 mured reverently. " God keep him ! " 
 
 The comtesse bowed her head, then rose to 
 go. She held out her small white hand, and 
 smiled : 
 
 " I trust, my dear, that your brother's fears for 
 mademoiselle may soon subside. She is very 
 beautiful, you say? Ah, God keep him, ma- 
 dame. Adieu" 
 
 As the carriage of the comtesse passed the 
 palace gates, the priest was on the point of en- 
 tering, and bowed in return to her smiling salu- 
 tation. 
 
 " Hmp ! " the comtesse sniffed, with a linger- 
 ing, backward glance, " he himself is not so ill 
 to look upon. Had I carte blanclie, a tailor's 
 art, and the devil's pepper-box ma foil he'd 
 break more hearts in twenty days than he ever 
 mended in all his saintly life. Now I wonder 
 which is more in danger, the patient or the good 
 physician? . . . Peste ! I'd give a tooth to 
 know!" 
 
 The duchesse, when her visitor had gone, 
 again took up her needlework and low-voiced 
 8 113
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 singing, when a cheery voice outside the room 
 broke in upon her melody: 
 
 "Cecile! . . . Little sister !" 
 
 " Yes, Leon, I am here," she answered as he 
 raised the portieres and entered. 
 
 "Alone, little sister?" asked the priest as he 
 took a chair beside her. 
 
 " Yes, all alone ; but the comtesse was with 
 me for an hour or more. She came to ask after 
 Adrienne." 
 
 "Ah? And how fares the patient to-day, 
 Cecile?" 
 
 " Much better," replied his sister. " And do 
 you know, I think she's improving every hour." 
 
 " Good ! But who would not with such a doc- 
 tor? " He pinched her cheek and smiled. " A 
 fraction young, perhaps but wise. Well ? " 
 
 "She seems much happier to-day," Cecile 
 continued, " and spent the morning with me in 
 the garden, asking me question on question 
 about about what do you think? " 
 
 " I've not the faintest, first idea. When two 
 such reckless little tongues begin to wag " 
 
 The priest raised both his hands and laughed. 
 
 " But guess," she urged. 
 114
 
 " I was always the poorest stick at guessing. 
 Tell me." 
 
 She pointed her finger, paused, and said im- 
 pressively : 
 
 "You!" 
 
 "Me?" And again he laughed. "Then I 
 must run away and speedily, for now I'm known 
 at last in my blackest colours." 
 
 "You would not laugh," she said reprov- 
 ingly, " if you had heard the splendid things I 
 said of you, and had seen how she listened, beg- 
 ging me to tell her of your childhood, and of 
 how you became a " 
 
 The priest's demeanour changed in a light- 
 ning flash. " Hush, Cecile," he answered 
 gravely. " Do not speak of that ! . . . You 
 were saying that Adrienne is in better spirits ? " 
 
 "Yes, more cheerful than she has been on 
 any day since first she came." The duchesse 
 pointed to the door of Le Corbeau's chamber. 
 " She is sleeping, I think. Shall I tell her you 
 are here ? " 
 
 Cecile had risen, but the priest caught quickly 
 at her hand. 
 
 " No, no, no," he said, " I would not waken her.
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 The sleep will do her good, poor child." And 
 when his sister was once more seated, he added 
 in a voice of low, caressing tenderness : " Sleep, 
 little one, was sent to us from heaven. . . . 
 The Father looks down in pity on his children. 
 . . . He sees them groping blindly in the dark- 
 ness sees them tempted, stumble, and fall. . . . 
 He hears their cries of weakness and despair . . . 
 and when their hearts are so bruised and weary 
 that Heaven itself seems far away . . . God 
 sends them sleep sleep that brings forgetful- 
 ness . . . and peace. . . . No, Cecile, I would 
 not waken her." 
 
 She sought his hand with hers and murmured 
 tenderly : 
 
 " Ah, brother, small wonder that the people 
 love you . . . small indeed. But tell me," she 
 asked, in an altered tone, " how fares the family 
 you spoke of yesterday the poor old woman 
 with the broken arm? " 
 
 " I have just this moment come from there. 
 She is much improved." 
 
 "And the children?" 
 
 Leon laughed. " Oh, sister, the revolution 
 that was wrought this day is truly marvellous ! " 
 
 116
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Why, what do you mean? " 
 
 The priest stretched out his sinewy arm. 
 "Do you see that heavy hand?" Again he 
 shook with merriment. " I I washed their 
 faces." 
 
 " Hush, Leon ! " the duchesse cautioned. 
 "Your laughter will waken Adrienne." 
 
 ' True ; I quite forgot myself." He lowered 
 his voice and continued with his story: "Oh, 
 how they squirmed, the dirty ones ! I stood 
 them all in line like a melancholy row of much- 
 soiled captives waiting for the heartless execu- 
 tioner. First, I seized that little vandal, Bazin, 
 and scrubbed him mightily, and when he left 
 my hand he looked for all the world like an 
 onion peeled of its outer coat sleek and shiny 
 a revelation even to his mother. And then, 
 Eugene, who kicked and screamed, crying ' Fa- 
 ther ! my ears are coming off ! ' Next, Pierre, 
 who bore it sturdily, although the grime seemed 
 deeper than the rest and more tenacious. The 
 soapsuds flew and spattered like a foamy water- 
 fall. Faith, Cecile, I never knew how white a 
 brat he was. And last, little Louise, looking at 
 
 me in round-eyed wonder, as though the appli* 
 
 117
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 cation of soap and water were a new and doubt- 
 ful game in which she took part reluctantly." 
 
 Once more Leon laughed, and rising, turned 
 himself about and asked: "Are there any soap- 
 suds on my back, Cecile ? They seemed to fly 
 on everything." 
 
 The duchesse threw her work aside: "Oh, 
 brother," she said, with impulsive tenderness, 
 " how good you are ! I wish I might have you 
 near me always." 
 
 "And am I not near you, little one?" 
 
 " Yes, near," she answered in hesitation, " and 
 yet " 
 
 "And yet?" he questioned smilingly. 
 
 " Oh, Leon," she said, " I know I'm foolish 
 childish what you will but but the robe ! . . . 
 It is so solemn, Leon. . . . Sometimes it almost 
 frightens me and and you seem so far away." 
 
 He made no answer, but sat in silent thought, 
 smoothing the folds of his cassock with uncon- 
 scious hands, till his sister's voice recalled him 
 from his reverie. 
 
 " You are not listening, Leon." 
 
 He patted her hand and looked into her eyes. 
 
 " Don't you remember," she asked in childish 
 118
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 earnestness, " the dear old days when we were 
 children ? It was different then, when we played 
 together in the sunshine, or sat with mother and 
 heard her wonderful tales of fairies and wicked 
 giants. Have you forgotten the great red giant 
 whom you said you would some day fight and 
 kill ? " Leon shook his head indulgently. " And 
 the beautiful blue-eyed princess," she asked, 
 " the princess you would rescue and make your 
 wife " 
 
 Leon raised his hand to check her speech, and 
 a look of poignant suffering overspread his pallid 
 features. 
 
 " Child, child," he muttered in a husky whis- 
 per, " do you not know that I must think no 
 more of such foolish tales? Do you not know 
 that I must remember only the Father's work- 
 to watch the sheep and lay aside the reed . . . 
 forever?" 
 
 "Must it be so, truly, Leon? Forget the 
 good fairies and the little princess ? " 
 
 " I have forgotten," he answered in drooping 
 sadness. 
 
 " Even the great red giant? " 
 
 "No!" he cried out sharply. "No! The 
 119
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 giant is reality ! " He rose and paced the floor 
 in nervous restlessness, forgetful for the mo- 
 ment of his sister's presence, forgetful that his 
 bitter thoughts were uttered half aloud : " Do I 
 not battle with him day by day grappling with 
 him struggling with mind and soul pleading 
 
 for strength and victory trusting and despair- 
 
 * 
 ing? 
 
 The duchesse rose and came toward him. 
 " Brother," she cried, with a frightened quiver 
 in her tone, " what are you saying you 
 
 "There, there," he murmured gently, as he 
 led her to a seat, " you would not understand." 
 He sank into his chair and dropped his cheek 
 upon his hand, repeating slowly, "You would 
 not understand." 
 
 " Leon," she asked him timidly, " is it then 
 the robe does it frighten you, too, at times?" 
 
 He sadly shook his head : " No, little one ; I 
 fear the priest who wears it in unworthiness." 
 
 She knit her brows in puzzled thought, and 
 once more stroked his passive hand : " But, 
 Leon," she said, "can you not sometimes forget 
 the priest for me ? I honour holy Church and 
 
 your work of mercy, but you're my brother still 
 
 120
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 my brother whom I love so tenderly. Ah, 
 Leon, such a love cannot be wicked, and if you 
 cared for me as as I care, dear, surely God 
 would not be angry. Do you think so, Leon ? " 
 
 " No, Cecile," he answered, with a fleeting 
 smile ; " if all the world were as good and pure 
 as you, there would be small need for solemn 
 priests and creeds. So, little one," he added, 
 with affected gaiety, " you are wisest, after all, 
 and your dull old brother must learn his lessons 
 in your own good school. Come, tell me what 
 you will." 
 
 " I love to see you so," she answered joyously, 
 and clapped her hands. " Then, too, you know, 
 I must manage every one about me. Not one 
 escapes no, not even you. What would your 
 abbe say could he see me now?" And, with a 
 roguish laugh, she crossed to the lounge on 
 which he sat and nestled close beside him. 
 
 Her brother smiled and took her in his arms. 
 
 " What would the father say ? Truly, that the 
 best and purest hearts in all the world belong 
 ever to the Church." 
 
 Leon spoke endearingly, and held her close 
 
 in a brotherly embrace, while his heart went out 
 
 121
 
 in yearning tenderness to the sister who loved 
 him with a child's idolatry a love which no 
 man, be he prince or priest, is worse in knowing 
 a love wherein " the Lord thy God, who is a 
 jealous God," may find no taint of evil. He 
 pressed her head against his shoulder and 
 smoothed her hair, while they chatted merrily 
 of the olden times, when innocence and wonder 
 filled the measure ot each day, and the night 
 was robed in a cassock of untroubled sleep. 
 
 " Leon," said Cecile at length, " I had the 
 sweetest dream last night. You were in it and 
 the due for I always dream of him." 
 
 " Well, little one," he urged, " pray tell me of 
 it." 
 
 " I dreamed we lived together in the dearest 
 little house in all the universe. There were pic- 
 tures and flowers, fountains and cool gardens. 
 There was music, and we danced to its pleasing 
 measures yes, and you too for in the dream 
 you were no longer a solemn priest, but our 
 merry Leon, laughing the loudest amongst us 
 all." The duchesse paused and sighed reflec- 
 tively: "And we seemed so happy, Leon the 
 
 due and I you and Adrienne 
 
 122
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 The priest rose suddenly. " Cecile ! " he cried, 
 in a tone which was almost rough in its pained 
 intensity, "you should not tell me of such 
 things ! You should not 1 " Then seeing in her 
 eyes a look of suffering, he once more took her 
 in his arms and brushed away her tears. " For- 
 give me, dear," he whispered gently, " I did not 
 mean to wound you, but but I'm not myself 
 to-day. There I must leave you now. Later, 
 perhaps, I may return." 
 
 "But must you go so soon?" she asked. 
 " Adrienne will be grieved that she did not see 
 you. Listen ! Did you hear her call ? " 
 
 " No," he answered, " I heard nothing." 
 
 Cecile crossed softly to the door of the sleep- 
 ing-room, peeped within, and returned to Leon. 
 
 " No," she said, " she is still asleep . . . and 
 Leon . , . she looks so beautiful as she lies 
 with her arm beneath her head. . . . But her 
 covering has fallen to the floor. Wait I will 
 return immediately." 
 
 The duchesse passed into Le Corbeau's cham- 
 ber, and the door swung slowly inward to a 
 breath of air which blew through the open win- 
 dows. The eyes of the waiting priest, in idle 
 
 123
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 apathy, followed Cecile as she crossed the 
 threshold, looked beyond and lingered for a 
 fleeting instant on the form of the sleeping girl, 
 then fell in hot confusion. The warm blood 
 surged from throat to cheek and receded guiltily. 
 He trembled, paused in irresolution, and fled 
 from the room in haste ; he raised the portieres 
 with a shaking hand, and once more turned his 
 sad gray eyes toward the open door, sighed 
 hopelessly, and was gone. 
 
 A moment passed and Cecile returned. 
 
 " I feared she might take cold," she said, 
 "and Then seeing she was alone, she 
 
 called in wonder, " Leon ! Where are you? " 
 
 No answer came ; she ran to the open window 
 and saw him cross the garden rapidly. She 
 called, but he either failed to hear or would not 
 heed, and soon was lost to sight among the 
 trees. 
 
 " Strange," the duchesse murmured as she left 
 the window. " I do not understand. . . . Why 
 should he leave me thus, so suddenly, without 
 a parting word? I I do not . . . under- 
 stand. ..." 
 
 She turned once more to her needlework, 
 
 124
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 but her thoughts were not with the silken 
 flowers. 
 
 " Poor boy," she muttered compassionately, 
 " his mind seems troubled with his ceaseless toil. 
 He said the giant was reality. Did he not battle 
 with him day by day struggling with mind and 
 soul praying for strength and victory trusting 
 and despairing? ... I wonder what he meant." 
 She shook her girlish head and sighed. " Ah, 
 me ! Poor Leon ! " Her hands lay idly in her 
 lap, and her work had slipped unheeded to the 
 floor. 
 
 Le Corbeau, robed in clinging neglige, tripped 
 softly from her room and stood behind Cecile. 
 She covered the dreamer's eye with her white, 
 slim hands, and cried out laughingly: 
 
 " You are my prisoner until you yield me up 
 the secrets of your rebel thoughts." 
 
 The duchesse caught the hands in hers and 
 smiled. " A willing captive, Adrienne, and the 
 secrets are yours and welcome; but tell me, 
 first, are you better for your nap ? " 
 
 "Excellent," Le Corbeau answered gayly, 
 " and now the secrets ! Ah," she laughed, " but 
 I can guess. I know these new-made wives. 
 
 125
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Your thoughts went flying along the dusty road 
 which leads to Rouen, and when they reached 
 that ancient city they hunted through the 
 crooked streets until they pounced upon a 
 certain gentleman, who, no doubt, at this 
 very minute, is longing for his little wife at 
 home, and is wondering what she may be do- 
 ing." 
 
 The duchesse nodded gleefully. " And could 
 he see me here with you would it not make him 
 happy ? " 
 
 "The Due de la Fere see me here!" Le 
 Corbeau gasped unthinkingly, then in a quiz- 
 zical aside: " Dieu! I doubt it!" But when 
 the duchesse turned her eyes upon her in blank 
 astonishment, she added lightly : " My dear . . . 
 there are certain gentlemen in this strange old 
 world who love their wives so dearly that the 
 extra person ofttimes proves an unwelcome 
 guest even though it be a woman." 
 
 " But not with you, dear Adrienne. Gaston 
 would love you as a cherished friend. He's 
 such a splendid fellow," she continued warmly. 
 " Oh, I wish you knew him ! " 
 
 " And so do I," the other answered, with a 
 126
 
 sphinx-like smile. ' There are certain things I 
 should like to ask the due." 
 
 "What, Adrienne?" 
 
 Through Le Corbeadi mind grim, aberrant 
 thoughts of her erstwhile lover stirred uneasily, 
 strange, immiscible, like ghosts of humour at a 
 feast of pain. She pursed her lips and answered, 
 with a lagging drawl : 
 
 " I should like to ask him er er how he 
 keeps his dainty mustache in curl." 
 
 The laughter of the duchesse rang out mer- 
 rilyso fresh, so innocent of worldly sin, that it 
 brought a sharper pang to the Poppy Flower 
 than might have been given by a crafty stab of 
 veteran cruelty. 
 
 " How absurd you are," declared Cecile, as 
 she nestled close beside her friend on the cush- 
 ioned lounge. " When you took me prisoner, I 
 had no thought of gathering wool in Rouen, but 
 was thinking of my brother; he was with me for 
 a little while, but left in haste." 
 
 "And you did not call me, Cecile?" 
 
 " He would not have you wakened. ... He 
 said that God sent sleep to heal our suffering 
 
 . . . and when our sorrows seemed too great for 
 
 127
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 the heart to bear, Heaven, in pity, gave forgetful- 
 ness and rest. Is not the thought most beauti- 
 ful?" 
 
 "Yes, beautiful," Le Corbeau answered in 
 musing bitterness, " but, alas ! not always true. 
 . . . There are moments when sleep brings no 
 forgetful ness. . . . There are nights when the 
 memory of the day lives with us ... moments 
 when the restless spirit shrinks from the great, 
 black shadow hanging over it drawing nearer 
 nearer till we waken with a cry . . . and re- 
 member what we are ! " 
 
 She had spoken recklessly, as the hopeless 
 gambler juggles with his fate on the crumbling 
 brink of ruin; and had the duchesse owned a 
 heart of less blind and simple trustfulness she 
 must have seen the canker-worm which lay con- 
 cealed beneath a wilted leaf. 
 
 "Adrienne!" she cried in trembling fright. 
 " You speak so strangely. You are not yourself 
 to-day, and and Leon, too, was strange. I try 
 so hard to understand him, but he says I'm a 
 foolish child, and " 
 
 " How was he strange, Cecile ? " Le Corbeau 
 
 asked, with enforced composure. 
 
 128
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " I scarcely know how I may tell you. Twas 
 something which almost startled me. He 
 said- 
 
 At this moment a liveried servant entered, 
 bowed, and waited in solemn deference. The 
 duchesse looked up inquiringly: 
 
 "Well, Gautier?" 
 
 The servant advanced a step toward Le Cor- 
 beau and once more bowed: 
 
 " I beg to say to Mademoiselle du Langois 
 that monsieur le docteur waits below." 
 
 " The doctor! " she exclaimed in blank amaze. 
 " What doctor? Cecile, did you request a phy- 
 sician's visit ? " 
 
 "I? No." 
 
 " There are two of them," Gautier announced, 
 with apologetic dignity. 
 
 " Two of them ! " Le Corbeau gasped. " Mon 
 Dieu, Gautier ! Did they bring the coffin and 
 the burial inspector?" 
 
 " No, mademoiselle," the servant replied, with 
 smileless gravity; "the gentlemen are quite 
 alone, and came on foot." 
 
 The duchesse laughed in spite of herself. " But 
 surely, Gautier," she said, " they gave a name." 
 9 I2 9
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Certainly, madame. . . . Dr. Jardin." 
 
 Le Corbeau started, and a wave of colour swept 
 hotly across her cheek, but recovered quickly as 
 the duchesse turned to her, suggesting that 
 Leon, in his thoughtful ness, had sent the great 
 physician. 
 
 " Urn no," Le Corbeau slowly said, with 
 grim conviction in her tone. " I do not think 
 . . . that the priest . . . has sent the doctor. 
 Ah! I remember now," she added suddenly, 
 " he's a friend of my brother. Louis wrote to 
 him before we came from Italy. It must be he ! 
 Gautier, you may say to the gentlemen that I 
 will see them here. Perhaps, Ce'cile, the doctor 
 has news of Louis." 
 
 " Oh, I hope he has," the duchesse cried in 
 radiant joy. " How happy it would make us all ! 
 Do you wish to speak with him alone? " 
 
 " If you do not mind, Cecile," said Le Cor- 
 beau easily, " perhaps it might be best." She 
 turned to the servant. " You may show them 
 in, Gautier ; I shall not keep them waiting over 
 long." 
 
 She passed into her room; the duchesse 
 tripped away, singing the happiest of songs, 
 
 130
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 while the grim Gautier, in solemn majesty, 
 stalked slowly out with the air of a blooded 
 sultan misplaced by mocking chance on the 
 doorstep of his rightful heritage.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 GAUTIER, with grand pomposo, swept aside 
 the portieres, and bowed as Raymond and the 
 doctor stepped into the room. 
 
 "Messieurs," he said, with a stately roll, 
 " Mademoiselle du Langois craves your kind 
 indulgence till her toilet is complete." Then, 
 with another formal inclination, he noiselessly 
 withdrew. 
 
 Raymond dropped into a chair and gazed 
 about the room in critical approval. " Quite 
 artistic, is it not, Jardin ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied the doctor, with a nod, " the 
 due is a man of taste a connoisseur in art ... 
 and women. But Raymond " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " To change the subject. Do you seriously 
 believe that Le Corbeau will resent our com- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly," asserted Raymond. " She 
 will look upon this visit as a gross intrusion, and 
 
 132
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 only wit and pure audacity will save a scene. 
 When a man goes out to light a petard, it is al- 
 ways well that he knows the fuse's length, and 
 yours, Jardin, is short. Be careful, man. You 
 hold one winning card. Reserve it for emer- 
 gency." 
 
 " I know," returned Jardin dejectedly, " but 
 I've lost my skill at play, and my owlish wit is 
 stultified by the simple, blundering truth. . . . 
 God, man! I love her! I've grown dependent 
 on the very air she breathes, and I'd rather far 
 endure her deepest scorn than the starving lone- 
 liness of life without her." 
 
 The doctor lapsed into brooding silence, and 
 waited in impatience for Le Corbeau to appear. 
 These last three weeks had been a living torture 
 to the man restless, nervous, his evenings spent 
 in aimless wanderings ; bereft of purpose, save 
 that his footsteps led unfailingly to the door of 
 the Poppy Flower to hear the dreaded answer 
 of the maid, who answered his knock and always 
 shook her head : 
 
 " Madame has not returned, Monsieur le Doc- 
 teur. No one is here ! " 
 
 Once he had spoken rudely to the girl, pushed 
 133
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 past her and explored the upper rooms in the 
 hope that she had lied ; but the chambers were 
 all in order, and the wide salon loomed vast and 
 dismal in the light of his lifted taper ; and the 
 silence, too, which seemed to creep from each 
 familiar nook chilled his blood with a lingering, 
 nameless fear. He fled in feverish haste, delay- 
 ing only to slip a placating coin in the hand of 
 the waiting-maid, who held the door and watched 
 his departing figure with a muttered maledic- 
 tion while she pocketed his gift. 
 
 Jardin had been aware of Le Corbeau's move- 
 ments from the first, learning through a patient's 
 over-busy tongue that a certain Mlle.-du Langois 
 was a guest of the Duchesse de la Fere ; and by 
 an easy guess and a few shrewd questions made 
 doubt a certainty. He longed to follow even to 
 her citadel, but dared not, till a chance discov- 
 ery, by Raymond, gave pretext for the step. 
 Thus, armed with a winning card, he had en- 
 tered boldly, leaving to fortune and a woman's 
 mood the fate he dreaded more than a hang- 
 man's noose. 
 
 At the sound of Le Corbeau's footsteps Ray- 
 mond and the doctor rose. She was pale with
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 thin-masked anger, but bore herself with easy 
 dignity. 
 
 " To what, messieurs," she asked, with a shade 
 of irony, " am I indebted for the honour of your 
 unexpected visit? " 
 
 " Necessity," replied Jardin, " necessity which 
 drives Mohammed to the mount at last. Your 
 friends, you see, have missed you more, per- 
 chance, than you have missed your friends. But 
 seriously, it seems a hundred years since last I 
 saw you." 
 
 " Can three short weeks be stretched into a 
 century?" 
 
 The doctor leaned toward her and whispered 
 earnestly, "To one who loves as I love . . . 
 yes." 
 
 "Stop!" she said. "I do not care to lis- 
 ten. It is most unkind of you to interfere 
 with me. Your presence here is undesired 
 unasked ' 
 
 "You speak plainly," the doctor smiled, "if 
 without mercy." 
 
 "I speak the truth!" 
 
 "But Corbeau " said Raymond in remon- 
 strance. 
 
 135
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 She cut him short with a sharp correction. 
 " Mademoiselle, if you please, monsieur ! " 
 
 " Pardon me," he begged, " I understand ; but 
 indeed Jardin is not to blame in coming, for I 
 persuaded him. Apart from our natural desire 
 to see your charming self, we had some curiosity 
 to know how the cards were turning in in 
 shall 1 say . . . the game? " 
 
 Le Corbeau caught her breath and answered 
 in caustic dignity: 
 
 "Messieurs . . . understand me! . . . What 
 you are pleased to call the game is my own 
 affair. I undertook it, not because I wished or 
 willed, but because I was forced against my will 
 by you, Jardin ! " She faced him angrily. " I 
 did it when stung by your biting ridicule 
 goaded by insults to a weak and senseless 
 folly!" 
 
 "And so you repent the undertaking?" the 
 doctor questioned smilingly. 
 
 She answered icily: "What I undertake I 
 carry through, and this I wish to carry through 
 alone." She inclined her head with stilted 
 courtesy. " Messieurs ... I wish you both 
 good-day." 
 
 136
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "Emergency!" whispered Raymond in the 
 doctor's ear. " Play your card and quickly." 
 
 " Mademoiselle," began Jardin, " my visit has 
 another object " 
 
 " I dare say," she interrupted, " but I do not 
 care to hear it." 
 
 Raymond thought to stay the coming storm, 
 but spoke incautiously. " My dear*Corbeau 
 
 She turned upon him fiercely. " Mon Dieu ! 
 Will you always use that name ? Did I not tell 
 you ? I do not wish to hear the sequel of your 
 rude intrusion. Only go ! Go ! Go ! " 
 
 " But only a word," he persisted pleadingly. 
 " Believe me, you'll not regret the moment spent 
 in listening." 
 
 "Well . . . what is it?" 
 
 " I came," Jardin began once more, " at the 
 risk of your displeasure to prove my friendli- 
 ness, not to mar your plans." 
 
 "I think," Le Corbeau said ungraciously, 
 while she tapped the floor with a nervous foot, 
 " I think you said that once before. In the 
 devil's name, be done with this absurdity ! " 
 
 " But have you thought," the doctor asked, 
 " of the hourly risk you run in 
 
 137
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Sapristi! Do you dream that this is news 
 to me? Am I a child? " 
 
 " Pray let him explain," urged Raymond seri- 
 ously. " The cause is graver than your thoughts 
 suppose." 
 
 " Then be quick," she retorted in petulance, 
 " for my patience is exhausted ! " 
 
 " The king," said Jardin, with slow impress- 
 iveness, " has recalled the Due de la Fere from 
 Rouen." Le Corbeau started violently. " His 
 wife knows nothing of it ; and I merely thought 
 that should your quondam lover drop in er 
 unexpectedly, and find shall we say a dear old 
 friend perhaps " 
 
 The doctor raised his palms and shrugged ex- 
 pressively in lieu of unspoken possibilities. Le 
 Corbeau studied him in silence for a moment, 
 and then stretched out her hand impulsively. 
 
 " I understand," she said. " It is generous of 
 you to put me on my guard, and I misjudged 
 you. Pray forgive me." 
 
 " Good ! " cried Raymond. " We are friends 
 again. " Yes," he added, " the due returns at 
 noon to-morrow. He will go, of course, directly 
 
 to the king, but by night at least " 
 
 138
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Le Corbeau interrupted with a gesture, and 
 when she spoke a note of sadness touched her 
 halting tone : 
 
 " By night at least he will be here at 
 home." 
 
 " And therefore, mademoiselle," advised Jar- 
 din, "it were well that you leave to-day at 
 once." He smiled sardonically. " The due, 
 I've heard, is a man of action, and your exit 
 might be marked by less dignity than a proud 
 Du Langois relishes. Bien?" 
 
 She paid no heed to his tone of irony, but 
 said in drooping weariness: "And yet I've 
 half a mind to stay . . . and let him find me 
 here." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "And then," she repeated bitterly, "and then 
 his servants will thrust me out into the street 
 ... as I deserve." 
 
 " Oh ho ! " the doctor laughed. " I see ! The 
 cross of good St. Anthony proves a mite too 
 stanch'." She rested her eyes upon him, 
 paused, and answered slowly: 
 
 " His cross is strong, but on his rosary . . . 
 he tells one bead for me." 
 
 139
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Hmp ! A single bead ! Then I fear you 
 have played your little game and lost." 
 
 " No ! . . . but my heart is sick of it. Sick of 
 the hateful sham the base pretense to what I 
 am not, and can never be." 
 
 " Bon Dieu ! A conscience ! " 
 
 " Listen, gentlemen," she said in a hard and 
 cheerless voice, wherein spoke more than simple 
 penitence. " I crept into this house a hypocrite 
 a liar posing as the daughter of their fa- 
 ther's friend winning their confidence by a 
 shameless fraud. They give me shelter food 
 they minister to my wants and comforts. The 
 duchesse calls me sister oh, the mockery ! I 
 am petted, spoiled, consoled for pretended sor- 
 rows. They give me a sinner's glimpse of a 
 home of purity, different so different from my 
 own." 
 
 " Ideal, " drawled Jardin. " A life of serene 
 placidity. How does the violent change agree 
 with you ? " 
 
 "Jardin, be still!" commanded Raymond 
 tartly, and turned to the woman with a sym- 
 pathetic question: "And the little duchesse 
 
 you have grown to like her?" 
 
 140
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 1 Cecile ? Oh, yes, even though her very pres- 
 ence brings reproof. She is good and pure . . . 
 and innocent." Le Corbeau smiled. "Really 
 at times it is quite amusing. Think, Raymond, 
 she is teaching me needlework. Needlework! 
 Me!" 
 
 "And what," Jardin asked brutally, "does 
 madame teach the duchesse ? " 
 
 "Nothing!" she retorted coldly. " I am a 
 pupil." Then angrily: "Jardin! . . . will you 
 never learn that a woman even though she is 
 of the world is not without some pity ... or 
 a heart? I have taught her nothing." 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 "Why are you so bitterly unkind? In the 
 last two months you have changed indeed." 
 
 " I, too, have been a pupil." 
 
 " Of mine," she nodded sadly. " I appreciate 
 your thrust the sharper because of truth. But 
 come, we will not quarrel now; I have no heart 
 to quarrel." 
 
 Raymond, at a signal from Jardin, passed out 
 upon a portico which overlooked the palace gar- 
 dens, and the doctor, left in possession of the 
 
 field, turned and spoke repentantly: 
 
 141
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Forgive my discourtesy. I am not myself 
 to-day, and there's more beneath a cloak than 
 shows on its outer side. I have one other word 
 to say. You will listen ? " 
 
 Again Le Corbeau nodded wearily and sank 
 upon the lounge. " Go on," she murmured, " I 
 am listening." 
 
 He stood before her like a supplicant, his 
 white hands clenched in nervous earnestness. 
 
 "Corbeau," he whispered hoarsely, "you've 
 never known how deeply I have loved you. At 
 heart I am not evil, but there are moments 
 when I seem to lose control and madness 
 chokes my better self to silence. I have a wife 
 patient proud but I do not love her. ... I 
 cannot! . . . No! It is you! You! I think 
 of you always I dream you are mine, and wake 
 to the aching hell of unpossession. . . . I've 
 been like a beast confined in a steel-barred cage 
 prowling, prowling, till his muzzle bleeds in a 
 hopeless hunt for liberty. Oh, Corbeau, forget 
 my baseness give up this hateful thing come 
 back with me ... to the old life once again." 
 
 She looked up sadly. "The old life? Ah, 
 
 Jardin, the old life is paler than it used to be." 
 
 142
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 ' Then leave it all forever. I n England with 
 me " 
 
 She raised her hand to check his ardour. 
 " Don't ask me this," she begged ; " it only pains 
 us both. I cannot." 
 
 " You, too, have changed," the doctor faltered. 
 " The priest is he the cause ? " 
 
 "Changed? The priest?" she repeated, half 
 unconsciously. " Perhaps ... I do not know. 
 . . . Go now, Jardin, and forget Corbeau. It 
 were better for us both." 
 
 He took her outstretched hand and held it in 
 a lingering grasp. 
 
 " Don't send me away like this," he pleaded. 
 " It is far more cruel than you know. If you 
 kill my hope, you leave me a prey to all the ugly 
 devils of jealousy and madness the evil thing 
 of your own creation. Come back, Corbeau. I 
 only ask the love you gave me once the 
 love you thought you gave me a crumb a 
 grain- 
 She rose and turned away her eyes. " No. . . 
 No, Jardin. ... I cannot." 
 
 The fevered blood raced swiftly from his 
 ch jek ; he watched her for a moment silently, 
 
 143
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 his eyes like slits in his hard, grey face ; then he 
 turned on his heel and laughed. 
 
 "Jardin!" Le Corbeau called. He turned 
 and came slowly back. " Jardin, I wish to thank 
 you once again for your warning of the due's 
 return. It was more than generous." 
 
 The doctor bowed and replied with his old 
 sang-froid: 
 
 " The simple courtesy of calling check to 
 queen in our game of chess, madame. But the 
 move is yours. What will you do since you lose 
 your castle ? " 
 
 "What shall I do?" she iterated nervously. 
 
 " I I must think I " She held out her 
 
 hands impulsively. " Oh, my friend, release me 
 from the wager. I can't go on! I can't! I 
 can't!" 
 
 "It rests with you." 
 
 "With me?" 
 
 " Acknowledge your defeat and then ' 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she asked in rising 
 fear. 
 
 The doctor shrugged his shoulders indo- 
 lently : 
 
 " We make a bet ... we lose ... we pay." 
 144
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " But the forfeit ! " she cried in terror. " You 
 
 would not claim you would not claim . . . 
 
 / " 
 me ! 
 
 He looked upon her with a slow, triumphant 
 smile and answered cruelly: 
 
 " I would have paid five hundred thousand 
 francs . . . had you nailed my skin to the door- 
 post of The House of Peace." 
 
 " But surely," she urged, " you are not in 
 earnest. You would not take advantage of a 
 woman's angry folly. I was mad insane I 
 knew not what I did. Oh, Jardin, I I admit 
 defeat failure anything but release me, Jar- 
 din; I ask you as a man a gentleman have 
 pity on me." 
 
 " You have lavished none on me." 
 
 " But think, Jardin," she urged in desperation, 
 " I could conquer if I would. The priest is 
 weak. . . . I can bend him to my will. Ah, I've 
 seen his eyelids droop, the paling cheek, the 
 restless hand, and the voice that halts and 
 trembles. ... I could win him if I would." 
 
 " Then win him ! " snarled Jardin through his 
 straight, thin lips. 
 
 " No ! No ! " she cried out piteously. " The 
 10 145
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 priest is noble just he trusts me ; he believes 
 me ; the humble servant of Heaven, and you ask 
 me to drag him down. His kindness falls upon 
 me like a knotted scourge ; his gentleness . . . 
 a blow upon the mouth. This he gives me in 
 payment for a lie, and I long to die of shame. 
 No! No!" she moaned. "By the God he 
 loves, I will not!" And she sank upon the 
 lounge in an agony of weeping. " I'm beaten- 
 broken take me if you will . . . but pity me ! " 
 
 The doctor looked in silence, scarce crediting 
 the proof of sight and sound. Once, twice he 
 moved his lips ere speech would flow. 
 
 "And you will come" he asked, an eager 
 tremour in his tone " to me? " 
 
 She nodded miserably and hid her face be- 
 tween her hands. Jardin drew nearer, bending 
 his exultant eyes on the wilted Poppy Flower; 
 and in the love which mastered him he grasped 
 her wrists and drew her hands apart, then kissed 
 her passionately upon the mouth. 
 
 With a hunted cry she wrenched herself away, 
 leaped from the lounge and faced him, her harsh 
 voice choked with panting fury: 
 
 "Fool/ . . . Fool!" 
 
 146
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 He took a backward step, awed by the flam- 
 ing madness in her eyes, and the hot, lavatic 
 rage which bubbled to her sullied lips. 
 
 " Could you not respect a woman's grief for 
 the degradation you have forced upon her? 
 Fool ! . . . I would have paid your forfeit had I 
 died of shame. But now ... I will not ! " She 
 snapped her finger in his face. " That, for your 
 unholy wager ! That, for an oath to you you, 
 the dust beneath his feet ! " 
 
 "Take care!" 
 
 " The dust, I say ! The dust ! Better a mil- 
 lion perjuries than the brutish love you offer, or 
 a single stain on the robe of the Good Samari- 
 tan. Now, go! I've done with the sin . . . and 
 you!" 
 
 " Not yet," the doctor drawled, but his old- 
 time savoirfaire was edged with cold ferocity. 
 " Not yet, for your forfeit shall be paid with 
 usury." 
 
 Here Raymond, who had watched them from 
 the portico, entered unobserved. He took a 
 step toward Jardin and paused in irresolution, 
 while the doctor, swept by a storm of bitterness, 
 
 went on remorselessly : 
 
 147
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " You have measured your strength with mine 
 and failed failed as I knew you would, when 
 virtue strips the cloth from your ulcered vanity, 
 and you hide your sores with a fetid rag of new- 
 born conscience." 
 
 "Jardin!" 
 
 " Huh ! Go tell your priest you have found 
 a conscience . . . and tell him where you found 
 it. He will scorn you as he scorned that silken 
 toad, the Marquis Dubris. The marquis, too, 
 has found a conscience. Nom de Dieu ! what a 
 saintly pair ! " 
 
 Raymond clenched his teeth, stepped swiftly 
 to the doctor's side, and took his arm. " Jardin, 
 my friend," he said, " this is unworthy of you. 
 In the name of pity come away." 
 
 The doctor brushed his hand aside and 
 laughed derisively. " Saint Corbeau ! " 
 
 Once more Raymond sought to pacificate 
 his friend, speaking in manliness, but in mild 
 reproach: "You are not yourself, Jardin, to use 
 her so discourteously. Come, no more, I beg 
 you." 
 
 " And Saint Dubris ! " the doctor laughed in 
 
 acid irony. 
 
 148
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Le Corbeau's mute despair touched Raymond 
 to the quick. 
 
 "Enough!" he cried out angrily. "You 
 have gone too far. No man of honour would 
 force a woman further." 
 
 The doctor wheeled upon him with a snarl. 
 " Monsieur, I have the honour to address madame 
 not you ! Oblige me and hold your tongue ! " 
 
 Raymond flushed and retorted hotly: " I was 
 silent till my sense of shame rebelled and man- 
 hood sickened at your devil's cruelty. You 
 drove her to the sin with your sneering scorn, 
 and when she asks for pity you taunt her mis- 
 er} 7 . She needs a friend, and before God she 
 may call on two the one you have lost to-day 
 . . . and this! " And he slapped the hilt of his 
 slender rapier. 
 
 " Raymond ! no, no, no, no ! " Le Corbeau 
 cried in terror. 
 
 Jardin surveyed the challenger from top to 
 toe in slow disdain, then turning to Corbeau, 
 said mockingly: 
 
 " My most profound congratulations on your 
 two bold champions the musician and his bod- 
 kin." 
 
 149
 
 Le Corbeau stretched her hand appealingly to 
 Raymond, but he paid no heed ; he plucked the 
 doctor's sleeve and said in measured calmness : 
 
 " Pardi, monsieur, her champions are worthy 
 of a just contempt; and yet if I remember 
 right no one has said that Raymond Delese is 
 a blackguard and a coward. I trust, monsieur, 
 that you understand the musician and his bod- 
 kin." 
 
 " Perfectly." The doctor bowed with mock 
 obsequiousness. "We'll discuss that subject 
 later." 
 
 "We'll discuss it now!" 
 
 Le Corbeau stepped between them. " No," 
 she said. "The quarrel is mine. I'll keep it 
 mine." She turned to Jardin with enforced 
 composure. " To-day I leave this home of pu- 
 rity to enter mine. Come to me there, Mon- 
 sieur Jardin, and claim your Jew's requital- 
 blood and bone. I shall not ask for pity a sec- 
 ond time." 
 
 The doctor bowed. " I shall do myself the 
 honour of an early visit." To Raymond he said, 
 with a curling sneer: "Monsieur Delese may 
 
 expect me also. Madame . . . adieu" 
 
 150
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 He crossed the room and held the portieres 
 apart. Once more he bowed a bow as taunt- 
 ing as his lazy drawl. Then he dropped the 
 velvet curtains, and was gone. 
 
 Le Corbeau watched in silence till he disap- 
 peared, then she sank upon the lounge and 
 sobbed : " Oh, Raymond, Raymond, I fear that 
 man I fear him ! He is stronger than I 
 he " 
 
 " He shall not trouble you again," said Ray- 
 mond gently. 
 
 She raised herself and grasped his arm in 
 trembling dread. 
 
 " Raymond," she cried, " you must not fight 
 him you must not! His deadly sword you 
 would throw your life away ! You must 
 not!" 
 
 " At worst," her champion smiled, " 'tis over 
 quickly, and better men have passed in a poorer 
 cause." 
 
 "No, no, no," she urged imploringly, and 
 clung to his hand, caressing it in woman's fear. 
 " I beg you, Raymond, for my sake, do not add 
 this sorrow to my sins." 
 
 "There, there," he answered reassuringly,
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " I promise that my sword shall leave its sheath 
 only when forced by the gravest circumstance. 
 Now think of it no more. I will send a carriage 
 after dusk this evening. Come home to-day, 
 and count upon me always." 
 
 " Oh, Raymond," she answered tearfully, " you 
 are good to me too good. But help me for I 
 need a friend indeed." 
 
 " Yes, Corbeau . . . till you need my help no 
 more. . . . Shall I leave you now?" 
 
 " Please. I must rest . . . and think." 
 
 "And the wager," he asked, "you will give it 
 up?" 
 
 She nodded sadly and answered in a faltering 
 whisper : 
 
 " Yes . . . with one last lie to cover my re- 
 treat, and then home to what?" 
 
 She bowed her head between her arms, and 
 Raymond placed a gentle hand upon her shoul- 
 der: 
 
 " Cheer up, my friend. Your failure is a tri- 
 umph where success would mean dishonour, and 
 we need not blush to own defeat like this." 
 
 He stooped and kissed her hair as a brother 
 might and softly went away, leaving her bowed 
 
 152
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 beneath an unborn grief which her aching heart 
 sought vainly to conceive. 
 
 She raised her head and murmured bitterly: 
 " Beaten ! . . . Beaten ! . . . but not by him 
 not by his sneers and ridicule but by a priestly 
 robe. Poor Leon ! . . . how easy to win him if 
 I would . . . but oh, the pity of it ! No ! . . . 
 No! ... I must say good-bye as gently as I 
 can and forget . . . forget ..." 
 
 She rose and staggered aross the room, 
 paused and shuddered. 
 
 "Jardin! . . . And yet he is so unhappy. 
 . . . The fault is mine . . . mine only. ... I 
 made him what he is. ... He said I was 
 changed . . . and the priest . . . the priest 
 I I know not what he means. Ah, Corbeau ! 
 Poor Corbeau ! " 
 
 She swayed and passed into her chamber, 
 from whence her stifled sobs stole fitfully.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 IN a little while Cecile stole softly to Adri- 
 enne's room, but thinking her asleep she sought 
 her own apartment for a cosy nap. An hour 
 went by and Leon once more came. 
 
 " Cecile ! " he called, and pushed the portieres 
 aside. "Cecile! ..." He paused and lis- 
 tened. " She, too, is sleeping," he muttered half 
 aloud, entered and sat down upon the cushioned 
 lounge. At his feet lay a painted fan which Le 
 Corbeau in forgetful ness had dropped. He took 
 it in his hands, his thoughts with her who had 
 used it last, then laid it gently down beside him. 
 
 " I wonder if Adrienne is still asleep," he 
 sighed ; he arose and listened eagerly, shook his 
 head, and sank into his seat again. What mat- 
 tered it to him ? He forced his thoughts to his 
 sister and the due, but his eyes turned slowly 
 till they rested on the chamber door, and his 
 hand stole out insentiently and gripped her fan. 
 A frail stick snapped beneath the pressure of
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 palm; he started guiltily and dropped the 
 painted thing, leaned forward, with his burning 
 cheeks upon his hand, and pondered. 
 
 The chamber door swung open and Le Cor- 
 beau stood upon its threshold. She crossed the 
 room with a noiseless step and paused behind 
 the abstracted priest, for a moment looked sadly 
 down, half turned away, then touched him gently 
 on the shoulder. 
 
 " Father." 
 
 He rose confusedly and faltered : " Your par- 
 don, mademoiselle, I did not know I 
 
 " I see," she smiled. " Pondering over some 
 deep problem of your ritual; planning more 
 work for your tired hands, more steps for your 
 weary feet." 
 
 "But I am not weary," he protested, "and 
 was planning, no new labours. Tell me you 
 are better to-day? " 
 
 "Yes, much better, or rather I was," she 
 stammered ; " but a while ago I had such a pain 
 just here," and she laid her hand upon her 
 heart. " It was so severe. ... It has quite un- 
 nerved me." 
 
 " My poor, poor child ! " he murmured sympa- 
 155
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 thetically, " I am most distressed to hear of it. 
 Is it more easy now?" 
 
 " Yes ... it has gone, . . . but it left me a 
 little weak. I was resting when you came, but 
 I heard you call Cecile and and 
 
 " And I disturbed you," the priest exclaimed 
 in self-reproach. " How thoughtless of me to 
 raise my voice ! " 
 
 " No, no, no," she hastened to explain ; " I was 
 quite awake, and am glad you came. Your 
 presence helps dispel my loneliness." 
 
 " But you are ill," he argued. " Will you not 
 lie here upon the lounge and rest ? " 
 
 " You you would not object ? " she hesitated 
 timidly. 
 
 "Why should I?" 
 
 " See," she said, " I am still unsteady." 
 
 She held out a trembling hand, and Leon 
 took it in his own, leading her gently toward the 
 lounge. He placed and arranged a cushion be- 
 neath her head, and spread a filmy covering 
 across her slippered feet. 
 
 " There," he said, as he tucked in a wayward 
 fold, " as snug as the cloister sparrows." 
 
 " Father," she murmured, while she thanked 
 156
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 him with her eyes, " you are so gentle so ten- 
 der; but, indeed, you are spoiling me, and I 
 soon shall become a tyrant." 
 
 Leon laughed. " A dreadful tyrant, who will 
 rule her subjects with a rod of iron, till they 
 quake and tremble at her lightest word." 
 
 " A feeble queen with a single subject," she 
 returned, with a radiant smile, " but he at least 
 shall give obedience. Come sit beside me. . . . 
 The queen must be amused." 
 
 " I fear," he said, as he drew a chair to the 
 foot of the couch, " that I will make but a sorry 
 courtier, for my clumsy tongue will halt and 
 stumble over every compliment and leave me 
 sprawling in the mire of dull confusion." 
 
 She replied in seeming earnestness: "One 
 truth in home-spun is worth a thousand lies in 
 lace and velvet." She paused, then added with 
 a troubled frown, " I received a piece of news 
 to-day." 
 
 "Good news?" 
 
 " Yes, good," she answered in hesitation, " and 
 yet like nearly all good news it brings a 
 sorrow with it. My.brother Louis has arrived in 
 Paris." 
 
 157
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "Louis?" the priest exclaimed delight- 
 edly. " He is here ? " 
 
 " No ; I have not seen him yet, but his friend, 
 Monsieur Jardin a physician, I believe was 
 here this afternoon, and brought the tidings. I 
 know little as yet beyond the fact that my 
 brother is alive and well." 
 
 " I am more than glad," said Leon hearti- 
 ly, "to hear such good report, and doubly 
 so because your mind may now be set at 
 rest." 
 
 " I, too, am glad," she faltered, " but then- 
 
 The priest looked up, a question in his eyes, 
 and Adrienne answered musingly: "I've been 
 so happy here. . . . It is peaceful ... a home 
 pure and " 
 
 The colour fled from Leon's cheek. "And 
 must you go?" he asked. "No, no, your 
 brother, too, will come to us. You cannot 
 think of leaving, mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " But, father," she demurred, " you forget we 
 are uninvited guests of the Due de la Fere, who 
 does not even know us." 
 
 " But the due," he argued, " would welcome 
 
 you. As the children of our father's friend, 
 
 158
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 'twould be at once his pleasure and his privi- 
 lege." 
 
 She turned her head away and spoke con- 
 fusedly: "Yes, yes, I know, but I I can't ex- 
 plain it, father even to you. For weighty 
 reasons Louis wishes to remain unknown for 
 a time at least and besides, I cannot always be 
 a burden to my friends even " 
 
 "You a burden? How can you dream of 
 it?" 
 
 She passed his remark and went on sadly : " I 
 shall miss your sister, and will long for the quiet 
 days and the peaceful evenings." Her voice 
 came brokenly and sank into a tearful whisper: 
 " I shall miss you also, father. Will you think 
 sometimes of me the poor, friendless girl who 
 owes so much so much to you ? " 
 
 He answered simply, but his tone was heavy 
 with a sense of loss: "I shall miss you . . . 
 mademoiselle." 
 
 She turned her glorious eyes upon him plead- 
 ingly: "Don't call me mademoiselle; it seems 
 cold and distant." Her red lips curved into a 
 smile. " Is not Adrienne a pretty name?" 
 
 "Adrienne ..." he repeated slowly, and 
 159
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 lingered caressingly upon its sound. "Adri- 
 enne ..." 
 
 The tremour in his wistful tone, like a warning 
 note, struck chill to Le Corbeau's heart. She 
 cast her coverlet aside and rose with the stern 
 resolve that through no further fault of hers 
 should the priest be led by evil or deceit. 
 
 " Father," she said as she held out her hand 
 to him, " we will speak no more of vain regrets. 
 Come, I will say good-bye. I must pack my few 
 belongings and 
 
 "And cheat me of my last half-hour?" he 
 asked in mild reproach. 
 
 " No, no," she answered nervously, " not that 
 but- -" 
 
 " Has your courtier grown so dull that the 
 queen must fly from him in five short minutes? " 
 
 "No ... no." 
 
 " Shall I change my home-spun for a suit of 
 lace and velvet?" 
 
 "No, father, no; yet a parting ever proves 
 less sad when quickly made." 
 
 She offered her hand once more. He rose 
 and took it in both his own. 
 
 "And will you not rest for a little while?" 
 160
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 She felt his pulses stir, and sought to withdraw 
 her hand, but he held it fast. "Think," he 
 pleaded, " 'tis the first indulgence I have asked, 
 and perhaps since you go to-day it may be, 
 Adrienne . . . the last." 
 
 She hesitated still, knowing that his danger 
 crouched unseen behind its fragile barrier of 
 good intent; and she would have left him, 
 even though it seemed ungenerous, but he 
 held her fingers jealously and led her back to 
 her place upon the lounge. With a sigh she 
 sank among the cushions, and a silence fell be- 
 tween them. 
 
 Then Leon spoke, with an ill-disguised at- 
 tempt at cheeriness : 
 
 " No more of gloomy subjects ! Tell me, how 
 have you and the little sister passed your morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 Le Corbeau smiled. " Two lazy needles and 
 two busy tongues. She was telling me of your 
 childhood's days. It is hard for me," she 
 laughed, "to imagine you a boy, running 
 through the fields and robbing birds' nests, or 
 fighting with the other little vandals." 
 
 Leon nodded. " Yes," he said, " it seems such 
 ii 161
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 a weary while ago, and yet I must have done 
 these things like other boys." 
 
 " And you never thought in those merry days 
 that you might some day be a priest a Good 
 Samaritan ? " 
 
 He sadly shook his head. " And sometimes 
 still I can hardly believe it true." 
 
 " To me," she murmured gently, " it also 
 seems unreal. Do you know how I have pic- 
 tured you ? " 
 
 "No. But tell me." 
 
 " I love my day-dreams, and often I sit idly 
 thinking ... of cold reality and the things 
 which might have been. 'Tis then that I see 
 you . . . first, as the noble man of God, bending 
 in pity where others turn away giving a cup of 
 water to the thirsty, lifting the fallen ones, or 
 hushing the sobs of some lonely child whose 
 mother's voice is still . . . forever. For you are 
 tender, Leon as tender as a woman ..." 
 
 She paused, and in that fleet-winged interval 
 the febrile spark of conquest leaped into living 
 flame devoured her pity burnt her fine re- 
 solves to blackened dust. 
 
 " And then," she crooned, " when through my 
 162
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 tears I look again . . . the priestly robe has 
 faded from you the sadness of your eye has 
 gone ..." She raised herself, and her voice 
 rang shrill and quivering: "I see a soldier 
 charging through the flame and smoke of bat- 
 tle. ... I hear his shout of victory in the din 
 of rushing squadrons the thunder of the guns 
 the cries of men and the crash of steel ! . . . 
 Ah, Leon, do you think I do not know that an 
 arm like yours was made to wield a sword? 
 Muscles of iron a heart that hammers at your 
 breast " 
 
 The priest flung out his hands and rose ex- 
 citedly, paced to and fro, and answered with a 
 husky cry : 
 
 "Enough! Enough! Have I not dreamed 
 of it! Have I not longed for it, as the war- 
 horse stamps and quivers at the trumpet's 
 sound ? To hold a sword again ! To feel the 
 wild thrill of danger, while the mad blood races 
 through my veins! My arm is strong! My 
 sinews throb and strain 
 
 He stripped the sleeve from his corded arm 
 and raised it in its might, paused suddenly, and 
 let it fall, as a leaf may fall when touched by the 
 
 163
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 winter's blight. And the woman, watching, 
 asked wonderingly: 
 
 " Is it, then, not true that strength and cour- 
 age were given us to win our battles to crown 
 our heads with glory? " 
 
 "Ah, Adrienne," he muttered in despair, 
 " upon the mighty shoulders of the Christ . . . 
 was borne a cross." He sank into his seat and 
 bowed his head upon his hands. " How frail we 
 are. How soon the heart forgets forgets the 
 Master's work and turns to vanity. And I 
 poor human fool Ah, Adrienne, a priestly 
 robe proves not a shield from mortal selfishness." 
 
 A moment passed in silence, then Le Corbeau 
 spoke compassionately : 
 
 " I think I understand, good friend. I, too, 
 have struggled and have almost lost. Leon . . . 
 if I asked you something, would it anger you? " 
 
 He shook his head. She caught her breath 
 with a quick, sharp inhalation : 
 
 " Tell me why you became a priest." 
 
 His lips grew ashen. His chair was over- 
 turned as he rose suddenly in perturbation. 
 
 " Adrienne ! " he cried. " You know not 
 
 what you ask! I've striven to hide it even 
 
 164
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 from myself ! I must forget ! I must ! I must ! " 
 And he crossed and stood before the open win- 
 dow to hide from her the pangs of his deep 
 emotion. 
 
 "Father! Father!" she called, as she fol- 
 lowed him. " Forgive me I have wounded 
 you. Forgive me." 
 
 He turned dejectedly. " There," he mur- 
 mured, "it matters not. 'Twas only for the 
 moment that it pained me, Adrienne." 
 
 She answered tearfully: " It was far from my 
 mind to cause you suffering, and my motive was 
 all unselfish. I know your story is hidden from 
 the world, but I dared to hope that with me . . . 
 it might have been a help to speak of it." 
 
 "And why should I not?" he muttered, pas- 
 sionately. "It lives with me day and night. 
 I've hidden it, as you say, and yet, sometimes, I 
 feel that if I could only tell it tell it to some 
 one- -" 
 
 " Tell me, Leon. I shall guard it as a sacred 
 trust." 
 
 He suffered her to lead him back, as a woman 
 leads a child, and when she once more lay upon 
 the lounge, the pale priest paced before her 
 
 165
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 restlessly, and began his story, while Le Cor- 
 beau leaned upon her elbow watching watch- 
 ing. 
 
 " Cecile has told you of my childhood. It was 
 a happy one, and when I advanced in years I 
 was happier still, for I had all that makes life 
 worth the living youth, strength, and wealth 
 . . . wealth the key which opens the gates of 
 the world and makes the soul a heaven or a hell. 
 My mother was Italian. My father, French, 
 and of the army. From him I imbibed the in- 
 stincts of a soldier, but through the foreign 
 blood came my restless spirit, a passionate 
 longing for reckless venture a hot, ungoverned 
 will, a heart that loved and hated by fitful turns. 
 And so I lived lived like a butterfly, without a 
 thought beyond my wayward will . . . and 
 through it all I had one friend who loved me, 
 and whom I loved Fabien Lament . -. . a 
 noble friend noble in every fibre. Unlike me, 
 he was cool and calm, thought first and acted 
 afterward, while I but it matters little." 
 
 He paused, and strode in moody silence to 
 and fro. 
 
 " Yes, Leon," his listener whispered. " Go on." 
 1 66
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 'There was wine rivers of wine . . . dice 
 . . . and worse. Pah! what a life! My soul 
 grows sick at memory of it. ... One night I 
 was quarrelling with Fabien; the cause I know 
 not, for my senses were over-steeped in drink. 
 He reasoned with me gently, but I was mad 
 with anger flung my glove into his face and 
 drew my sword. . . . Oh, Adrienne," he cried 
 out bitterly, " I cannot tell it ! No, I cannot ! " 
 
 " Tell me, Leon . . . tell me all." 
 
 And so he told her how he had fought with 
 Fabien in a drunken rage, urging naught in 
 palliation of his deed, but like a flagellant laid 
 bare his tortured flesh to a self-inflicted scourge. 
 He told his story to its bitter end; told how he 
 had flung himself in an agony of grief beside his 
 dying friend. The tears, unchecked, rolled 
 slowly down, and his words, scarce audible, 
 were uttered brokenly: 
 
 " Ah, then I laid my head upon his breast and 
 sobbed and sobbed, kissing his cheek and begging 
 him to live. ... He died with his hand clasped 
 tight in mine . . . forgiveness on his lips." 
 
 The priest ceased speaking, dropped wearily 
 
 into a seat beside his listener, and bowed his 
 
 167
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 head in grief unutterable. Le Corbeau took his 
 hand and pressed it tenderly : 
 
 " My poor, poor Leon, how my heart is bleed- 
 ing for the cross you bear. And then? " 
 
 " I fled from Italy to France, and sought 
 Sebastian, Father of the House of Peace. To 
 him I made confession, and asked to give my 
 life in atonement for the evil I had done." 
 
 " And do you feel," she asked, " that you have 
 been forgiven?" 
 
 " Forgiveness is the choicest gem in the crown 
 of God." 
 
 " And since then you have never spoken ? " 
 she questioned presently. 
 
 " No word has passed my lips, and yet the 
 hateful secret has dragged at my heart until I 
 could cry aloud with pain." 
 
 A wondrous pity flashed on Le Corbeau's 
 soul, a mighty longing to lift him up from the 
 slough of black repentance into joyous peace. 
 No thought of evil marred her pure desire; 
 but, alas! she knew not that in pity lay his 
 direst snare and hers. 
 
 " Leon," she said, " I fear there is one great 
 
 lesson you have never learned." 
 
 168
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 "In your gentle ministry to the grief of oth- 
 ers did you never think that what you do for 
 them might also be done for you? Are there 
 no hearts to share your sorrow as you share 
 theirs, and by tenderness to help you bear your 
 pain ? Leon . . . have you never loved ? " 
 
 He shook his head. " Deeply no." 
 
 " Ah, then, you do not know. You seek for 
 light where the sun can never shine. Can sor- 
 row hide itself beneath a cloak and cowl? Is 
 the memory of a sin less dark when shadowed 
 by the darker shadow of the Church ? No, no, 
 dear friend. Only in love may such a secret be 
 forgotten." 
 
 The priest withdrew his hand from hers and 
 answered nervously: "Speak not of it I beg 
 you I- 
 
 She leaned toward him and rested her hand 
 upon his shoulder. " I must . . . and to you." 
 
 " No, no ... no ! " he muttered helplessly, and 
 shrank away, but Le Corbeau paused not in her 
 speech ; and the warm blood, hurtling through 
 her veins, quenched the last pitying spark : 
 
 " Have you never known the tenderness of a 
 169
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 woman's smile the touch of her gentle hand 
 her soft caress the sound of her voice that 
 haunts you everywhere 
 
 " Adrienne ! " he gasped, and rose as if to flee 
 from her, paused and lingered in irresolution. 
 
 " the ear that listens for your footstep, and 
 the lips that meet your own in the glory of a 
 kiss . . . the kiss that thrills and burns " 
 
 "Adrienne! Mademoiselle in mercy 
 cease ! " 
 
 He crossed the room, staggered and clutched 
 at a velvet portiere, then turned and lifted his 
 hand to speak; but she checked him with a 
 glance. 
 
 "Will you always live so, Leon, lonely and 
 sad at heart . . . with none to love you with the 
 lasting love for which your soul cries out? " 
 
 The priest crouched, shivering, against the 
 wall, raising his arms to shut the sight of her 
 from his dazzled eyes, but her purring voice, 
 with its low, melodious roll, knocked at his 
 listening heart till the door of passion tottered 
 on its hinge. 
 
 " Tell me no more ! " he gasped. " I cannot 
 listen ! I dare not listen ! " 
 
 170
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Dare not? Will you pass the cup untasted 
 then? the cup that brims with the bubbling 
 joy of love? In all the world is there no one 
 to take you by the hand . . . and lead you 
 home?" 
 
 With a cry, half inarticulate, he sprang toward 
 her, his fierce words tumbling from delirious 
 lips: 
 
 " Yes, there is one ! One who could lift me 
 up till my soul should sing in heavenly happi- 
 ness. . . . One who could bring forgetfulness 
 and peace. ... One who could change the 
 throb of loneliness to a cry of ecstasy. . . . One 
 who could lead me where she wills. Oh ! could 
 I lay my head upon her breast and weep to 
 catch the perfume of her breath to touch her 
 lips with mine 
 
 The temptress stretched out her white, bare 
 arms ; her eyes looked hungrily into his ; and he 
 stooped to clasp her in his rough desire. 
 
 "Adrienne! My- 
 
 With a backward wrench he flung her arms 
 apart and stood before her, quivering, with 
 hands pressed tight against his throbbing tem- 
 ples. 
 
 171
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "O God!" he cried, "I am mad! Mad! 
 Mad!" and stumbled blindly from the room, 
 his loosened rosary falling at Le Corbeau's feet. 
 
 She sat in rigid silence, while her heart-beats 
 counted twice a score, then cried out sharply: 
 
 " Monsieur Jardin ! . . . the game is finished ! 
 ... I have won ! " 
 
 She stooped and raised the rosary from the 
 floor and ran the string in silence through her 
 idle fingers. 
 
 "Yesterday . . . one bead upon this rosary 
 was mine; . . . but now ... I own it all!" 
 Once more her voice rose shrill and harsh in 
 the notes of unholy triumph : " Did I not know 
 it ! Did I not tell them I would break his cross 
 even as I rend this fallen emblem of his faith ! " 
 
 With a vicious jerk she snapped the fragile 
 string, stopped suddenly, and gazed in frozen 
 horror as the loosened beads rolled down her 
 lap and clattered to the floor. She swayed and 
 slid from the lounge upon her knees a stricken, 
 wilted thing. 
 
 "O God, forgive me! God forgive me!" 
 she moaned in a stifled whisper. " Leon ! . . . 
 
 Leon! . . . Leon! ..." 
 
 172
 
 With a vicious jerk she 
 snapped the fragile string
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THAT night, as Jardin reached home from a 
 long and belated visit to a patient, his attention 
 was attracted by a feeble whine which seemed 
 to rise from close beside his door-step. He 
 peered into the darkness, but nothing could be 
 seen; so he entered the house and returned 
 with a lighted candle ; and as its rays dispelled 
 the shadows he discovered, first, a trickling 
 stream of blood, and then a wounded terrier 
 crouched, shivering, in a draughty corner. 
 
 The doctor stooped and petted it, speaking in 
 a kindly, coaxing tone, then lifted the dog and 
 carried it to the room in which his patients were 
 received. There he laid the sufferer gently 
 upon his table, and with heated water cleansed 
 an ugly wound. 
 
 The terrier shrank beneath the physician's 
 touch, moaning piteously, for the lacerated leg 
 was badly broken, hanging limp and twisted on 
 the shoulder joint. The doctor saw that ere the 
 
 173
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 bone was set the jagged cut must needs be 
 closed with a stitch or two ; so, after stroking the 
 trembling head, he held the limb and passed his 
 needle through the lip of the fevered wound. 
 The dog snarled viciously and sank his teeth in 
 the doctor's hand. 
 
 Jardin, with a curse, seized on a heavy iron 
 poker, and raised it above his head. In an in- 
 stant more the tortured beast would pay the 
 price of ingratitude, and a man, in passion, 
 would do another deed of cruelty, and forget it 
 when his hurt was healed. The weapon hov- 
 ered in his bleeding hand, sank slowly to the 
 floor, and was set again in its place against the 
 wall. 
 
 " Poor little brute," the doctor muttered ten- 
 derly, " you bit because of the pain you could 
 not bear the pain, old fellow . . . and I think 
 I understand." 
 
 Jardin first cauterized his wound and bound 
 it in a healing salve, then brought a bowl of 
 milk and placed it before the shivering offender. 
 After many a soothing word and soft caress the 
 terrier forgot its fears and lapped up the offer- 
 ing greedily. 
 
 174
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Then the doctor smiled his lazy smile, and 
 once more passed his needle through the flesh. 
 " Steady, little one," he warned, and drew the 
 stitch. The terrier whimpered, raised its head, 
 and licked the doctor's hand. 
 
 " Bravo ! 'Twas bravely borne. Again 
 'twill hurt, I know, but we'll grin and bear it, 
 you and I. ... There! Tis done at last!" 
 
 He set the broken leg, and bound it in a tiny 
 wooden splint, then tenderly placed his last, but 
 not his least, grateful patient on a padded chair 
 beside his bed. 
 
 When the lights were out, the patient, even 
 with the throb of a mangled limb, at length for- 
 got its misery and slept but the doctor lay 
 awake. The morning came, and the little dog 
 awoke, remembered, and once more licked the 
 hand. 
 
 When the priest retreated from Le Corbeau's 
 power, he paused not, nor gave a backward 
 glance, but with his white face muffled in his 
 cowl fled swiftly, lest he weaken and return. 
 He hastened onward, he knew not, cared not, 
 
 175
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 where, his hot brain spinning in a madman's 
 dream. A sweat of terror started on his brow; 
 he was faint and sick, yet his muscles strained 
 to carry him away from the voice that dinned in 
 his throbbing ears, from the rounded arms that 
 stretched to him in their glory of youth and love, 
 the eyes which a man might follow through the 
 murk of purgatory. 
 
 An aged woman, from an upper window, 
 called shrilly as he passed, but he paid no heed. 
 A troop of children hailed him with a laughing 
 shout, clutching at his skirts with their chubby 
 hands ; he rudely brushed them from his path 
 and hurried on, while the little ones, in wide- 
 mouthed wonder, stood staring till he disap- 
 peared from sight. 
 
 Northward he pushed and crossed the city's 
 line, still northward, till The House of Peace 
 rose suddenly into view among the trees of the 
 cloister garden. He halted, passed his hand 
 across his eyes in numb bewilderment, then 
 made a wide detour, and came at last to the 
 river bank as the sun was setting. Here in the 
 cool and solitude he would rest and think. 
 
 Think ! No, no, for thought was hell ! 
 
 176
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 He cast aside his garments and plunged into 
 the Seine, buffeting the current with his splen- 
 did strength ; but in the cooling ripples of the 
 stream he seemed to hear her voice again call- 
 ing, calling, till his senses reeled in sweet delir- 
 ium. He shouted aloud to drown the murmur- 
 ing cry, but the echoes laughed from the wooded 
 shore in mockery. 
 
 He clothed himself and turned from the riv- 
 er's bank to a lonely road which stretched before 
 him in the deepening twilight. Along its way 
 he hurried, his hands pressed tight upon his 
 ears to shut out the haunting sound of lapping 
 waves, pursuing him in dull monotony. At 
 length he ran ran till his knees gave way be- 
 neath his weight, and his hammering heart 
 churned fiercely and was like to burst. And 
 still he heard her call heard it in the very beat 
 of his pain-racked heart. Then the erring priest 
 sank panting in the dust, cried out to his God 
 in misery . . . and was answered not. 
 
 The hours slipped by ; the weary priest came 
 back once more to the gateway of The House 
 of Peace and crept unnoticed to his cell. Still 
 
 clothed in his soiled and dishevelled cassock he 
 12 17;
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 flung himself upon his couch, to toss in sleepless 
 agony, for she followed even there. Her white 
 hands seemed to shake the iron windows bars, 
 and her great, deep eyes looked down appeal- 
 ingly. 
 
 He turned his face against the rough stone 
 wall, but through the darkness he heard her 
 whisper still that maddening murmur that 
 would never cease, floating through the stillness 
 of his narrow room, throbbing with his quick- 
 ened pulses, or echoed in the solemn stroke of 
 a distant bell : " Leon . . . have you never 
 loved . . . nor known the tenderness of a wom- 
 an's smile . . . the touch of her gentle hand 
 . . . the soft caress . . . the sound of her voice 
 that haunts you everywhere .... the ear that 
 listens for your footstep, and the lips that meet 
 your own in the glory of a kiss . . . the kiss 
 that thrills and burns ' 
 
 Poor human heart, forget her if you can! 
 Fate's sculptor carves too deep each chisel 
 stroke a memory till death. Plead plead with 
 your far, unheeding Heaven, and beat your burn- 
 ing hands against the wall! You live! You 
 
 love! Your passions, chained by prayer and 
 
 178
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 penance, are loosed at last ! Forget her if you 
 can ! . . . As well pray back the ocean's ebbing 
 tide, or preach God's mercy to a mother's hard- 
 eyed grief as she strains to her breast the lifeless 
 body of the first-born. 
 
 When the first grey streak of morning crept 
 stealthily through the low-barred window of his 
 cell, the priest had sunk into a troubled sleep. 
 Fate's sculptor cast aside his tools; he knew 
 that his work was finished. 
 
 179
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 NEXT day, as Le Corbeau chanced to stand 
 upon her balcony, she saw the priest in the 
 street below. She leaned across the railing and 
 tried to call, but the words stuck, choking, in 
 her throat, while her handkerchief slipped from 
 her trembling hand and fluttered to his feet. 
 He stopped, looked upward, and with a sudden 
 start beheld her standing there, then bowed his 
 head, and passed along his way. The day 
 dragged on ; Le Corbeau waited, but the priest 
 came not. A longer night, again a longer day, 
 and still she listened for the footstep which she 
 knew must come. 
 
 "Surely, it can't be long," she muttered as 
 she sat beside the window. " Two nights two 
 weary days since I left the palace. Soon he will 
 seek me. He must! A heart like his, once 
 stirred, will torture itself into submission, will 
 override his reason, outweigh his faith, and 
 
 bind him with a chain which only death ... or 
 
 1 80
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 I can break. But if he should not come ? . . . 
 He must ! He shall ! Have I not touched the 
 deepest chord that lay hidden in his breast?. 
 . . . She bowed her head upon her hands 
 and murmured sadly : " He touched a deeper one 
 in mine. . . . Leon, Leon, 'tis you have won 
 ... not I! ... Why need I hide the truth? 
 I've played the game! I've lost! I love him! 
 ... I gambled with his soul the stake, five 
 hundred thousand francs and a woman's vanity ; 
 but now but now the stake is higher ... a 
 woman's life ! " 
 
 She rose and paced her wide salon in feverish 
 unrest. "And this is home," she sneered. 
 "Home! How different from Cecile's! . . . 
 And to think that I have lived content in this 
 tawdry sty listened to the songs and laughter 
 of drunken men and women men and women 
 whom I called my friends ! Pah! . . . And to-' 
 morrow they will come again . . . drink my 
 wine and applaud my latest conquest ! Oh, if I 
 could once forget it all fly from this hated 
 place . . . with him ! " She clenched her hands 
 and murmured in a low, fierce whisper: "And 
 
 why should I not? ... If I can live in happi- 
 
 181
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 ness and peace live in some other land, and 
 forget the nightmare of my wretched past . . . 
 even as Leon shall forget the priest . . . and 
 Fabien. And yet " She paused and sank 
 upon her lounge in thought: " Ah, me Jardin 
 was right. . . . The game is not finished yet- 
 not yet not yet 
 
 A door in the rear was softly opened and a 
 maid appeared. " Pardon, madame 
 
 "Yes, Louise?" Le Corbeau questioned, lan- 
 guidly. 
 
 " Monsieur 1'Abbe is at the door and begs the 
 honour of a word with you." 
 
 Le Corbeau started. " Dieu! ... so soon?" 
 she gasped, then turned to the maid excitedly, 
 " For whom did he ask, Louise ? " 
 
 " For Mademoiselle du Langois." 
 
 The Poppy Flower breathed easily again. 
 "Yes," she said. "You may show him in, 
 Louise." The servant turned to go. "And 
 Louise . . . see that I am undisturbed until the 
 father leaves. I'm at home to no one under- 
 stand me no one." 
 
 " Yes, madame." And Louise departed. Le 
 
 Corbeau sat pale and motionless. 
 
 182
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " I knew he would come. ... I knew it ! 
 And still still I am afraid. Will he know?" 
 she asked herself. "Will he read in my face 
 the thing I am here in this hateful place this 
 ah, God, he must not ! Must not ! " 
 
 She heard his step and rose, trembling, to 
 meet him. The priest came slowly forward, his 
 pale face pinched and worn with suffering, his 
 sad eyes dull from sleeplessness. 
 
 "Adrienne," he said in a voice which was 
 scarce his own, "Adrienne, I have come . . . 
 and Are we quite alone?" 
 
 Le Corbeau nodded, for she dared not trust 
 herself to speak. 
 
 "Your brother?" 
 
 " My my brother," she stammered in confu- 
 sion, " he he will not be here to-night. We 
 are quite alone." She pointed to a chair. 
 " You will be seated Father- 
 He sadly shook his head. " You are thought- 
 ful, Adrienne, but I have only a word to say and 
 then I will leave you . . . forever." 
 
 " Forever, Leon ? " 
 
 "Yes. ... I could not leave without that 
 word. ... It is weak and selfish but I could 
 
 183
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 not." He dropped his eyes and stood before 
 her silent and abashed. 
 
 " Ah, Leon," she murmured gently, " I fear 
 the priest has done injustice to the man." 
 
 He raised his hand and answered in a hard, 
 cold tone: 
 
 " No. . . . The priest is just . . . but the man 
 is weaker than the priest. Adrienne ... I have 
 come to speak the truth. Did I seek to dis- 
 guise my motive or excuse it 'twould be un- 
 manly and unjust unjust to you and cowardly 
 to myself. In my early life I was thrown with 
 many women some irreproachable, but I gave 
 them little thought ; others of another stamp 
 those pitiful tempters of the world a curse to 
 God, to man, and to themselves." 
 
 Le Corbeau paled and shrank before him, but 
 he paid no heed. 
 
 " And so I lived in ignorance of the highest 
 gift of Heaven the love of a pure, good 
 woman." 
 
 " And now? " she asked, a quaver in her tone. 
 
 " I know . . . but know too well. When I 
 left the world and took orders, I strove to forget 
 
 the life I once had led to bury it in the grave 
 
 184
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 with Fabien. But I could not forget despise 
 me if you will I could not ! It lived with me 
 day and night, hovering like a vulture in my 
 dreams : whispering of all the happiness of a life 
 unshackled, mocking my puny faith, pleading 
 with my wayward, restless spirit, dragging me 
 back to the glad, sweet world so full of joy ... 
 and sin." 
 
 "My poor, poor Leon!" his listener whis- 
 pered tenderly. 
 
 He lifted his hand to check her sympathy, 
 and spoke again: 
 
 " I strove to crush the thought, but the great 
 red giant lived. He mastered me, mind and 
 soul ; and then and then you came." 
 
 " Leon ! " she cried, reproachfully. 
 
 " There," he said, " bear with me but a little 
 while ; it is finished soon, and I will go. I did 
 not know until too late that I loved you loved 
 you till the sweetness of the thought was pain. 
 A poor, weak fool I sought to shut you from 
 my heart, but your image came ever back to 
 me, even when I knelt before my crucifix. For 
 me, no rest ... no sleep ... no hope. If I 
 wandered through the streets, the people looked 
 
 185
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 at me with their searching gaze, seeming to read 
 my secret, even as I read it now ; knowing that 
 beneath the robe of a priest of God beats the 
 heart of a man a heart that cries out for a 
 woman's love, and will not be hushed or com. 
 forted." 
 
 The priest was silent. Le Corbeau bit her 
 lips, and after a time said sorrowfully: " Leon, I 
 grieve that I cause you all this suffering. I did 
 not mean you wrong, believe me ; and yet re- 
 proach strikes far more deep when undeserved." 
 
 " I do not reproach you, Adrienne. How can 
 you think it?" 
 
 She turned upon him sharply : " Then why 
 did you come? Why did you tell me? Why? " 
 
 " Because of a will that is stronger than my 
 own a will that makes me weak arid pitiful. 
 Call it cowardice choose the name ; I came be- 
 cause I could not help but come." 
 
 " The priest or the man? " 
 
 " Both. . . . The man, to tell you that he 
 loved. . . . The priest, to say farewell." 
 
 "And will the priest forget?" Leon slowly 
 shook his head. " Does he wish it? " 
 
 " No I " he answered bitterly. " Listen, Adri- 
 186
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 enne. ... I prayed to Heaven for help and guid- 
 ance, but when I lifted up my eyes I saw your 
 face your smile, which seemed to beckon me 
 . . . and then I knew that the lips alone asked 
 God to crush a love to which my soul was cling- 
 ing with all its strength and life. I prayed with 
 the lips not with the heart and at such a 
 mockery the devil laughs." 
 
 Again the priest was silent. Le Corbeau 
 turned away and seated herself in earnest 
 thought. When a moment passed and he did 
 not speak, she called him : 
 
 " Leon . . . You have told me that you love 
 me. You tell me that you have suffered, and 
 will suffer more. What is it that you would tell 
 me still? " 
 
 " There is nothing," he replied, with attempted 
 calmness. " You have listened patiently to my 
 story of folly and unworthiness. I. am grateful 
 for your forbearance . . . and ask for naught. 
 I have told you that I loved, but in sadness and 
 remorse. For the man, there might be hope ; 
 for the priest none. There is only one more 
 word to say in parting." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 187
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 The priest held out his strong, lean hand: 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 " Good-bye," she answered in a tone expres- 
 sionless and chill. 
 
 For an instant her hand hung passively in his 
 and fell ; for a moment more the priest looked 
 down upon her, with all the wreck of an earthly 
 joy in his moistened eyes ; then he touched her 
 dusky hair with his finger tips touched it ten- 
 derly, and turned away. 
 
 Le Corbeau listened to his retreating foot- 
 steps, each a bruise upon her heart, and knew 
 that did he leave her now no power of hers 
 would ever bring him back again. If his life- 
 long love were the buoy to save her from a sea 
 of sin, she must grasp it ere the ebbing tide 
 could sweep them far apart. She must fight, 
 fight as women before her fought, and shall for 
 all time as women, for the price of love, have 
 shaken empires to their deepest buried stone 
 and flung them, crashing, in the dust a rotting 
 monument to the heart of one weak man. 
 
 He turned in hesitancy and came slowly back 
 
 to her. 
 
 188
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "Leon, is this all that you would say to 
 me?" 
 
 " All that I can," he answered sadly. " Yes, 
 it is all. But why?" 
 
 " Why? " she repeated, with a touch of scorn, 
 " why? Because I had hoped you were at least 
 more generous. Because I had hoped that the 
 love of which you boast would lift you above 
 the level of other men." 
 
 "Boast?" 
 
 "Ay, boast! What else?" 
 
 " I I do not understand." 
 
 " No ! " she retorted in a rising tone of anger 
 and contempt. " No ! for you're a man ! Men 
 never understand. They come to us without 
 reproach saying their lives are wrecked be- 
 cause of us ; telling us their souls are tortured 
 with a love that can never be, and then and 
 then they say good-bye. And you are like the 
 rest!" 
 
 "Adrienne!" 
 
 " It is true ! " she cried, and rose from her seat 
 excitedly. "It is true! Man follows his own 
 device. Forgets ? Not always. No ... for he 
 
 does not try. He takes a melancholy memory 
 
 189
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 to his heart, treasuring it grain by grain, nursing 
 it until it grows into a monster, to make a 
 mournful martyr of his selfishness. ... So 
 much for the man. But what of the woman? 
 .... Do you think she does not suffer? Is it 
 nothing to her that a life is wrecked ; that the 
 man she loves goes from her in despair? Does 
 the woman forget ? Does she not love as deeply 
 as the man ? You tell me of a cross too heavy 
 for you to bear. You wake my pity and com- 
 passion . . . then tell me 'tis all in vain. A 
 woman weeps in silence. The man must cry 
 aloud his suffering, lest the woman escape with- 
 out a pang. You call it weakness, and ask me 
 to choose its name. ... I choose it ! 'Tis cow- 
 ardly and cruel ! " 
 
 " You purposely pervert my meaning, Adri- 
 enne." 
 
 " Am I a child ? " she flashed. " Why did you 
 tell me. Why?" 
 
 Leon raised his hand, but let it fall de- 
 jectedly. 
 
 " You are right," he murmured. "It was 
 ignoble yes, and cruel, though I meant it not. 
 
 I dare not hope for the last forgiveness which I 
 
 190
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 ask . . . and yet I ask it. I am a priest bound 
 by my sacred vows. What have I to offer? " 
 
 " I know, I know," she assented, with a frown ; 
 " to carry out your work of mercy you must not 
 be hampered by a woman." She turned upon 
 him fiercely: "And is my love so venomous a 
 thing that charity is killed because of it?" 
 
 " Adrienne I beg you " 
 
 " Can good deeds blossom only in a priestly 
 soil ? Can a woman not help a man in his work 
 of mercy? Is her hand less gentle or her heart 
 less true? Pardi! we women give you flesh 
 and bone, bear you in death-gripped agony, 
 and still poor patient fools what know we 
 of the road to human suffering?" And Le 
 Corbeau turned away and flung herself into a 
 seat, her bosom heaving with the rush of heated 
 blood. 
 
 " Child, child," he reasoned bitterly, " you do 
 not understand. The Church is the mighty bar- 
 rier that bars our will. The Church, which 
 stifles the words of love that rise to my lips ; the 
 pledge of celibacy, that makes a barren desert 
 of my life ; my vow to Heaven, which crushes 
 
 hope and happiness. If I took you for my wife, 
 
 191
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 what would be the end ? Excommunication 
 the curse of God." 
 
 " And your fear is greater than your love? " 
 
 " No ; . . . but reason cries a warning which 
 even love must heed. The brothers of my Or- 
 der would tear me from your arms, . . . and 
 you, poor child, would suffer as well as I. 
 Where, where in France could we escape their 
 hatred or revenge? " 
 
 " Is France the world? " 
 
 Leon took one swift, involuntary step, and 
 paused wonder, fear, devotion struggling for 
 the master-grip; and the woman watched him 
 silently, knowing that his will was shackled by a 
 puny vow which soon must snap beneath the 
 weight of passion's hammer stroke. But Faith 
 was battling for her son in mute despair mute, 
 but unconquered still, so long as the priest could 
 shield her with his cross. Le Corbeau saw him 
 waver, clench his trembling fists, and move for 
 a backward step ; her eyes sought his in a quick, 
 compelling glance ; her hand crept slowly out to 
 him, was caught in a fervid grasp, and he sank 
 on his knees beside her, speaking brokenly : 
 
 " And would you give up all for me ? Would 
 192
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 you take me in my weakness and the sin of for- 
 saken faith? Would you follow me to some 
 other country, where we could forget my failure, 
 and remember only only that we love ? " 
 
 " Wait ! " Le Corbeau rose and stood before 
 him, resolved to sunder the last frail link which 
 bound him to his cloth. " Wait ! Had you the 
 choice between loving as you do and the power 
 to forget that you had ever known, which would 
 you choose ? Which ? " 
 
 Leon hesitated still. Le Corbeau knew that 
 if she would win the priest she must win him 
 now, or sink herself beyond redemption's pale ; 
 and she faced the crisis fearlessly. She spoke 
 in a voice low, passionless and cold : 
 
 "Think while there is time. . . . Think of 
 what you are giving up and the path our feet 
 must tread. Think of yourself, your sister, and 
 of me of what the world will say of us: the 
 scorn, the ridicule. Le*on . . . would you love 
 me ... or forget ? " 
 
 "I would love!" he answered, tremulously, 
 
 and took her in his arms ; " love with a depth 
 
 and tenderness which heaven itself might smile 
 
 upon, forgetting only that I had ever lived with- 
 
 13 *93
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 out it. Ah, Adrienne, 'tis like awakening from 
 a curse of haunted sleep." 
 
 " And are you glad to wake, my Leon? " 
 
 "Glad? Dear God, how glad! And you? 
 You will be happy with me, Adrienne? " 
 
 For a moment she was silent, then murmured 
 musingly: 
 
 " Perhaps perhaps 
 
 "Adrienne!" 
 
 She twined her arms about his neck and 
 looked into his eyes : 
 
 " Leon c . . I love you with all my heart 
 and soul and mind. Life with you will be like 
 a sinner's glimpse of heaven, and yet " 
 
 " And yet? " he asked in an eager whisper. 
 
 ' 'Tis not the future which frightens me, but 
 the past. Listen, dear one: I know that you 
 love me with a love which is almost worship ; 
 but a time may come when regret will creep 
 into your heart regret for the life you are 
 giving up the broken rosary, the robe which 
 you lay aside." 
 
 " Adrienne," he answered solemnly, " the robe 
 of the Holy Church I have loved . . . and love 
 
 it still ; but to the cassock, once laid aside, there 
 
 194
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 is no return. I will step from an old world into 
 a new, a better and a fairer ; and with your dear 
 hand to help and guide, no shadow of regret 
 need ever darken the door of peace and purity." 
 
 She raised her lips to his. "Then, like all 
 women, I will trust. The past we will bury I 
 with you and you with me. When Paris is left 
 behind, the phantom of our other selves shall be 
 locked within its gates. We will cease to speak 
 of what has been, and build our hope on present 
 joy and joys to come. Shall we, my Leon? " 
 
 "Yes, Adrienne," he murmured tenderly; 
 " yes." 
 
 For a short half hour they sat together in 
 their new-found happiness: the priest, who 
 would leave a mistaken calling as rashly as he 
 entered it ten years before, and the Poppy 
 Flower, who had laughed aloud in her pit of 
 shame, and climbed to repentance on a rope of 
 lies. 
 
 Their plans were quickly laid: they would 
 slip away from Paris on the following night, go 
 to Calais, and thence to England, the priest in 
 disguise, and she also if occasion so demanded. 
 An hour was appointed for departure, and she 
 
 i95
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 gave him a key by which to enter in case her 
 maid should be asleep. Then Leon rose and 
 bade her a short farewell. 
 
 " Good-bye," he whispered, " for a little while 
 and then " 
 
 "And then for our sweet, new world," she 
 answered, with a smile. " A last, sad tear for 
 the old one left behind . . . and life will begin 
 anew." 
 
 He took her in his arms and kissed her ten- 
 derly, passed from the home of the Poppy 
 Flower, and bent his buoyant steps toward the 
 distant House of Peace. 
 
 Le Corbeau watched him from her balcony 
 till he turned and waved his hand and his robe 
 was hidden from her tear-blind eyes. Then 
 slowly she returned ; slowly one by one her can- 
 dles were extinguished, and darkness shut her 
 old, familiar room from sight. 
 
 A something stirred within her heart rest- 
 less, strange. It burned, it glowed, it shook her 
 in its might, till her trembling limbs gave way 
 beneath her and she fell on her knees in prayer. 
 . . . The first for many a year a prayer to 
 
 Leon's God, through the mercy of the Holy 
 
 196
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Virgin. A poor, weak prayer, in stumbling, ill- 
 selected words, torn from a stained but repent- 
 ant breast, and laid in fear at the footstool of 
 the Father's pity. A broken prayer broken by 
 a woman's sobs, which she and the Mother, 
 alone, could understand. 
 
 197
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 ON the following day Le Corbeau made the 
 last arrangement for her flight. She loosely 
 packed such light apparel as was necessary for 
 the journey; the rest she would leave behind. 
 Among her jewels was a faded leathern case 
 containing gems which her mother once had 
 worn, and these she sold for a modest sum to 
 guard against a chance contingency. There 
 were other gems, gems of price, a glittering 
 store, enough to fill the hollow of her palms, but 
 she flung them from her, with a blush of shame, 
 cleansing her hands. 
 
 The day slipped by; the twilight deepened 
 into dusk, and at last but an hour remained till 
 the coming of the priest. Le Corbeau waited 
 in her candle-lit salon waited, with a wildly 
 beating heart, for what the future held in its 
 tight-closed hand. Would the fingers open at 
 the voice of love and shower happiness into 
 her lifted arms? Would memory of the priest 
 
 and Fabien sleep in the cradle of a darker mem- 
 
 198
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 ory which she herself must leave behind ? As 
 if in answer to her thought a shout of laughter 
 burst from the street below, and Le Corbeau 
 listened, whitening to the lips. She knew that 
 sound La Rose Lizette the rest of them! 
 Some one beat impatiently upon the outer door. 
 It opened, and she heard the scramble of their 
 feet upon the stair and the light-lipped chatter 
 of the creatures who, alas ! had been her friends. 
 She arose and listened in trembling dread as the 
 sounds drew nearer still, and then, with a ges- 
 ture of repulsion and disgust, turned and fled 
 to the safety of her chamber. 
 
 In they trooped, a dozen reckless cavaliers 
 and as many freshly powdered ladies, laughing, 
 jesting, in the loose-tongued freedom of the 
 demi-monde. 
 
 " A la bonne heure ! " La Rose cried merrily. 
 " Tis twenty years, it seems, since I saw Cor- 
 beau." 
 
 " That's nothing," laughed Lizette; " the time 
 we've lost is soon made up again. Oh, but I 
 long for the flying corks once more, and to see 
 the golden wine . . . Pop ! F-i-zzzzz ! Ah ! " 
 
 " See it ! " giggled Violette. " Mon Dieu, I'd 
 199
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 rather taste it ! Raymond," she called, " in the 
 name of thirst, have you dared to lose that 
 precious basket ? " 
 
 "Coming!" Raymond shouted, and entered 
 with a laden basket on his arm, while the 
 company gathered clamorously about him. 
 
 " Come," said La Rose, " we'll dispense with 
 serving maids to-night, and each must lend a 
 hand in the interest of Le Corbeau's feast." 
 
 " Delightful ! " tittered Violette ; " a cosy sup- 
 per, enfamille, on the prodigal's return." 
 
 " True," assented Raymond, as he handed out 
 the wine and fruit, " but I wish we had Duchant, 
 the poet. Ma foi, what a splendid substitute 
 he'd make for the fatted calf ! " 
 
 This sally was met by a burst of merriment, 
 and all agreed that the dish would be a perfect 
 poem in itself; but here their jest was inter- 
 rupted by a noise of scuffling feet upon the 
 stairs, and a woman's voice rose shrill and an- 
 gry: 
 
 " Let me go, I tell you ! I will scream ! 
 Peste! Let me go!" 
 
 The company paused to listen, and heard 
 
 Duchant himself reply : 
 
 200
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Come on, my little wild-cat ! Diable ! You 
 shall come with me, even if I'm forced to lift 
 you on my back ! Come on ! " 
 
 " Now, by St. Dunstan," Raymond laughed, 
 "the fatted calf is here in answer to my 
 prayer." 
 
 The door flew open, and the poet struggled 
 in, dragging by the hand a flushed and rumpled 
 girl small, scarce grown, but angry as a routed 
 wasp. 
 
 " Who is she ? " cried the company, as they 
 pressed around Duchant. " Where did you find 
 the child ? " and a score of other excited ques- 
 tions, fired in swift succession. The rhymester 
 grinned. 
 
 "Who is she? Faith! I've not the faintest 
 notion, and that's the drollest part of it. As I 
 stood upon the door-step, she stopped and asked 
 that I direct her to Mademoiselle Dufresnoy, 
 who There ! Stop pulling ! " 
 
 "Let me go! Let me go!" the girl still 
 cried, as she tugged to free herself, then turning 
 to the group of gentlemen, she asked appeal- 
 ingly: "Ah, messieurs, you will help me, will 
 you not? I came to bring a hat and feather to 
 
 201
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Ma'm'selle Dufresnoy a hat from my mother's 
 shop Madame Cigogne, the milliner. He 
 caught me this ugly man he caught me by 
 the hand." Again she struggled to loose the 
 hold upon her wrist. " Let go ! Let go ! " 
 
 " Stop it, you little beggar ! " Duchant com- 
 manded, then pursued his explanation: " I told 
 her that I knew no mademoiselle of such a 
 name ; but I saw that she was saucy and would 
 make rich sport for Le Corbeau's feast, and so 
 I er and so I asked her in." 
 
 " I'm not a beggar, nor am I saucy! Let me 
 go!" 
 
 La Rose stepped forward. " Let her go, 
 Duchant, you bruise her wrist." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " the captor laughed. " The pris- 
 oner's mine. I caught the little monkey, and 
 she shall not get away." 
 
 " Little monkey, eh? " the girl flashed angrily. 
 " Then I'll show you, sir, how a monkey bites ! " 
 And with a lightning swoop she sank 'her teeth 
 in the poet's hand. 
 
 " Christi, she has bitten me ! " screeched Du- 
 chant, as he loosened his hold and nursed his 
 
 afflicted fist. 
 
 202
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " And serve you right," said Raymond, with 
 a laugh, which was joined by all the gentle- 
 men. 
 
 "She's bitten deep, the beggar!" cried Du- 
 chant, and stepped threateningly toward the 
 girl; but Raymond interposed. 
 
 " Come, come, Duchant," he said, " you'll not 
 go mad from a little pinch like this. Indeed, 
 monsieur, it should be a pleasure to be bitten by 
 such pretty teeth." He turned, with a smile, to 
 the trembling girl: " Eh, Poupee? " 
 
 "Ah! It is you, Monsieur Delese!" she 
 chirped delightedly. " Oh, ho ! I have a 
 friend ! " And she ran to his protection, while 
 the laughing ladies jeered him mercilessly. 
 
 " Fie, fie, monsieur !" they cried. "Another 
 cat has jumped its bag! And a woman untied 
 the string!" And Raymond found himself the 
 target for an hundred jesting shots. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he laughed. " We are friends, 
 Poupee and I, great friends. But come a glass 
 of wine for the valiant little prisoner!" 
 
 " No, no, monsieur," Poupee protested. 
 " Ma'm'selle is waiting for her hat and feather, 
 
 and will scold me for my tardiness." 
 
 203
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " But only one, Poupee," urged Raymond, 
 " only a little glass, then I myself will see you 
 safe to ma'm'selle's door." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, monsieur," she said, and 
 clapped her hands. " You are good so good 
 to me." 
 
 She drank her wine, and turned to leave, but 
 La Rose detained her. 
 
 " Wait ! You must pay a ransom before you 
 go. Prisoners always do, you know. Can you 
 sing, child ? " 
 
 " Yes yes ma'm'selle, but 
 
 " A song ! A song ! " they urged, and formed 
 a ring about her ; so, seeing that protest availed 
 her nothing, Poupee sang a saucy little air, to 
 the keen delight of her merry listeners. 
 
 " Vive Poup'ee, le petit singe ! " laughed Mon- 
 sieur Chatillon, and raised his glass; and the 
 cheer still echoed when Raymond and the little 
 milliner had reached the street. 
 
 " Come," called La Rose, when the noise had 
 in some degree subsided. "We must get the 
 feast in readiness. Has any one seen Corbeau ? 
 I vow I had quite forgotten her." 
 
 " Lizette has gone to look for her," said Vio- 
 204
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 lette. " I suppose she was dressing when we 
 came. Ah ! Here she is ! " 
 
 Le Corbeau entered, but without that joyous 
 smile of welcome which her former friends an- 
 ticipated. 
 
 " Welcome home ! " called Violette, effusively. 
 
 A shout arose. " Corbeau ! Corbeau ! Long 
 live the queen of love!" And several gentle- 
 men began to sing, while the guests pressed 
 closely around the prodigal. 
 
 " There, there," Le Corbeau said, in ill-con- 
 cealed annoyance ; " don't sing, I beg you ; it 
 it hurts my ears." 
 
 " We are making ready a feast for you," cried 
 Violette, " and such a feast ! There is wine and 
 fruit and ' 
 
 " I know, I know," Le Corbeau interrupted ; 
 "but not so loud, please; and don't crowd 
 around me it it ' 
 
 " Why, what's the matter?" asked La Rose. 
 " You seem so different 
 
 "We only thought to please you," snapped 
 Lizette. 
 
 " Yes, yes, but you're so so noisy. . . . You 
 need not shout and scream. It it annoys me." 
 
 205
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Le Corbeau crossed to her lounge and sank 
 upon it wearily. A painful pause ensued, and 
 the wonder-stricken guests watched furtively and 
 whispered among themselves. 
 
 Monsieur Duval stepped forward with a glass 
 of wine, and spoke in not ungentle tones: 
 " Drink this, Corbeau ; 'twill serve, I trust, to 
 raise your spirits." 
 
 " Thank you no," she answered with a ges- 
 ture of impatience. " I do not care for it. I 
 take it away, please ..." 
 
 " A sweet, sweet humour she is in," whispered 
 La Rose to Violette. " So appreciative of our 
 proffered kindness." 
 
 " Yes," the other laughed. " The Good Sa- 
 maritan might have taught her better manners. 
 By the way, I'll ask about her capture." She 
 turned, with a smirk, and called : " Come, what 
 of the handsome priest ? You have not told us 
 yet." 
 
 "Yes, tell us," the others chimed. " Did the 
 father convert Corbeau, or has Monsieur, the 
 Devil, gained a new disciple? Where is your 
 cloak and cowl?" 
 
 Thus they questioned, jokingly, their coarse- 
 206
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 ness grating like a rasp upon her nerves ; but 
 she made no answer to the bantering gibes, 
 submitting mutely to the torture of their 
 tongues. 
 
 " You seem to have lost that cooing voice of 
 yours," sneered Violette. " Did you also lose 
 five hundred thousand francs, my dear?" 
 
 Le Corbeau rose from her seat in hopeless- 
 ness, muttering between her teeth : " I cannot 
 stand it ! I cannot ! " She turned to her guests 
 with a stammering apology : " My friends I 
 know that you have come with the best intent ; 
 I know that what you have done is is for my 
 pleasure. I I appreciate but I'm ill my 
 head is dizzy I 
 
 Here Raymond entered, and she crossed and 
 met him at the door. 
 
 "A word with you!" She took her friend 
 aside, and begged, in a panting whisper: " Ray- 
 mond, in the name of pity, take them away! 
 They will drive me mad mad, I tell you! 
 From head to heel my nerves are quivering!" 
 
 " Yes, yes," he said, " I understand. I was 
 wrong to let them come." He turned to La 
 
 Rose and asked: "Can we not postpone" our 
 
 207
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 feast? Le Corbeau is greatly indisposed and 
 wishes to be quiet." 
 
 " Hmp ! " sniffed Violette. " Corbeau is in a 
 nasty temper. That's where the trouble lies." 
 
 " We'll leave her to her prayers and beads," 
 said La Rose, with a toss of her fluffy head. 
 " The beads upon our wine are flat, it seems. 
 Come, we'll have our feast without the gentle 
 sister." She courtesied mockingly. "We'll 
 leave thee for the nonce, O Mother Superior ! " 
 And the women's laughter, which echoed 
 through the room, was shrill and bitter. 
 
 " Raymond . . . please " Le Corbeau des- 
 perately implored. 
 
 He whispered to La Rose, and besought her 
 aid in dispersing the guests without delay, but 
 when his back was turned Lizette said, spite- 
 fully: 
 
 " I see, Corbeau ; you are weary of our com- 
 pany. You've grown too good for us! But 
 suppose, my dear, we leave you the wine. . . . I 
 swear you are not too good for that ! " 
 
 " Lizette," Le Corbeau answered, with an 
 effort to be calm, " I have no wish to be unkind, 
 
 and if I seem so, believe me, I am sorry. I 
 
 208
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 have told you I am ill and wish to rest. I 
 
 Once more she turned to Raymond, plead- 
 ingly: "Raymond, . . . will they never go ?" 
 
 She crossed the room and dropped upon her 
 lounge in utter weariness, while Raymond 
 sought to soothe the angered ladies, whose 
 vanity resented, hotly, what they termed a flout 
 to their well-meant ministrations. With many 
 a sneering undertone and spiteful glance the 
 hamper was refilled with the fruit and wine, and 
 at last the uninvited guests filed slowly out in 
 ruffled dignity, and the bold, harsh clatter of 
 their tongues was stilled. 
 
 As Raymond, the last to leave, was passing 
 out, Le Corbeau caught his hand. 
 
 "Not you," she whispered, "but they the 
 others set me shuddering. Ah, my friend, if 
 you only knew ! " 
 
 " I think I understand," he answered gently. 
 "To-morrow I will come alone. Till then, 
 good-bye." 
 
 She raised his hand and touched it with her 
 
 lips. 
 
 " Au revoir, dear Raymond. . . . Au revoir'.' 
 14 209
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 When Raymond, too, had gone, the one of 
 all her friends who still seemed near to her, she 
 flung her windows open and breathed the fresh, 
 pure air in grateful gasps. 
 
 " Ah, well," she sighed, " 'tis the last of them 
 . . . and I shall not grieve." She crossed to a 
 seat and sat in reverie. " To-night I will leave 
 it all behind me, and forget . . . forget that I 
 was once a part of it, and did not stifle in its 
 poisoned atmosphere. . . . How strange a thing 
 is love, . . . teaching us to loathe a life which 
 once was dear to us, ... whispering that, after 
 all, another life may wait beyond a better . . . 
 and a fairer. . . . Perhaps perhaps " 
 
 210
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 ONCE more Le Corbeau waited for the com- 
 ing of the priest. She heard a footstep, and her 
 heart beat faster, but chilled as her name was 
 called : 
 
 "Corbeau." 
 
 "The last," she muttered, "and the worst! 
 This at least I hoped that fate would spare 
 me." 
 
 Jardin came slowly forward ; his words were 
 gently spoken, and without his drawl. 
 
 "Your pardon, madame, that I entered un- 
 announced. I was asked by Duchant to join 
 his friends an hour ago, but I did not care to 
 come with with the rest of them." 
 
 Le Corbeau answered coldly. She neither 
 rose nor looked at him. 
 
 " I congratulate you upon your taste. You 
 were fortunate to escape the noisy clatter of 
 their tongues . . . and the wit grand Dieu 
 the wit!" 
 
 211
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 The doctor nodded. " At worst, I might have 
 helped to quiet them." 
 
 " No ! Nothing would quiet them. Nothing ! 
 Their voices were loud and shrill and coarse and 
 vulgar. I could not stand it. I fear I was very 
 rude, for I sent them all away. I wished to be 
 alone." 
 
 " I see," the doctor smiled. " And does the 
 empress still hold that wish ? " 
 
 "Monsieur has said it. ... /did not." 
 
 " Well answered," laughed Jardin. " Your 
 reward shall take the form of a short-lived visit. 
 I came, Corbeau, partly on business partly 
 pleasure for I'm glad that you've returned, 
 more glad than I can say." 
 
 " And your quarrel with Raymond ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " I called upon him yesterday, apologized for 
 my boorish conduct, and asked forgiveness as 
 I hope for yours." 
 
 She gave him her hand. " I thank you, Jar- 
 din ; there is good in your nature, after all." 
 
 "A little, yes," the doctor granted; "but a 
 sickly plant at best. There is still another mat- 
 ter which prompts my coming." 
 
 212
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 " Oh, a small affair. I came to ask if I owed 
 five hundred thousand francs." 
 
 " You owe me nothing." 
 
 " H-m-m ! Then you did not win the priest? " 
 
 She was silent for a moment, then answered 
 calmly: 
 
 " I won." 
 
 " Then I fail to see the matter in your light," 
 the doctor argued. " If the wager is fairly 
 lost, I, for my part, have no desire to shirk 
 its payment; but as a loser I would ask one 
 favour." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " I should like to witness the completion of 
 your conquest. Why could I not remain here 
 in concealment? say, behind that screen and 
 when the eager love came I could see and hear." 
 The doctor laughed. "St. Anthony making 
 love ! How droll ! " 
 
 Le Corbeau's eyelids narrowed as she an- 
 swered in pained reproach: " That, Jardin, is a 
 thought unworthy . . . even of you." 
 
 A wave of colour dyed the doctor's cheek. 
 " Forgive me," he begged, contritely. " I spoke 
 
 213
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 without thought or courtesy. Forgive me we 
 will say no more about it. But the wager " 
 
 " There is no wager." 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 " What is done is done, . . . but we need not 
 make our shame more pitiful." 
 
 " What do you mean?" he asked. " I fail to 
 follow." 
 
 " Jardin," she answered, with slow impressive- 
 ness, " there was once a man who betrayed his 
 Master for thirty pieces of silver, . . . but when 
 his master was taken ... he cast the money on 
 the floor of the temple, . . . went forth, and 
 hanged himself. . . . You owe me nothing!" 
 
 The doctor leaned his cheek upon his hand, 
 in earnest thought. 
 
 " Ah, Corbeau," he murmured, " I have 
 wronged you deeply, . . . but I loved more 
 deeply than I wronged. Is it yet too late to re- 
 pair the evil?" 
 
 She nodded sadly. "Yes, Jardin, . . . too 
 late." 
 
 " But could you not be happy in my love ? " 
 he urged, as he rose and stood beside her. " I 
 
 know your secret all too well the Due de la 
 
 214
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Fere, who wrecked your purity and aroused 
 your hatred against my sex bitter, bitter, but 
 just, perhaps. I, too, am bitter, because I love 
 without the seed of hope ; but with you to help 
 me I could be a different man, gentler, kinder, 
 more generous to you and to myself. I seem 
 like a drowning boy who stretches out his arms 
 for you to save. . . . Help him! ... or he 
 sinks beneath the surf of his own despair." 
 
 "Ah, Jardin," she pleaded, "think your 
 home your wife don't make it harder for me 
 to bear." 
 
 " Home ! " he repeated slowly. " I have no 
 home. To-day my house should be a house of 
 mourning. My wife ... is dead." 
 
 "Dead!" Le Corbeau echoed. "Oh! . . . 
 I'm sorry" and she rose impulsively and came 
 toward him" so sorry, my poor Jardin." 
 
 The doctor raised his hand. " And I ... 
 am free! Free to offer you the home which 
 you alone can make wealth all the love of my 
 heart and soul, ... and only ask that you save 
 me from myself." 
 
 Le Corbeau answered gently: "Jardin, I do 
 not wish to be unkind, but I have never loved 
 
 215
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 you. Why pretend it ? What cruelty to give 
 myself to you even as your wife ! I could not 
 love you as you would wish, and if I did not, 
 your life would be more bitter still." 
 
 " How different you are," he mused, " from 
 the old Corbeau ! " 
 
 " Yes," she sighed, " the old Corbeau is gone, 
 I trust . . . forever." 
 
 The doctor caught his breath. " I think I 
 understand. . . . You love the priest!" She 
 turned away without response. " Answer me ! " 
 he cried, and gripped her arm. " The truth ! " 
 
 She freed herself and looked him squarely in 
 the eye; her tone was calm and without a 
 tremour: 
 
 " I love him." 
 
 Jardin returned her look in sullen silence; 
 his strong hands clenched, his thin lips stretched 
 across his teeth, inflexible and dry. 
 
 " Listen, my friend," Le Corbeau urged, in a 
 saddened tone, " I have never in my life caused 
 aught but sorrow and unhappiness to you to 
 others to all who came, unasked or undesired. 
 Still, my nature holds another side which I have 
 
 hidden, even from myself ; and if now I can cast 
 
 216
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 the evil shell and begin anew, would it not be 
 better better for us both ? " 
 
 The doctor sank into his chair, his head 
 drooped forward on his breast. 
 
 " I do not know," he muttered hoarsely. " I 
 do not know, ... for I've eaten of the poppy 
 flower . . . and the drug is in the blood." 
 
 " To-morrow," she said, unguardedly, " I am 
 leaving France forever." 
 
 The doctor sprang to his feet, with a stifled 
 curse : 
 
 "With him? No! No/ n 
 
 " I did not say with him." 
 
 "No," he retorted, roughly; "but the truth 
 for once has tripped a falsehood on your tongue." 
 
 She passed his brutal speech, wijh one re- 
 proachful glance, and continued gently: 
 
 " What I have said may at first seem hard, 
 but some day you will thank me from your 
 heart. If you have done me wrong, 'tis past- 
 forgiven, if you will ; and when we say good-bye, 
 I would say it as a friend, leaving no thought 
 behind to cause you bitterness." From her 
 finger she slipped a ring. " Wear this, Jardin, 
 for my sake. Look ; it is a shield of black with 
 
 217
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 a single pearl ; and when in after days you see 
 it, it may serve to remind you that though Le 
 Corbeau's life was bad . . . there was still one 
 gleam of good." She placed the circlet in his 
 hand. " You will wear it, my friend." 
 
 " No ! " he cried, in a passionate burst of rage, 
 and flung it fiercely to the floor. " No ! You 
 tell me you have changed. A lie! ... You 
 have wrecked my life, and you glory in it ! You 
 have made my nights a torture and my days a 
 curse ! I have given you the love of a crawling 
 slave, but you are weary of it ! There are still 
 more souls to sap ! More ! More ! I offer you 
 my name my honour and you toss me aside 
 like a tattered glove ! You give me a ring in 
 memory of the good in you ! The good ! " He 
 flung out his hands and laughed laughed bit- 
 terly. ' The virtues of a serpent ! " 
 
 "Jardin!" 
 
 " And do you think," he snarled, " that I will 
 stand meekly by and see you give a heart that 
 is mine to this whining priest? An amorous 
 apostate this shaven hypocrite a traitor to his 
 Church- 
 
 " Jardin stop ! " 
 
 218
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 '"You tell me in that fawning voice of yours 
 that to-morrow you will flee from France with 
 him ! You will give him a love that is mine ! 
 Mine, I tell you ! Mine ! I say you shall not ! " 
 
 " You dare " 
 
 " Shall not ! I will go to the Abbe Sebastian 
 and tell him of the pious work of his Good Sa- 
 maritan ! " 
 
 " They would fling you into the street ! " 
 " I will go to the priest himself and tell him 
 what you are ! " 
 
 " He would not believe you." 
 " Then, by his God, . . . I'll prove it!" 
 With a cry Le Corbeau raised her hand. He 
 struck it down; and as though the blow had 
 loosed a Moloch in his blood, he gripped her 
 throat and crushed her in his savage strength 
 across the lounge. 
 
 " Jardin ! " she gasped. " You're killing me ! " 
 Deeper the tightening fingers sank into her 
 yielding flesh ; she fought for breath for life ; 
 one groping hand beat wildly, caught on the 
 hilt of the poniard in his belt, and closed. She 
 struck struck once and blindly. He loosed 
 his grip and scuffled to his feet, reeled back- 
 
 219
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 ward, clutched at the edge of her heavy screen 
 and dragged it with him lurched and fell, 
 coughing, to the floor. Le Corbeau stared in 
 wonder from where she lay. He raised himself 
 upon his arm, stretched out his hand in the last, 
 mute declaration of a passion unsubdued, 
 slumped on his side, and forgot the hunger in 
 his heart. 
 
 Slowly the woman crawled across the floor ; 
 her hand crept, trembling, to the spot where 
 once her head had lain. No answering flutter 
 now! No rise and fall to give the lie to his 
 wide-eyed unresponse ! 
 
 " Leon ! " she called, in a choking, sob-torn 
 cry. "Leon, . . . I have killed him, /" 
 
 She knelt beside the stricken man and toyed 
 with his passive fingers, babbling foolishly : 
 
 " Jardin, Jardin, you drove me to this thing ! 
 Why did you do it why ? I did not mean to 
 hurt you no I knew not what I did. You 
 will believe me . . . will you not, Jardin? I 
 could not love you, and you tried to rob me of 
 my Leon. And you did, Jardin. I cannot see 
 him now . . . with your blood upon my hands. 
 
 I'll go, Jardin; but I'll go ... alone. Leon 
 
 220
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 will be sorry when I'm gone," she murmured 
 pitifully, "so sorry when I'm gone." She strug- 
 gled to her feet and set the screen before him to 
 hide his sprawling limbs and the open eyes. 
 
 "Good-bye, Jardin, . . . my poor Jar- 
 din! .. ." 
 
 She paused and peered behind the screen, 
 shuddered, and swiftly crossed the room. Once 
 more she turned and, moving softly, as though 
 she feared the sleeper might awake, blew out 
 her candles, leaving but one to burn, like a 
 silent warder of the dead ; then she fled in ter- 
 ror from the hidden thing that seemed to watch 
 her in the dark, and to listen, listen. 
 
 221
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE candle's flame burned faint and yellow, 
 swayed and flared in the open window's draught ; 
 a square of moonlight, shaped by the casement's 
 frame, crept slowly along the floor toward the 
 screen, and Brother Claudien for he still was 
 clothed in his priestly robe came softly through 
 the door and stood where the moonbeams fell. 
 
 " Adrienne ! " he called, and bent his ear to 
 listen. " Adrienne ! " No answer came. ' 'Tis 
 past the time," he muttered, "but, doubtless, 
 she's preparing for the journey ours ! " 
 
 For a moment he stood in silent thought; 
 thought for that unknown gate which was open- 
 ing to his knock ; thought for the cares and joys 
 he must leave behind when the portal closed. 
 He loosened the collar of his robe, revealing the 
 doublet of a cavalier beneath. 
 
 " In love," he murmured, " we learn ... to 
 forget" he took a fold of the cassock in his 
 hand "and this, too, must be forgotten. . . . 
 
 222
 
 He loosened the collar of his robe, reveal- 
 ing the doublet of a cavalier beneath
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 But, ah, old friend, my heart is heavy at the 
 parting." He slipped the robe from an arm and 
 shoulder and whispered tenderly, as though the 
 garment were a living thing: "You have cov- 
 ered me in storm and sunshine, shielded me 
 from the cold and heat. . . . You have clung 
 to me in happiness and sorrow, prayers and 
 tears; you have set me apart from other men, 
 and marked me as a man of God. . . . Oh, 
 what a flood of memory comes back to me the 
 bitter and the sweet! . . . When I leave you 
 with tender reverence sad sincere, I step from 
 an old world into a new, . . . the old world filled 
 with prayer and penance, the incense and the 
 grim confessional, where the febrile spark of a 
 few good deeds is smothered in a throng of 
 countless mortal faults, told, sin by sin, on the 
 rosary of time." 
 
 He drew the robe from his other arm, but held 
 it lovingly against his breast. 
 
 " I leave the old world, so sad and yet so dear, 
 so lonely and yet so peaceful. . . . Farewell, old 
 friend. ... I've reached the new life's gate 
 the new life . . . flooded with the glory of a 
 
 woman's love." 
 
 223
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 The cassock fell and Leon la Valiere stepped 
 over it. 
 
 " Adrienne ! " he whispered. " Adrienne ! " 
 
 He lifted his arms like a prisoner set free, then 
 slowly they sank to his sides again. He stooped 
 and raised his vestment from the floor, gently 
 smoothing its rumpled folds, then pressed it to 
 his lips. 
 
 " Love asks forgetfulness of all save love alone. 
 . . . But must we forget . . . so soon? . . . No! 
 . . . God forbid! ... I leave you, but your 
 memory shall robe my breast . . . forever ! " 
 
 He glanced about the room for a hiding-place, 
 and walked slowly toward the screen. " Fare- 
 well," he murmured tenderly, and once more 
 raised the cassock to his lips, then placed his 
 hand on that flimsy barrier which stood between 
 his earthly happiness and the sprawling heap 
 behind. " Farew " He paused and shook 
 his head. " No," he muttered, " 'twould tell its 
 story to those who found it there the robe 
 abandoned forgotten promises to God and 
 faith defiled, . . . and I cannot ! Cannot ! " He 
 turned away. " No ! . . . no, dear friend ; 
 
 where / may go, there shalt thou go also ! " 
 
 224
 
 As he turned, Le Corbeau entered hurriedly, 
 wrapped in a hooded cloak. She crossed the 
 square of moonlight toward the door which led 
 to the street below, when Leon stepped from the 
 shadow of the screen. A stifled scream died, 
 trembling, on her lips, and she shrank before 
 him, white and shivering. 
 
 " Adrienne ! " he called, as he sprang toward 
 her. " Adrienne, it is I Leon ! Forgive me if 
 I startled you. I thought to find you waiting, 
 and I entered with the key you gave me." 
 
 She answered numbly: "The key . . . I gave 
 ... I ... don't understand. . . I . . . " And 
 she would have fallen, but Leon caught her in 
 his arms. 
 
 "Adrienne!" he cried, "you are ill! What 
 is it?" 
 
 " No, no, no, 'tis nothing," she denied. " I'm 
 
 nervous I I " She started and raised a 
 
 shaking finger to her lip. " Did you hear hear 
 
 nothing?" 
 
 "Adrienne, my child, you have overtaxed 
 
 your strength, I fear. Come, ... sit here and 
 
 rest." He led her to the lounge and poured a 
 
 glass of wine. " Drink this," he coaxed, " 'twill 
 
 I 22 >
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 strengthen you. . . . There . . . that's better! 
 Is it not good ? " 
 
 " Yes . . . good . . . thank you," she replied 
 in a halting murmur, then irritably : " What is 
 that ugly thing?" 
 
 " Where, dear one? " 
 
 " There ! There ! You hold it on your arm ! 
 What is the thing? " 
 
 " This ? " he asked, as he raised his folded 
 cassock. "It is the robe, Adrienne the robe 
 which I have laid aside for you . . . forever." 
 
 "For me? Forever?" she repeated, miser- 
 ably, then hid her face and sobbed: " Oh, Leon, 
 Leon, why did you come back why why 
 
 "To take you with me, Adrienne; but don't 
 talk now, it only excites and distresses you. 
 Try to rest a while, and soon you will be better. 
 See what a gentle nurse I'll learn to be." He 
 seated himself beside her on the lounge. " Your 
 head on my shoulder so. My arm about you 
 to protect and comfort ; a hand to smooth your 
 brow how hot it is, poor child; you have 
 a fever. This, too, will pass with rest and 
 quiet." 
 
 She leaned on his breast, with eyelids closed, 
 226
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 and strove to forget the hidden horror, in the 
 wondrous tenderness of Leon's love. Again he 
 spoke, in his gentle, soothing tones, and she 
 nestled closer in the fortress of his arms. 
 
 " How sweet it is to sit beside you, ... to 
 comfort you and love you ; to run my fingers 
 lightly through your hair and 'tis so beautiful, 
 Adrienne to know that you are mine, all 
 mine, forever and a day." He bent his head, 
 and her dark locks stirred beneath his kiss. 
 " See how the moonlight streams into your win- 
 dow, . . . coming like a fairy goddess to tell us 
 of our happiness. I could sit contented for 
 hours so, . . . reading our destiny in the threads 
 of silver moonlight that weave a story of love 
 and peace. . . . How clear and beautiful is the 
 story written there. ... I see the long gray 
 road that leads from Paris the twinkling lights 
 of a thousand dwarfish cottages that dot the 
 country-side. ... I hear the beat of the horses' 
 hoofs timing the music of our hearts. Ah, what 
 a song of happiness the hoof-beats sing bear- 
 ing us two away from the solemn city away 
 under the stars, each one a tiny torch of love 
 
 that seems to smile and beckon us. Away! 
 
 227
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Away to the land where the moonlight ends and 
 the dawn of love's fair day is breaking." 
 
 " Leon ! Leon ! " she murmured softly, and 
 stroked his cheek with a trembling hand. 
 'Twas sweet to hear his voice, in words which 
 seemed to ease the torment in her heart ; but 
 other ears were listening, listening, and she 
 glanced affrightedly toward the screen. Leon 
 spoke again: 
 
 " On, on, dear Adrienne, till we reach at last 
 the land where joy and peace shall blossom as 
 the rose, . . . 'where death comes not, nor part- 
 ing, and no tears.' " 
 
 "My Leon!" 
 
 " My love ! " he whispered, reverently, and 
 raised his head. "See! The moon has gone 
 behind a cloud, casting a shadow on the floor. 
 . . . Some little shadows must ever come to us, 
 but will only serve to make our lives the brighter 
 when they pass." 
 
 "Ah, Leon," she answered, nervously, and 
 her eyes grew big with fear, " there is a shadow 
 greater than you know so deep so dark 
 so pitiless. It oppresses me! It smothers 
 
 me!" 
 
 328
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Leon smiled. " I do not fear it, little one, 
 with you to love. Look ! Your cloud is pass- 
 ing even now, and the light once more comes 
 streaming through the window. Is it not .beau- 
 tiful, Adrienne?" 
 
 " No, no, no," she excitedly protested ; " it 
 frightens me ! . . . even more than the clouds." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " he laughed, and pinched her 
 cheek. " But see how it creeps so slowly 
 inch by inch, as if some phantom hand were 
 reaching stealthily toward 
 
 " Leon ! Leon ! What are you saying? " she 
 cried out nervously, and stared at the light, in 
 shivering dread. 
 
 "Nothing, dear heart; 'tis only the light of 
 love which seems to smile for us. And see ... 
 it has reached your screen." Le Corbeau 
 gasped. "It creeps and creeps, as though it 
 would look behind for something hidden there." 
 She clung to him in shuddering agony, but he 
 could not see her face. " Look ! Look ! " he 
 cried, "'twill soon envelop it in a flood of 
 A-h!" 
 
 The white moon burst through a wind-torn 
 cloud and smeared the screen with her pallid 
 
 229
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 glory. Le Corbeau screamed and leaped, in 
 frenzied horror, from the lounge. 
 
 "Adrienne! What is it?" Leon cried, and 
 took her in his arms. 
 
 She fought him for release. " Let me go ! " 
 she shrilled. " Oh, let me go ! I can't stay 
 here! God! . . . I'm going mad!" 
 
 "Child, child," he questioned, nervously, 
 " what frightens you ? Tell me. / am here to 
 shield you, dear one." 
 
 He strove to soothe her, but she shrank from 
 his embrace, entreating piteously: " Let me go ! 
 Only let me leave this room ! It stifles me ! It 
 chokes me I Leon, ... let me go ! " 
 
 "Then come," he urged, and led her gently; 
 " a carriage waits below to take us to the city 
 wall where the horses wait. The cool, fresh air 
 will soon revive you. Come." 
 
 She drew back, trembling. " No, no, no ! I 
 can't! I can't!" 
 
 "Cannot?" he questioned, wonderingly. 
 
 "No! . . . No! Never! Never! Oh, Leon, 
 go back to your brotherhood and forget that I 
 ever lived. . . . Don't ask me why don't try to 
 
 find me ... only go ! Go ! Go ! " 
 
 230
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 He was silent for a moment, studying her in 
 grieved surprise. 
 
 " Do you do you wish it, Adrienne ? " 
 
 " I I wish it," she answered, haltingly, and 
 turned her eyes away. 
 
 When Leon spoke again, his words came 
 slowly, while the man was struggling in the grip 
 of a growing fear: 
 
 " You have said you were not ill, . . . and yet 
 you wish that I should leave you now and for 
 all. Am /the cause? Is it is it that you . . . 
 so soon . . . have ceased to care for me ? . . . 
 Can this be true? . . . Answer me!" 
 
 "Dieu! Can I tell him that?" she asked 
 herself, then raised her eyes to his and faltered, 
 coldly: "I do not love you I I have never 
 loved you. ... Go back to your House of 
 Peace forget it is all wrong confused - 
 and " 
 
 She stopped ; her breaking heart could lie no 
 more; she sank in a huddled heap, her arms 
 outstretched across the lounge, and sobbed in 
 the pain of her sacrifice. 
 
 Leon looked down upon her in numb despair. 
 " I think ... I understand," he said. " Woman, 
 
 231
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 woman, what have you done? . . . You, whom 
 I loved with all my life and soul better than 
 Heaven itself, and it is a lie ! You, for whom 
 I sacrificed my sacred pledge to God . . . and 
 this ... is the end ! " 
 
 " Leon," she sobbed, " if you only knew." 
 
 "And this is the end," he repeated dully, 
 turned on his heel, and walked away. 
 
 " Leon ! Leon ! Come back ! " she called. 
 " I cannot be left alone ! " She rose and looked 
 at the screen in terror. " I dare not ! . . . 
 Leon ! " 
 
 He paused, in pain and doubt, and returned 
 reluctantly. She sought to put her arms about 
 his neck, but he stayed her with a firm, restrain- 
 ing hand. She caught the hand and held it in 
 both her own, murmuring, brokenly: 
 
 " I love you, Leon love you enough to bear 
 the bruise of parting . . . for your sake. 'Twas 
 all for you, dear no selfish thought 
 
 " Then tell me what you mean," he said. " If 
 you are ill " 
 
 "No, no; I am not ill. I'll tell you every- 
 thing, . . . only . . . don't leave me, Leon, . . . 
 
 don't leave me here this place. . . . Forgive 
 
 232
 
 (|?|) A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 me, if you can. ... I tried so hard and and 
 I loved you so." 
 
 Leon watched her, silently, a question in his 
 eyes, as she fought with fear and hesitation : 
 
 " I I Leon, you seem so strange. Put on 
 your robe again, and then, perhaps, 'twill make 
 it easier ... to tell." She seated herself upon 
 the lounge and twisted its coverlet in her nerv- 
 ous hands. "Leon, . . . I'll keep back nothing 
 nothing I Shut the window! . . . The 
 moonlight it terrifies me ! " 
 
 He crossed and drew her curtains closely, re- 
 turned and lit the candles in a bracket on the 
 wall. 
 
 " Put on your robe," she pleaded, " for my 
 sake, Leon will you?" 
 
 In silence he hid the cavalier beneath the cas- 
 sock's folds, and wound the mantle about his 
 shoulders, then stood before her once again a 
 priest. 
 
 " There, 'tis done," he said. He seated him- 
 self beside her and took her hand. " Now, tell 
 me, Adrienne." 
 
 " Leon ..." Her voice was hard and 
 
 strained. 
 
 233
 
 "Yes? . . . I'm listening." 
 " Leon ... I have deceived you." 
 " Deceived me ? " 
 
 "Yes. I'm not what you think me I'm not 
 Adrienne " 
 
 " Not Adrienne ! " he gasped. " Then who 
 
 p 
 
 " I cannot tell you. Don't ask me. That I 
 love you with all my life and soul is true ; but 
 the rest but the rest Oh, have pity on 
 me " 
 
 " You are not yourself ! " he exclaimed. " You 
 know not what you say ! " 
 
 " I tell you," she answered, in the same hard 
 tone, " I tell you it is true. I was a woman of 
 the world heartless bitter living a life of evil 
 recklessness " 
 
 "A h!" 
 
 " a woman who feared neither man nor devil 
 who sought for happiness in sin and forgetful- 
 ness in wine." 
 
 "God/" 
 
 " I won your love because of a wager I " 
 
 He sprang to his feet. " And you dare to tell 
 me this!" he cried. "You!" 
 
 234
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 She cowered beneath the fierceness of his 
 mien, as though she feared his lifted hand would 
 strike. 
 
 " But, Leon," she wailed, " he drove me to it. 
 ... He forced me with all his cunning wicked- 
 ness. I was a weak, weak woman vain- 
 thoughtless " 
 
 " Oh, how pitiful ! " he breathed, in scorn. 
 "How pitiful!" 
 *" Listen, Leon " 
 
 His pale lips curled in harsh contempt. 
 " And so you won the love of a simple priest 
 . . . for money /" 
 
 " No, no," she cried, " the money I refused. 
 ... I won you, it is true; but because I loved 
 you. It changed my life my nature. ... I 
 wanted to be good. ... I wanted to be worthy 
 of you. I thought we could leave it all behind 
 in Paris and forget. 'Twas not the wager, 
 Leon, but because I loved you." 
 
 " Loved me ! " he laughed, in bitterness. 
 " Loved me ! And you ask me to believe this ! 
 This tangle of treacherous deceit? No, no, I 
 cannot ! Cannot ! " And he dropped into a seat 
 and bowed his head upon his hands. 
 
 235
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Again Le Corbeau spoke, but fearfully: 
 " Leon, I speak the truth. I thought with you 
 to love I could expurgate the past, . . . and bury 
 it with your broken vows . . . and Fabien." 
 She sank on her knees beside him. "And I'd 
 love you, oh, so tenderly, so deeply and so 
 long. I'd be your slave your drudge " He 
 shook his head. " But take away your love," 
 she moaned, "and I'm lost body, mind, and 
 soul ! " 
 
 She placed a timid hand upon his shoulder, 
 but he shrank beneath her touch. 
 
 " Leon," she pleaded, " did you not tell me 
 once what your dear old abbe taught, . . . that 
 if, in your lives of toil and penance, a brother's 
 pledge to Heaven seemed fruitless and unavail- 
 ing, still, if he saved one single soul, he spent 
 not his life in vain? " 
 
 He lifted his head, and she called to him from 
 the depth of her yearning love: "Leon, . . . 
 save me save me ! " 
 
 He did not speak, but his hand sought hers, 
 and found it. Nearer she crept, and nearer still. 
 Her Circean arm stole gently round his neck, 
 
 and she held him with her eyes, those haunting 
 
 236
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 eyes which had broken stronger wills, which 
 glowed with passion, swam in repentant tears, 
 and begged for pity pity alone, where a man 
 might give his blood. 
 
 " My love ... my love," she moaned, " in 
 your kingly heart you find forgiveness . . . even 
 for Corbeau?" 
 
 " Corbeau? " he mumbled, stupidly, and stared 
 in vacant wonderment. " Corbeau ? " 
 
 " Yes, Leon, I am she Corbeau." 
 
 "You! . . . Great God!" 
 
 He started to his feet and pushed her from 
 him roughly ; he did not even look to see her 
 fall, but stood bewildered, muttering, in dull 
 monotony: "Corbeau, the queen of sin! ... 
 Corbeau, the wanton ! " 
 
 " Forgive forgive " she cried. 
 
 At the sound of her voice he turned and an- 
 swered, harshly : " No ! A woman who had 
 fallen her I might forgive .... But she, the 
 queen of sin Corbeau ! No, no, it cannot be, 
 it cannot be ! " 
 
 "Leon!" 
 
 Again he turned upon her, in scorn and bit- 
 terness: " Oh, it is shameless! You crept into 
 
 237
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 my sister's home the creature that you are; 
 sullied her cheek with your kisses the foulest 
 lie in each caress ! You wrecked my life . . . 
 for money ! . . . Pah / . . . Well, . . . 'tis done 
 . . . well done! . . . You have won your 
 wager ! " 
 
 He turned on his heel and would have left 
 her where she lay, but she rose to her knees 
 and gripped his robe, in the fierceness of her 
 misery. 
 
 " Leon . . . forgive me ! Listen ! How can 
 you turn away? Don't think of what I've been, 
 but of what I am ! " 
 
 " The queen of sin," he muttered, heavily. 
 " For money ! " 
 
 He put out his hand to loose her hold upon 
 his skirt, but she clung in desperation. 
 
 " Father ! " she cried. " Will you deny me 
 that which you give the meanest beggar in the 
 street? . . . Pity! . . . Pity! . . . You are a 
 priest of God . . . and I a woman in despair! 
 . . . Pity! . . . Pity!" 
 
 " The queen of sin," he muttered still ; " Cor- 
 beau . . . the wanton ! " 
 
 "Father," she sobbed, "you said forgiveness 
 238
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 was the choicest gem in the crown of God, . . . 
 and your heart is hard . . . and cold . . . and 
 cruel." 
 
 He rested his gaze on the trembling wretch, 
 whose words seemed strange and void of mean- 
 ing ; his eyes were wide and lustreless, fixed in 
 stunned bewilderment, while his brain refused 
 to grip the tumbling thoughts which racked him 
 with a nameless pain. 
 
 To the woman a something in that silent stare 
 seemed terrible and fraught with compelling 
 power a something that crushed her will and 
 dragged her secret from protesting lips. 
 
 "Leon," she cried, "don't look at me sol 
 You frighten me! ... take your eyes away! 
 ... I cannot tell you any more ! . . . There's 
 nothing more to tell ! . . . I've told you all ! . . . 
 Don't look at me like that! . . . Leon! . . . 
 you will force it from me . . . and I wished to 
 spare you! . . . Take away your eyes! ... I 
 can't tell you, Leon! I can't! I can't! I 
 can't ! " She loosened her hold upon his robe 
 and looked at the screen in ghastly terror, 
 shrinking away and whispering: "He's cold 
 ... and white ... and still. . . . He's staring 
 
 239
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 at us, Leon . . . listening . . . listening . . . 
 listening ..." 
 
 She crouched, in chattering fear, one shaking 
 finger pointed at the hidden thing, till the 
 priest, aroused from his lethargy, followed her 
 gaze, then strode toward the screen. 
 
 "No, Leon! No! Not that!" she cried. 
 "Not that! Comeback! Comeback! Mother! 
 . . . Have mercy mercy 
 
 With a sweep of his arm he struck the barrier 
 down saw and sprang back, aghast and trem- 
 bling. 
 
 240
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 AN ivy vine clung to the aging walls of The 
 House of Peace. It clambered upward on the 
 rough-hewn masonry, seeking new footholds in 
 the ever-widening crevices from which the rot- 
 ting mortar fell; and when it had scaled the 
 parapet and spread along the grey stone coping, 
 worn smooth by countless rains, it sent its green 
 young tendrils creeping in a downward course, 
 as if seeking to penetrate the mysteries of the 
 dim-lit cloister. A sturdy vine, as sturdy as the 
 long-forgotten priest who planted it; and, as 
 though to keep his memory green, it carried out 
 a work of mercy which had set God's seal upon 
 an humble toiler in the vineyard ; for here the 
 thick, dark foliage gave shelter to the sparrows, 
 even as The House of Peace was a shelter for 
 men and the children of men who knocked and 
 were not denied. The clinging vine remem- 
 bers ; 'tis the sparrow that forgets. 
 
 All day long these tiny pensioners on a curb's 
 
 bounty chirped and twittered in the sunshine, 
 16 241
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 fluttered noisily among the rustling leaves, or 
 gossiped on the follies of their neighbours that 
 dwelt in other vines. Here were played out the 
 little romances of their lives, their loves and 
 sorrows; here their never-ending broods were 
 hatched and foisted on the charity of the calm- 
 faced priests who pattered silently among the 
 shifting shadows who hugged their sorrows and 
 strove to forget their loves. 
 
 Sometimes a drooping sparrow fell from his 
 swaying perch and lay gasping on the ground ; 
 it huddled for warmth against the cloister wall, 
 and died alone. Its fellows paused for a mo- 
 ment in their twittering, then twittered louder 
 still. The bird is dead! Why trouble over it? 
 The cure is also dead ; his bones long crumbled 
 into dust. Sunshine was made for singing, not 
 for tears, . . . and a bird or a priest the less 
 what matters it ? Twitter . . . and forget ! 
 
 In his narrow cell the Good Samaritan lay 
 tossing, half delirious, on his rumpled couch. 
 Beside him stood his food, untasted, and an 
 empty water jug. Two bright-eyed sparrows 
 hopped on the window ledge, peeped in, and 
 
 marvelled at the moaning priest who fed them 
 
 242
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 not; and Claudien's brothers shook their heads 
 and whispered as they pattered past his door. 
 
 In a dingy room above the shop of Madame 
 Denise a woman hid from those who sought her 
 throughout the city ; she trembled at each un- 
 wonted sound, and cowered in shivering dread 
 as the seekers clattered by in the street below. 
 At her side sat Raymond, the one among all 
 her friends on whom she could lean in the hour 
 of need ; and, womanlike, she leaned. 
 
 In Le Corbeau's home three lean gendarmes 
 awaited the Poppy Flower's chance return ; and, 
 to ease the dull monotony, threw dice, laughing 
 aloud when luck ran high, or cursing at an evil 
 cast. Before the house stood a crowd of idlers, 
 beggars fools who stared at the tight-closed 
 blinds, in expectant awe. The law was seeking. 
 The murderess? Pooh! They would find her 
 in a day or two. Meanwhile, her loose-tongued 
 friends poured out her story, like uncorked bot- 
 tles turned upside down. 
 
 The house of Jardin was a house of mourn- 
 ing, for the master lay dead in an upper room. 
 A starving terrier whined whined pitifully 
 and scratched with a bandaged paw at the door 
 
 243
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 which shut him in the street. What knew these 
 foolish men who had driven him away, what 
 knew they of the master's love and tenderness ? 
 What knew they of his splendid heart, crushed 
 down by hopeless passion to the dust of bitter- 
 ness? There were none, in life, to bathe the 
 master's wounds; none to whisper words of 
 comfort in his pain. Yes . . . there was one 
 a homeless little dog that had understood 
 had loved and licked his hand. 
 
 244
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE sparrows twittered, and the mid-day sun- 
 light fell upon The House of Peace. The clois- 
 ter garden lay moist and cool in the drowsy 
 silence, its high walls casting shadows on the 
 grass, shielding the shrubs and flowers, and 
 shutting from the dusty road outside all but the 
 fragrance of the guarded spot. The building 
 itself, of solid masonry, was erected for stern 
 stability rather than beauty of design. On the 
 side which faced the garden stretched a long, 
 arched portico, making a shaded promenade, 
 along which the brothers were wont to pace in 
 meditation. At the northern end a stairway 
 led to a pillared gallery above, and overlooked 
 the garden and the country beyond the Seine ; 
 behind the pillars peeped eyelike the windows 
 of cells, whence a listener's keen ear might catch 
 the murmured fragment of a prayer and the 
 low, faint click of beads on a fingered rosary. 
 A gravelled pathway led to the gate which 
 
 pierced the wall, and above the gate stood a 
 
 245
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 massive lamp, fashioned by some brother of the 
 past, in the form of an iron cross. To the left, 
 half buried in creeping vines, stood a little lat- 
 ticed house wherein were kept the garden tools 
 and the seeds of flowers. On the right a thick- 
 leafed shade-tree grew, and beneath its protect- 
 ing boughs sat Abbe Sebastian, engaged in writ- 
 ing at a rough, square table. 
 
 The abbe was a man who ruled his house with 
 a rod of love, and gained in return from the 
 oldest brother to the humblest acolyte unques- 
 tioning obedience and the trust which a child 
 gives. A fringe of snow-white hair crept out 
 beneath his black biretta, and his kind old face 
 was lined with poignant grief as he bent to the 
 labour of his halting quill. 
 
 Philippe, a lean and sallow priest, descended 
 the stairway, bearing in his arms a covered tray. 
 
 " Philippe ! " the abbe called, and the priest 
 came forward, setting the tray on a vacant chair 
 beside the table. 
 
 "Yes, father?" 
 
 "Has he eaten?" 
 
 Philippe, in answer, lifted the cloth and shook 
 
 his head : " No morsel has passed his lips. I 
 
 246
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 placed the tray before him with a crock of wa- 
 ter; the water he drinks in eagerness, but the 
 food remains untouched." 
 
 "Poor Claudien!" the abbe sighed. "And 
 you watched last night, Philippe?" 
 
 ' The whole night long I sat outside his door, 
 my vigil ending with the call to matins." 
 "Did he sleep?" 
 
 "Little. At daybreak there was silence in 
 his cell, but till then I heard his footsteps al- 
 most ceaselessly." 
 
 "And prayers, Philippe you heard him at 
 his prayers?" the abbe questioned, anxiously, 
 but Philippe was silent. " Speak ! " 
 
 The answer came in hesitation. " I heard 
 him once once only a passionate petition to 
 Heaven for help and guidance. ... A prayer 
 which wrung my soul with its fierce despair . . . 
 more bitter than a sinner's dying cry . . . and 
 then at length he moaned: ' O God, I mock 
 Thee ! . . . Adrienne ! . . . My Adrienne ! ' . . . 
 and I placed my palms upon my ears." 
 
 Sebastian bowed his head, in sorrowing si- 
 lence, and after a pause he asked : 
 
 "And then, Philippe?" 
 247
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " And then he flung himself upon his couch 
 and sobbed great sobs that shook him till his 
 heart was like to burst. Ah, father, 'tis a fear- 
 some thing to listen to a strong man weeping." 
 
 " No more, Philippe ! " the abbe cried. " My 
 heart is sick within me." 
 
 A moment Philippe stood silently, then lifting 
 the tray, he passed into the cloister, while Sebas- 
 tian, with a heavy sigh, returned to the work 
 before him. As Philippe once more came out 
 upon the portico a carriage stopped in the road 
 outside and a knock was heard at the garden 
 gate. He took a key from its hook upon the 
 wall and unlocked the oaken door. A woman 
 stood in the opening and begged a word with 
 the abbe of The House of Peace ; and when she 
 gave her name, Philippe returned to his superior 
 and whispered, eagerly: 
 
 " Tis Claudien's sister the Duchesse de la 
 Fere." 
 
 Sebastian laid down his pen, and arose. 
 " You may bid her enter." 
 
 Cecile came forward impulsively. " Father ! " 
 The abbe took her hands in his. 
 
 "You are Claudien's sister?" 
 248
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "Yes; I am Cecile. . . . Oh, father, I have 
 come to you, for I knew not where else to turn. 
 My brother! ... He is here? " 
 
 "Yes, my child." 
 
 " Take me to him," the duchesse begged, but 
 Sebastian restrained her gently. 
 
 " Not now, Cecile," and he pointed to the 
 cloister. " He is there in his room, and a 
 woman may not enter even the sister of a 
 priest. Besides, it is best, for the present, that 
 he sees no one." 
 
 He led her to a seat. 
 
 "But, father," she asked, "it is not true, the 
 dreadful things they say of him! They are 
 false and cruel!" The abbe looked at the 
 ground in silence. "Answer me, father say 
 they are not true ! " 
 
 " I know not, Cecile," he returned, in sadness; 
 "I know not. I strive to believe him blame- 
 less, but he will not speak. Even to me he is 
 silent even to me." 
 
 "But he could not have loved this this 
 woman ! " she exclaimed. " Could Leon break 
 his vows for her could Leon 
 
 " Ah, my child," the abbe answered, " there is 
 249
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 many a sparrow fallen from its nest when the 
 wind has blown too roughly, and many a lamb 
 has strayed from the fold when the shepherd 
 slept." 
 
 " And you condemn him, too ? " she asked, re- 
 proachfully. " Oh, if you knew how sorely he 
 was tried! If you knew how she entered my 
 home deceived and tempted him; how she 
 sought with her every art to lure him from the 
 path of duty appealing to his tenderness of 
 nature his generous love for the helpless and 
 distressed." 
 
 " I know, poor child, I know," Sebastian mur- 
 mured. 
 
 " And then to find that she whom we had 
 sheltered and caressed she whom we had 
 thought so pure was one of whom good women 
 speak in whispers the courtesan Corbeau ! " 
 The abbe nodded pityingly. " And when Leon 
 learned what the creature was, he must have 
 turned from her in just contempt aye, in con- 
 tempt and loathing. . . . But tell me, father, 
 what you know of him. . . . Spare nothing, for 
 I'll bear it bravely, in my love for Leon." 
 
 "Alas!" Sebastian sighed, "there is little I 
 250
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 may say with certainty. Two nights ago, at 
 midnight, I was summoned to the garden gate 
 on an urgent call. In haste I clothed myself 
 and came. . . . 'Twas Claudien, and he would 
 not enter. His face was white and drawn with 
 suffering; his hands were cold and trembling. 
 He had come to say farewell to me. . . . He 
 had striven, he said, and failed had broken his 
 vows and dishonoured the robe which covered 
 him. His soul had sinned God's curse was on 
 him and his heart was shamed and breaking." 
 
 "Ah, poor boy!" the duchesse murmured, 
 tearfully. The abbe paused, and then went on 
 again : 
 
 " I thought him ill, and strove to lead him 
 through the gate; but he beat his palms to- 
 gether, crying out, in agony, that The House of 
 Peace could shelter him no more." 
 
 "Oh, 'tis pitiful pitiful !" sobbed Cecile. 
 
 " I sought to soothe him, entreating him to 
 tell me what had happened but no! ... He 
 begged me to question him no further, for his 
 day was done the light gone out forever, and 
 he only longed to die and be forgotten. ... At 
 length he stooped, pressed the hem of my robe 
 
 251
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 to his lips, and turned away in the darkness. . . 
 He stumbled and fell, unconscious, to the 
 ground." 
 
 A cry of pain escaped Cecile, and she bowed 
 her head and wept, while down the abbe's 
 cheeks rolled the tears of as deep a love and 
 grief as hers. 
 
 " We lifted him," he said, " and bore him ten- 
 derly to his cell, where since he has remained, in 
 silence and woe unutterable." 
 
 " Father," Cecile returned, " he has suffered 
 more than we will ever know. But tell me 
 since Leon will speak no word against the 
 woman how did you learn of the pit she dug 
 for him?" 
 
 Sebastian shook his head. " There is much 
 that is still in mystery. When it was learned 
 through a frightened maid that a man lay dead 
 in the house of the woman called Le Corbeau, a 
 rigid search was instigated. The woman has 
 disappeared, but those who had been her friends 
 were questioned, and the truth was brought to 
 light. I would have kept it secret for your 
 brother's sake, but rumour linked her name with 
 
 his ; the damning story flew from lip to lip, until 
 
 252
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 those who loved him yesterday speak only evil 
 of the Good Samaritan." 
 
 " But it is not true ! " the duchesse cried. " It 
 can't be true ! " 
 
 The abbe spoke in bitterness : " Those whose 
 dying children he had nursed, those whose 
 homes were lighted by the watcher's toil, whose 
 griefs were borne, whose very bread was given, 
 they they forget his gentle ministrations and 
 smirch his name with crime ! " 
 
 "And they dare say that?" the duchesse 
 cried, as she rose to her feet excitedly. " They 
 dare to say that Leon killed . . . Jardin ? . . . 
 Tell me, father! Don't try to hide it from me I 
 Can they breathe such things of him ? " 
 
 Sebastian nodded sadly. "They say even 
 that, . . . Cecile." 
 
 "Oh, 'tis wicked monstrous!" she angrily 
 declared, then turned in sudden fear: "Father! 
 . . . then Leon will be taken ! They will throw 
 him into prison! Leon! No, no ... they 
 would not take a priest ? " 
 
 " Cecile," the abbe* answered gently, " I will 
 not deceive you, for 'twould be a cruel kindness. 
 Even now the officers of the king are hunting 
 
 253
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Le Corbeau, and soon, I fear, they will also seek 
 for Claudien in The House of Peace." 
 
 " But, father, he is innocent ! Surely you will 
 save him ? " 
 
 " What lies within my power I will do," said 
 Sebastian, solemnly. " I have loved him with 
 all the tenderness of an old man's heart, . . . 
 watched over him, . . . prayed with him, . . . 
 have striven to guide him, as though he had 
 been my only son." 
 
 "And and he loved you, father," the du- 
 chesse faltered. 
 
 "And forgot it for a woman," muttered the 
 abbe, half aloud. 
 
 " Will you, too, turn against him you / " 
 
 He faced her, this grey old man of seventy 
 years, and answered, with a tremour in his tone: 
 
 " No ! . . . No, Cecile. A something tells me 
 that, though he may have erred, still he is free 
 from guilt. In silence he bears another's sin 
 upon his shoulders, and shields the woman who 
 has wrought his ruin. . . . Pride! That stub- 
 born blood of fearless manhood in his veins, 
 which takes no road to freedom while a fellow- 
 creature suffers in his stead." 
 
 254
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 The duchesse bent impulsively and kissed 
 Sebastian's hand. 
 
 " Ah, father . . . you love him still ! " 
 
 "Love him?" the abbe echoed, tenderly, as 
 he lifted his eyes to the cloudless sky. " Oh, 
 that I might give my poor old life for his for 
 his!" 
 
 For a moment neither spoke, then the du- 
 chesse questioned, timidly : " Has has nothing 
 been done to to save him ? " 
 
 " All that can be done," the father answered. 
 " His brothers defend him loyally, hoping 
 against hope ; but Claudien will speak no word 
 to guide us, and we can only trust and wait." 
 He lifted a written paper from his table. " I 
 have here prepared a letter to the cardinal, 
 setting forth our brother's deeds of noble sacri- 
 fice his labours for the poor, his earnest zeal, till 
 now, in the cause of Christ; and I beg his emi- 
 nence to intercede for clemency with the king, at 
 least, till the truth is known." 
 
 He held the missive in his hand and pondered 
 deeply. 
 
 " Give me the letter, father," begged Cecile. 
 " I myself will take it. I will plead on my 
 
 255
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 knees for Leon to the cardinal and the king, 
 . . . and the king will listen, for he loves the 
 due, my husband." The abbe weighed Cecile's 
 request, in hesitation, but she urged him at his 
 weakest point. " Give me the packet, father, 
 for Leon's sake." 
 
 " Take it, my child, and God will aid you in 
 your task." He placed the letter in her hands 
 and rose. "But hasten, for there's little time 
 to lose." 
 
 "A sister's love," she cried, "will lend me 
 wings, and Leon may yet be saved." 
 
 She crossed to the gate, and Sebastian fol- 
 lowed her. 
 
 " And when I return," she asked, " then, fa- 
 ther, I may see him ? " 
 
 " Yes, Cecile, you shall speak with Leon then. 
 Yes" 
 
 . Co. 
 
 She knelt for his blessing, then passed through 
 the gate in silence, and the grey old man stood 
 watching till her carriage disappeared in a cloud 
 of whirling dust. 
 
 256
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 As Abbe Sebastian was about to close the 
 gate, a black-robed priest, who had walked along 
 the road, accosted him: 
 
 " Greeting, holy father; I bear a missive from 
 his eminence the cardinal." 
 
 "Greeting, my son," returned Sebastian, as 
 he took the letter in his hand. " But will you 
 not enter and rest beneath the shade while I 
 break the seal ? " 
 
 " It needs no answer," said the priest. " Peace 
 be with you, holy father." He bowed, stepped 
 out on the sunlit road, and passed from view. 
 
 Philippe came forward and closed the gate, 
 while Sebastian crossed to his table beneath the 
 tree and scanned the cardinal's letter, perusing 
 its contents with a deepening frown. He sighed 
 when he had finished, folded, and laid it down, 
 and sat in profound perplexity. 
 
 "Ill tidings, father?" asked Philippe. 
 
 " 111 tidings . . . yes." The abbe tapped the 
 letter in impatience. " A missive from the car- 
 17 2 57
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 dinal, in which I am informed that he will send 
 a deputy to question Claudien his friend and 
 councillor Castine." 
 
 "Castine ... the Jesuit?" 
 
 Sebastian nodded. " The same. A worthy 
 man and a zealous churchman : high in favour 
 with the king, but harsh, incisive, soured by 
 long ill-health ; and if Claudien answers not his 
 questionings, the Jesuit's anger may be deeply 
 stirred." 
 
 " And Claudien's cause will fare but sadly," 
 said Philippe. 
 
 " I fear it, Philippe, I fear it," Sebastian an- 
 swered, with a shaking head. " But Claudien 
 must be prepared. I will make one last appeal 
 in the name of the love I bear him." 
 
 Sebastian rose and walked slowly toward the 
 steps which led to the gallery and the upper 
 cells, when a knock was heard at the garden 
 gate; he paused as Philippe unlocked it, and 
 saw in the opening the figure of a woman. In 
 a moment more Philippe had crossed to him. 
 
 " Tis one," he said, " who begs a word with 
 you in private." 
 
 "Who is she?" 
 
 258
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "I know not; she is closely veiled, and will 
 give no name." 
 
 ' Tell her to come to-morrow," the abbe an- 
 swered; "to-day I am pressed with weighty 
 matters which may not be delayed. To-mor- 
 row, Philippe to-morrow." 
 
 The lean priest turned to bear the message to 
 the woman at the gate, while Sebastian began 
 a slow ascent of the steep stone stairs, but 
 Philippe once more had followed and detained 
 him. 
 
 " Father, she says her case is gravely urgent, 
 can be told to you alone, and she seems in deep 
 distress." 
 
 " Distress ! " the abbe echoed. " How full of 
 it is this poor old world ! A sun that rises in 
 sorrow and sets in tears. . . . She may enter, 
 Philippe." 
 
 Descending the stair, he crossed to his table 
 beneath the shade and waited as the woman ad- 
 vanced toward him. 
 
 " I thank you, father," she said, in a faltering 
 voice, " but but may I speak with you alone ? " 
 
 Sebastian waved his hand, and Philippe re- 
 tired to an oaken bench beside the gate. The
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 abbe then drew a chair for her and seated him- 
 self beside his table. 
 
 " We are now alone, madame," he said, in 
 kindly tones ; " but ,1 must ask you to be brief, 
 for there are many matters which tax my time, 
 and it grows already late." 
 
 The woman answered nervously : " I wanted 
 to see you to tell you and yet and yet I 
 feared- 
 
 " And what had you to fear . . . from me ? " 
 
 " Your anger, father." 
 
 Sebastian shook his head. " No, no," he 
 hastened to assure her ; " you mislead yourself. 
 It is my office to comfort those in sorrow, and 
 bring them back once more to happiness and 
 peace. What troubles you, my child ? " 
 
 " Ah, father," she returned, as she clasped her 
 hands to check their trembling, " you have such 
 a dear, kind face so gentle tender and still 
 I fear I fear your curse." 
 
 " I curse no one, poor heart." 
 
 " 'Tis true, perhaps, for others," she answered 
 sadly, "but not for me not for . . . Le Cor- 
 beau." 
 
 "LeCorbeau!" 
 
 260
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 The abb6 started, and Philippe, who had 
 caught the name, bent forward, listening eagerly. 
 
 The woman drew aside her veil. " Yes," she 
 said, "/am . . . Le Corbeau." 
 
 Sebastian rose and paced the gravel path ex- 
 citedly. In spite of himself, his anger stirred till 
 his vesture rose and fell upon his breast to the 
 pulse of his deep emotion, and when he spoke 
 he muttered half aloud, unconscious of the pain 
 he gave to her who listened : 
 
 "Corbeau! . . . The harlot! . . . She who 
 has stolen the soul of my son and dragged it in 
 the slough of her pitiless desire " 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 " she for whom he forgets his God! . . . 
 She for whom he has wandered away from the 
 poor old heart that loved him mine mine 
 that loved him. Woman," he demanded, " have 
 you, then, no shame ? " 
 
 " Father," she cried, appealingly, " I'm in dis- 
 tress ! " 
 
 He turned upon her harshly. ' There's no 
 distress . . . without a heart to bear it, . . . and 
 you have none ! " He struggled to subdue his 
 
 anger. " Why have you come to me? " 
 
 261
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " To plead forgiveness." 
 
 " Heaven alone can grant forgiveness. I am 
 but a servant of the Master." 
 
 "And I ... a woman who has sinned . . . 
 and repented." 
 
 Sebastian paused, the look of anger slowly 
 fading from his face. 
 
 "Speak ..." he answered, gently, as he 
 sank into his seat and rested his cheek upon 
 his hand. " Speak, my child ; I am listening." 
 
 " I have come to you," she said, " for Leon's 
 sake alone. Has he told you of me, father of 
 of how I tempted him ? " 
 
 " He has uttered no word concerning you, 
 but suffers in silence for his own disgrace, and 
 bows beneath the burden of a double sin." 
 
 " No, father, no," Le Corbeau disavowed. 
 "The sin is mine, not his. His robe is spot- 
 less, save for the love he gave me a love as 
 pure as his proud and noble heart." 
 
 Sebastian raised his eyes and murmured, 
 chokingly: "O God ... I thank Thee!" He 
 bowed his head in a silent prayer of thankful- 
 ness, then turned to the woman kindly. " Go 
 
 on. I listen. Tell me." 
 
 262
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Father," she replied, " I will tell you the 
 pitiful story from first to last. You know the 
 name which Paris calls me Le Corbeau. Alas ! 
 my history goes with it; we need not dwell on 
 that. In a moment of unreasoning folly I made 
 a wager with Monsieur Jardin 
 
 "The man who is dead?" Sebastian asked. 
 "Youkilled- 
 
 Le Corbeau bowed her head in mute assent. 
 
 " May God forgive you," the abbe whispered, 
 and a silence fell between them. 
 
 Then Le Corbeau told her story, from its 
 black beginning to its blacker end, withholding 
 nothing of the evil she had done; but the abbe 
 read far deeper than she told, and his heart was 
 stirred with a great and human pity for the out- 
 cast and her fall. She told of Jardin and his 
 blistering scorn which drove her to crawl like a 
 serpent in the home of Leon's sister; of the 
 shame that crept upon her in the stillness of the 
 night, and the longing to be good and pure, 
 even as Claudien, the Good Samaritan. And 
 with repentance grew a wondrous love for him 
 who had lifted her a love which mocked un- 
 
 vvorthiness and plunged her sinning heart in 
 
 263
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 misery. She told how she would have left that 
 home of purity, but love crushed down her 
 wavering will, and she broke his rosary then 
 hunted on her knees till the last bead was found. 
 She told of Jardin again, of how he would have 
 dragged her back into the mire of wickedness, 
 and then, in the madness of his passion, sought 
 to take her life; she loosened her gown and 
 showed the purple bruises of his fingers on her 
 throat. 
 
 " Father," she cried, " I knew not what I did ! 
 I was crazed with terror, and I struck! I did 
 not mean to kill ! . . . Father, before the Vir- 
 gin, I did not mean to kill ! " 
 
 She told how she had placed a screen before 
 the stricken man, for his eyes were open and 
 seemed to follow everywhere, and then she 
 had hastened to fly from the hidden thing, and 
 from Leon, whom now she must see no more. 
 Then came the story of the priest's return, when 
 she might have fled with him and have left no 
 trace behind ; but she begged him to leave her 
 there and go back again to his brotherhood. 
 
 " And, father," Le Corbeau sobbed, " he would 
 
 not go ; I even told him I had never loved him, 
 
 264
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 though I wellnigh strangled at the lie. And 
 when he would have turned away in anger, then, 
 in my love and my woman's weakness in my 
 fear of the still, white thing with its open eyes- 
 then then I called him back and told him all. 
 Told how I had striven to be worthy of his love 
 . . . and how I failed named the vile thing I 
 was the leper who was crushed with her own 
 despair whose smallest crime was loving him 
 too well. And on my knees I begged for pity 
 only pity and Leon turned from me, father, 
 . . . and left me with the dead." 
 
 Sebastian hid his face within his hands, and a 
 tear of deep compassion fell between his trem- 
 bling fingers. 
 
 " Father, I have told the truth. ... If lips 
 like mine did not profane, I'd swear it on your 
 crucifix." 
 
 The abbe* arose and placed a gentle hand 
 upon her head. "Poor child," he murmured 
 tenderly, " God gives you pity where Claudien 
 could not give gives more than pity to those 
 who kneel in penitence and ask." 
 
 "And now," she answered, with a tearful 
 smile, " when all is done, I beg you take him 
 
 265
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 back once more into The House of Peace ; and 
 beneath the shadow of his priestly robe . . . 
 your Claudien may forget." 
 
 " And you ? " the abbe asked. 
 
 "I? ... What matters it? I will go to the 
 cardinal and to the king to plead his cause . . . 
 to bear imprisonment death if need be for 
 Leon's sake. ... I will go alone." 
 
 Sebastian straightened ; his eyes grew bright, 
 and his low voice shook with the pathos of his 
 tone: 
 
 " No, not alone, . . . for / go with you." 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 Le Corbeau fell upon her knees and hid her 
 face in the folds of the abbe's robe. 
 
 He raised her gently. " Bear up, brave heart, 
 the end is not yet come. You have striven to 
 mend an evil for which you are not alone to 
 blame, and Heaven will stretch to.you a helping 
 hand. Come to me at sunset and together we 
 will seek the king. Go now, and peace be with 
 you." 
 
 Le Corbeau lingered still ; she turned to the 
 abbe timidly : 
 
 " Father " 
 
 266
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 ' To-day I pass from Leon's life forever. . . . 
 I shall never see his face again. . . . I I may 
 speak with him before I go ? " 
 
 Sebastian sadly shook his head. " No. . . . 
 Tis better as it is." 
 
 "Only a word, dear father a touch of his 
 hand. So little to ask, and to me it means 
 Ah, father, I've tried so hard for him." 
 
 Sebastian answered kindly, but his tone was 
 firm : " My child, it grieves me sorely to refuse, 
 yet it is impossible. . . . Urge me no more, I 
 pray you." 
 
 But she would not be denied. " Forgive me," 
 she begged, in humble prayer. "Could I but 
 see him ? I only ask one look. I will be silent, 
 and he'll never know. Father, . . . you will let 
 me see him a last faint gleam of light to a 
 heart made desolate? And 'tis breaking, father, 
 for the bitter loneliness . . . that will be mine." 
 
 The old man's eyes grew dim with a mist of 
 tears, and his voice was tremulous as he made 
 reply : 
 
 " Listen, my child ; you deem me stern and 
 
 harsh unmindful of your suffering and sacrifice. 
 
 267
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 You were free to go, and yet you came for Clau- 
 dien's sake, . . . and for him you will suffer 
 further still. Your heart is brave, and you shall 
 not be forgotten. Come to me when the sun is 
 set and we'll pray the king for mercy, . . . the 
 king and the King of kings. Peace be with 
 you, and farewell." 
 
 Le Corbeau knelt at the father's feet, and he 
 stretched out his hands in blessing ; she kissed 
 his robe, then crossed with a drooping step 
 toward the gate ; but when she was almost be- 
 neath the iron lamp she stopped, sprang back 
 with a cry of fear, and pointed down the road. 
 Sebastian, hastening to her side, looked, and 
 was filled with consternation, for under a tree a 
 hundred yards away a mounted gendarme sat his 
 horse and fixed his gaze on The House of Peace, 
 so that none who entered or withdrew might 
 escape his lynx-eyed vigilance. 
 
 The abbe gazed in deep perplexity, for well 
 he knew that should the gendarme take the 
 woman prisoner her chance of pardon by the 
 king was small indeed ; and somewhere in his 
 priestly veins a warlike drop of blood surged to 
 
 his sturdy heart and warmed it. He clenched 
 
 268
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 his soft white fist, and registered a vow that ere 
 they took this friendless child who sacrificed 
 herself for love of Claudien, the walls of The 
 House of Peace should first be battered down ; 
 then he closed the gate and turned to Le Cor- 
 beau kindly. 
 
 " My daughter," he said, " yon watching offi- 
 cer has altered somewhat of my plans, and while 
 he waits I cannot jeopardize your safety by dis- 
 missing you. A matter of weighty import de- 
 mands my absence for a time, and I therefore 
 beg that you remain till my return." He cast 
 about him for a spot wherein she might escape 
 inquiring eyes, then led her to the latticed tool- 
 house near the wall. " Here," he said, " you 
 may rest in calm security, first giving me your 
 faithful pledge to speak with no one, nor make 
 attempt to leave your hiding place." 
 
 " I promise, father," she answered gratefully, 
 and crossed the threshold of her snug retreat, 
 where, through the latticed bars, she could 
 see and hear all that passed in the cloister 
 garden. 
 
 Sebastian closed the door, thought for a mo- 
 ment, then turned the key, and placed it in a 
 
 269
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 fold of his inner robe. When this was done 
 he crossed to his table hastily and began to 
 write. He sprinkled the sheet with sand, and 
 called Philippe, as he folded and sealed the 
 missive : 
 
 " Philippe, you have heard ? " 
 
 " Aye," replied his attendant priest, " aye, fa- 
 ther, and God be praised ! " 
 
 Sebastian handed him the letter and spoke in 
 guarded tones: 
 
 " Take this missive to the palace of the king ; 
 seek out the Due de la Fere and give it in his 
 hands. No other, my son to the due alone. 
 I, myself, will see the cardinal without delay. 
 Go now, and if yonder gendarme stops you, show 
 him the packet which you bear; he will doubt- 
 less let you pass. Hasten, Philippe; we yet 
 may be in time ! Hasten ! Hasten ! " 
 
 Philippe departed hurriedly ; Sebastian stood 
 for a moment looking after him, then fell on his 
 knees and clasped his crucifix in prayer. A 
 deep-toned bell tolled solemnly ; a file of priests, 
 with downcast eyes and bended heads, passed 
 slowly along the portico and disappeared through 
 
 the door of The House of Peace. Abbe Sebas- 
 
 270
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 tian rose from his knees and crossed to the gar- 
 den gate; he lingered till the bell had ceased to 
 toll, then stretched out his arms toward a dark- 
 ened cell and murmured, in quavering tender- 
 ness: 
 " Claudien . . . my son ... my son ! " 
 
 271
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 A PRIEST walked slowly across the garden, 
 trailing behind him a wooden rake, and began 
 to smooth the gravel paths. He moved with a 
 listless step and drooping shoulders, his figure 
 gaunt and awkward beneath his flapping gown ; 
 and his cheeks had a muddy tinge which seemed 
 reflected in the whites of his sad, protruding 
 eyes. Poor Lucien an humble toiler, meek 
 and joyless whose liver doled a life-long pen- 
 ance for uncommitted sins. 
 
 Brother Henri came out upon the gallery and 
 leaned across its rail. Henri was of a widely 
 different type from Lucien, sleek and plump, 
 with restless ferret eyes, forever on the watch for 
 earthly happenings, and fingers which seemed 
 to itch eternally to break the seals of metaphoric 
 bundles with unknown contents. 
 
 "Philippe! . . . Philippe!" he called. "Ho, 
 Lucien! Hast thou seen Philippe?" 
 
 Lucien paused in his work upon the path, 
 272
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 looked upward, and placed his hand behind his 
 ear: 
 
 "Hem?" 
 
 " Hast thou seen Philippe? " asked Henri, in 
 a louder tone. 
 
 " Yes, certainly," said Lucien briefly, and, as 
 though the matter were entirely closed, went on 
 with his sober raking. 
 
 Henri laughed, and descending the stair, came 
 forward and touched the raker's arm. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Where what?" 
 
 " Philippe ! " bawled Henri in the other's ear. 
 " I want Philippe ! Where is he ? " 
 
 " I know not." 
 
 "Lucien, you drive one mad. Where was 
 he?" 
 
 " Running." 
 
 Again the plump priest laughed, stopped sud- 
 denly, and bethought him that the mystery anent 
 Philippe was still unsolved. 
 
 "U-u-m! You say you saw him running, 
 Lucien ? Er how ? " 
 
 "As though the fiend was after him," said 
 Lucien gravely. " I saw him from a corner of 
 18 273
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 the garden whisk through the gate and rush 
 furiously away, his vestment fluttering upon 
 the wind." 
 
 " Then the fiend caught him not," the fat one 
 grinned. 
 
 " Methinks Philippe outfooted him," the lean 
 one answered, with a bilious smile, " for his pace 
 was lightning like." 
 
 "And Father Sebastian?" Henri asked. 
 
 " Gone also with greater dignity and less of 
 haste but gone." 
 
 Henri whistled softly, and bit his thumb in 
 earnest meditation. 
 
 " Now, what on earth," he muttered, " could 
 take them off so strangely and with such pre- 
 cipitance ? " He looked up slyly. " Eh, Lu- 
 cien?" 
 
 Lucien leaned upon his implement and an- 
 swered solemnly: 
 
 " Brother, ... I rake the garden paths, and 
 trouble not my spirit with mundane matters 
 . . . other than those which appertain to rakes." 
 
 A knock was heard at the garden gate, but 
 Henri paid no heed. 
 
 " Lucien," he said, " you are indeed a stoic 
 274
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 marvellous! And yet," he added, with a med- 
 itative sigh, "and yet I wonder much what 
 caused Philippe to whisk so suddenly away. 
 Would he had paused to tell us." Another 
 knock resounded on the gate. " Secretiveness, 
 my Lucien, is an evil habit; it narrows the 
 mind, creates a selfish soul, and slams the door 
 of information in the face of progress. Now 
 had Philippe but stopped a single instant to 
 tell " 
 
 But here Henri was rudely interrupted in his 
 speculations by a louder and more impatient 
 knocking, and Lucien once more leaned upon 
 his rake and ventured on a sapient observation : 
 
 " Methinks, Henri, your boundless curiosity 
 would lead you to ascertain who stands outside 
 the gate." 
 
 " True, O stoic true," the other grinned, as 
 he crossed the garden. " My mind was occu- 
 pied with that sly Philippe and his surreptitious 
 whisking. . . . God save us, what a fox ! " 
 
 The gate was opened, and Le Corbeau, watch- 
 ing from behind her latticed screen, saw the 
 black-robed Jesuit enter, and at his heels two 
 
 solemn-faced attending priests. The Jesuit 
 
 275
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 leaned upon his staff and walked with a twisting 
 limp; beneath his brow two cold grey eyes 
 looked out forbiddingly, and the corners of his 
 mouth curved downward to a thin, protruding 
 chin. Henri bowed low before him as he raised 
 his hand in silent salutation and halted in the 
 path. 
 
 " My son," he said, with an acid smile, " your 
 entrance gate is in need of a nimbler foot than 
 yours ... or mine," and he thrust a padded 
 sandal into view. " Go say to your abbe that 
 Castine is come at the order of the cardinal." 
 
 "Your pardon, holy father," Henri stam- 
 mered, "but I er but Father Sebastian has 
 gone er a short time since." 
 
 "Whither?" 
 
 " Alas ! I know not. He left no word, and 
 went in haste. But I pray you, father, rest be- 
 neath the shade, for, doubtless, his absence will 
 be brief." 
 
 " My son, I thank you ; so be it," said Castine, 
 and crossed to a seat at the abbe's writing table, 
 his two attendants likewise seeking shelter from 
 the sun. 
 
 Henri bore a cup of water to the guest. 
 276
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 When the Jesuit had drunk he handed back 
 the empty vessel, and wiped his thin blue lips 
 with a claw-like hand. There was something in 
 the motion of that hand, a something swift and 
 sure, that sent a chill to Le Corbeau's heart and 
 set her shivering behind her screen. 
 
 A priest appeared on the gallery, shaded his 
 eyes, and looked along the road toward the 
 south, then turned and called: 
 
 " The troopers ! They have come ! " 
 
 On the instant Henri caught the fire of fear 
 and cried excitedly: 
 
 " Quick, Lucien ! Ring the cloister bell ! 
 Summon the brothers! Haste you! They 
 shall not take him ! " 
 
 "What's this? What's this?" said Castine, 
 tartly. " Cease ! Cease your clamour, man ! " 
 
 But Henri only wrung his hands and cried 
 out more loudly: "The soldiers of the king! 
 They will take him Claudien ! Quick ! Hide 
 him in the cellar! Will no one help him? " 
 
 " Pish ! " the Jesuit sneered, and turned to the 
 priest on the gallery; "what means the mad- 
 man ? " 
 
 " Tis true," the priest called back. ' The sol- 
 277
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 diers of the king are on the road, and I fear 
 they seek for Claudien." 
 
 A deafening hubbub rose ; the priests poured 
 out upon the gallery with excited cries and ges- 
 tures; the clean, harsh blare of a trumpet's note 
 rang echoing along the gray stone parapets, and 
 died in the pounding rush of horses' hoofs; a 
 jingling clatter of dismounting men and an 
 officer struck the gate with the hilt of his naked 
 sword. 
 
 "In the king's name . . . open ! " 
 
 Le Corbeau crouched behind the lattice an^ 
 pressed a white, affrighted face against its bars., 
 while Henri rushed about in distracted circles, 
 till the Jesuit caught his arm and commanded 
 angrily, as he pushed him forward : 
 
 " The gate, dolt ! The gate ! " 
 
 Henri advanced, but at a louder knock 
 sprang back in terror. Lucien flung down his 
 rake, and whispered as he passed his quaking 
 friend : 
 
 " I fear, Henri, that your curiosity is on the 
 wane." 
 
 The gate was opened, and an officer stepped 
 
 in, followed by a double score of men-at-arms ; 
 
 278
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 he spoke an order sharply, and they formed 
 a line along the path, while two remained be- 
 hind and barred the gate with their sabres 
 crossed. Castine stepped forward and spoke 
 with dignity: 
 
 "May I ask, monsieur, the cause of this 
 strange infraction of our rules ? " 
 
 The officer raised a hand to his round steel 
 cap. "Your pardon, holy father, I but obey 
 the order of the king." 
 
 "And your order?" asked the Jesuit. 
 
 " Is positive and explicit. To take into cus- 
 tody one Leon la Valiere, a priest of The 
 House of Peace." 
 
 A murmur ran along the gallery and sank 
 into a breathless hush. 
 
 " And on what charge," the Jesuit questioned, 
 " do you seek our brother? " 
 
 " My instructions demand that I hail the pris- 
 oner before the king, and there instructions 
 end." 
 
 Castine pursed his lips. " The procedure is 
 most unusual. If I refuse?" 
 
 The officer replied in all due reverence: "I 
 
 would spare you, father, the indignity of 
 
 279
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 force, and trust, in turn, you will respect my 
 orders." 
 
 He drew from his belt a paper, which he 
 placed in Castine's hand. The churchman read 
 it carefully twice through, folded, and gave it 
 back from whence it came. 
 
 " Far be it from me," he said, with a wave of 
 his flowing sleeve, " to offer discourtesy to the 
 mandates of the king; but the abbe here in 
 charge is absent, and without his sanction I 
 cannot assent to the seizure of a member of his 
 household." 
 
 A hum of approval echoed along the gallery ; 
 Castine looked up, and the murmur ceased. 
 The officer toyed with the handle of his sword, 
 and after a moment's thought, said firmly: 
 
 " The matter is imperative. ... It may not 
 wait ! " 
 
 "It must!" And Castine's lean jaws closed 
 with an angry snap. 
 
 The trooper bowed. " I should much regret," 
 he offered, with grave respect, "to resort to 
 measures stronger than persuasion, but as you 
 will " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, turned to his 
 280
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 men-at-arms, and raised his sword. Le Corbeau 
 would have lifted her frightened voice in pro- 
 test, but the Jesuit forestalled her. 
 
 " Stop ! " he commanded sternly. " I, too, am 
 vested with authority . . . and will be obeyed ! " 
 He caught the shrinking Henri by the arm. 
 " Go seek Sebastian and ask his immediate re- 
 turn." 
 
 "But, father," Henri whined, "I know not 
 where he is." 
 
 " Then search until you find him," came the 
 harsh reply. "Go!" 
 
 Henri ran forward, but recoiled in fear, as the 
 two crossed sabres barred his exit from the gate, 
 while the trooper also laid his sword on the 
 gleaming barrier, and cried : 
 
 " In the name of the King of France ! " 
 
 The Jesuit bent his head as the eagle stoops, 
 and his keen grey eye burned wrathfully; he 
 limped down that line of steel and struck the 
 sabres sharply with his oaken staff. 
 
 "In the name of his Eminence . . . the Car- 
 dinal!" - 
 
 The sword-points fell, and Henri sped down 
 
 the dusty road like a hunted hare. 
 
 281
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 The trooper touched his helm. " Your par- 
 don, monseigneur ; I feared for the moment that 
 yours was an artifice to aid my prisoner's 
 escape." He bowed and humbly bent his knee. 
 "Your pardon." 
 
 Castine received the officer's apology with a 
 glance of cool contempt, turned on his heel, 
 and addressed a priest who was standing near at 
 hand: 
 
 " Go bid your former brother, Leon la Valiere, 
 attend me here without delay." To the officer 
 he said, with curt but easy dignity : " You will 
 see, monsieur, that the servants of God deal not 
 in trickeries. I, Castine, am deputed by the 
 cardinal to question this brother whom you seek 
 concerning certain matters which have come to 
 pass. I beg you, therefore, to retire ; the pris- 
 oner shall remain within your sight throughout." 
 
 Once more the trooper bowed respectfully, 
 turned, and gave a low-voiced order to his fol- 
 lowers, who wheeled, retreated, and formed a 
 line along the garden wall. The Jesuit leaned 
 upon his staff and limped across to the table be- 
 neath the shade, and for five long, aching min- 
 utes no sound was heard save the stamping of 
 
 282
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 restless steeds outside and the rattle of their 
 bridle reins. 
 
 And while a woman watched, her heart 
 churned hotly in her breast, and her spinning 
 thought wove backward to the shop of Madame 
 Denise and the evil thing that crouched beside 
 a dingy window waiting waiting for the 
 coming of a priest. 
 
 283
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 LE CORBEAU saw a line of priests file silently 
 out upon the gallery, descend the stair, and pass 
 with solemn pace along the portico ; it moved 
 down the gravel path, spread out in a close- 
 linked ring, and Claudien stood before the 
 Jesuit. His head was held erect; his sad grey 
 eyes looked calmly upon his judge, but his face 
 was white white as the spotless robe which 
 loosely hung from his straight, square shoul- 
 ders. His mantle had been laid aside, and he 
 seemed among his sombre-robed inquisitors like 
 a pallid rift in the core of a frowning cloud. 
 
 Castine raised his hand and surveyed the 
 waiting circle long and earnestly. 
 
 " Peace be with you." 
 
 The brothers bowed their heads; the Jesuit 
 turned to Claudien, and his words were slow, 
 dispassionate, and calm : 
 
 " Leon la Valiere, once a brother in The 
 House of Peace, I speak in the name of the 
 
 Holy Church of Rome. . . . We meet in sor- 
 
 284
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 row sorrow for the cause of meeting, and for 
 the servant who has fallen in disgrace. Around 
 you are the brothers of your Order bowed in 
 grief for you whom once they loved for the 
 sacred vow which your sin dishonours." He 
 waved his hand and pointed to the grim-faced 
 men-at-arms. " There stand the soldiers of the 
 King of France, clothed with authority to seize 
 your person on a grievous charge. The nature 
 of this charge is known ... to you . . . and to 
 us ; we spare you its recital. And now, if there 
 be aught which you may say in palliation of 
 your sin, I conjure you, in the name of the Holy 
 Church, to speak." Castine waited, but no 
 answer came. "Speak ... ere the book be 
 closed I " 
 
 The white priest bowed his head and an- 
 swered calmly: 
 
 " I have sinned." 
 
 " Who or what is the cause of your transgres- 
 sion? . . . Speak!" 
 
 Claud ien pressed his hands together and 
 slowly raised his eyes. 
 
 " Father ... I entreat you question me no 
 
 further. ... I can say no more." 
 
 285
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Castine's mouth grew hard. " The question 
 is one which neither you nor I may shirk. I 
 ask . . . and must receive response. My son, 
 we wait." 
 
 " I cannot answer." 
 
 "Refusal aids you nothing. I come at the 
 instance of the cardinal, whose will must be 
 obeyed. Speak ! " 
 
 Again came silence, longer and more intense, 
 while Castine scowled and bit his nether lip. 
 He leaned across the table, waiting, then 
 raised and shook his hand : 
 
 " So be it. Then since you will not name the 
 reason of your fall, I name it in your stead. . . . 
 A woman ! " A murmur broke from the ring 
 of listeners. " Speak! Is this not true? " 
 
 " Once more, holy father," came the low re- 
 sponse, " I cannot answer." 
 
 The murmuring increased. Upon the Jesuit's 
 pale, lank cheek a crimson spot appeared; he 
 bent his head and thrust out his dogged chin, 
 deep-lined with the crease of his curving lips. 
 
 " What need," he harshly cried, " to hide the 
 truth beneath a veil of sullen silence? What 
 
 need . . . when your name is bandieH from lip 
 
 286
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 to lip a subject for idle jest and ridicule? 
 What need . . . when even the rabble in the 
 streets of Paris now know the shameful story of 
 the Good Samaritan and Le Corbeau his 
 paramour! " 
 
 "Stop! It is false!" 
 
 Claudien's voice rose clear and resonant, and 
 even the Jesuit made no move to break the 
 hush which followed. A moment passed, and 
 the white priest spoke again, but in the meas- 
 ured tones of fearless truth : 
 
 " That I loved this woman it is true. . . . That 
 for her I broke my vows and sacred promises is 
 true. . . . That for her I would have deserted 
 Church and brotherhood is also true. . . . The 
 rest before just Heaven is a lie!" 
 
 A louder murmur rose, and the priests 
 moved restlessly ; one brother stepped from the 
 watching group and stood apart, while a listen- 
 ing woman panted in imprisonment, and thrilled 
 with a nameless joy. Castine raised his hand, 
 and the murmuring ceased. 
 
 "You love this woman still?" Claudien 
 bowed his head. " Knowing what she is? " 
 
 The answer came in the same unruffled tone: 
 287
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " What she has been . . . crushes me. What 
 she is ... I know not, . . . but I love her still." 
 
 Another brother left the group, looking 
 askance at him whose lips profaned his cloth, 
 while his fellow-priests, as though by mute 
 consent, devoutly crossed themselves and edged 
 away. The Jesuit bent his frown on the passive 
 face before him and asked, in rising warmth: 
 
 " Do you realize the evil import of your 
 words ? You stand confessed of a sinful passion 
 glorying in your infamy insulting the very 
 Church of Rome with the shame of your 
 avowal." 
 
 " I speak the simple truth . . . without irrev- 
 erence or a thought to wound." 
 
 "Your love for the woman was criminal," 
 Castine accused. 
 
 " Of such a sin," the priest replied, " my heart 
 is clean. ... I gave her my love. ... I gave 
 her honour and respect." 
 
 " Where is your proof of innocence? " 
 
 " Where is your proof of guilt? " 
 
 "Where?" the Jesuit thundered. "Where? 
 ... In the body of the murdered man Jar- 
 din!" And he struck the table sharply with 
 
 288
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 his oaken staff, to still the wild confusion among 
 his listeners, then turned again to Claudien: 
 " You are known to have been alone with her 
 alone ... at night her lover in thought and 
 deed. Your sacred robe concealed the gar- 
 ments of a cavalier ; you even wore a sword 
 you a priest. Jardin is dead. . . . He was the 
 woman's lover also Paris knows it, even as 
 you have known your rival for the painted 
 courtesan! . . . Speak! . . . Who did the 
 deed?" 
 
 Again came lagging silence, through which 
 Le Corbeau heard the pawing steeds and the 
 ceaseless quarrelling of sparrows in the ivy vine. 
 
 "Silence is confession of your guilt," said 
 Castine, solemnly, " and denial is your right if 
 innocent." 
 
 " Father I cannot answer." 
 
 The Jesuit controlled himself by force of will 
 alone. Justice he loved, and manhood he ad- 
 mired, but zeal for the Mother Church came 
 first of all. 
 
 "And do you fully understand," he asked, 
 " the consequences of your stubbornness ? " He 
 pointed to the troopers lined against the wall. 
 19 289
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "Your seizure by the law? To be led through 
 the public streets a common criminal? The 
 prison and the block?" 
 
 Claudien looked him in the eye and bowed 
 his head in answer an answer which would be 
 the same when the headsman raised his axe. 
 
 " Leon la Valiere," said Castine sternly, " the 
 Church has sought to shield your body and 
 your name, but your silence ties the hand that 
 would stay the executioner. The soldiers wait. 
 . . . Give me your oath of innocence a single 
 word and I bid them to be gone. . . . Refuse 
 . . . and the path you choose is yours to walk 
 alone." 
 
 Claudien raised his chin, like a warrior hope- 
 less, but unafraid : 
 
 " Father, ... I have chosen, . . . and I walk 
 . . . alone." 
 
 There were many there who loved him still, 
 even though his hands were stained with blood, 
 and some among them fell upon their knees, 
 while one sobbed out aloud, turned, and fled to 
 the darkness of his cell. And even Castine's 
 chastened spirit stirred, for he knew that before 
 
 him stood a man. 
 
 290
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "My son," he said, in a softened tone, "I 
 make one last appeal. ... If you are innocent, 
 and in your silence seek to shield a woman's 
 sin, I tell you your folly is greater than your 
 fault. As the justice of man will fall on you, so 
 will the justice of God be meted out to her. . . 
 Your cloth demands the truth. Answer! " 
 
 Claudien sadly shook his head; the Jesuit's 
 nostrils whitened, and his jaw grew set and hard. 
 
 "Then go!" he cried. "And may Heaven 
 judge you as your sin deserves." He lifted his 
 hand and addressed the sorrowing priests: 
 " Brothers, . . . you have heard. His path is 
 chosen, and it parts from yours. When this 
 dark day is done, I charge you to forget even 
 as he shall be forgotten, . . . dishonoured in life 
 . . . dishonoured in death, ... his name 
 henceforth unspoken in your brotherhood." 
 
 The priests were weeping silently, and Le 
 Corbeau's tears were dropped with theirs, a 
 priceless offering on an altar of human love. 
 
 Again the Jesuit spoke: "And you who have 
 loved him lest you cry my judgment harsh I 
 plead your aid in his condemnation. If there 
 
 be one among you can speak in the cause of 
 
 291
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 him who stands before us, let not your tongue 
 be silent." Alas ! no answer came. " If there 
 be one who can look into his heart and say . . . 
 he is innocent of crime, ... in the name of the 
 Holy Church speak now!" 
 
 Once more that crawling pause. Castine 
 bent his eagle neck and waited. 
 
 "Answer!" 
 
 But only the sparrows twittered, and a brother 
 sobbed in pity for his friend. The Jesuit made 
 a sign to the watchful officer, who gave a low 
 command ; two troopers stepped from the rigid 
 line and placed their hands on the shoulders of 
 the unresisting priest, when a voice rang out, 
 shrill, vibrant with distress: 
 
 " Stop ! He is stainless . . . before God and 
 man!" 
 
 Claudien started at the sound, and turned in 
 wonder. 
 
 "Who speaks?" the Jesuit cried. "Stand 
 forth!" 
 
 No answer came save a rattling of the latticed 
 door, as Le Corbeau shook it with her bare 
 white hands. Locked! Locked! And Leon 
 
 stood in the soldiers' grasp ! He bore her guilt ! 
 
 292
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 His lips were sealed for her! For her! He 
 would die ... and speak no word ! She beat 
 on the hard, unyielding door, then seized a 
 wooden stool, and struck struck in the mad- 
 ness of a woman's fear and love. A splintering 
 crash a fiercer blow the frail thing tottered 
 on its hinge and fell and she sprang across the 
 shattered barrier. 
 
 ' 'Tis I Le Corbeau ! . . . The deed is mine I 
 . . . /killed him-//" 
 
 "Adrienne!" breathed Leon, in a gasping 
 whisper. " Adrienne ! " 
 
 For ten short, startled breaths soldier and 
 churchman stared in blank astonishment ; then 
 rose a tumult among the outraged priests, 
 which Castine vainly sought to quell. 
 
 " The woman ! " they shrieked. " A woman 
 in the cloister! The murderess! The courte- 
 san ! Le Corbeau ! Le Corbeau, the wanton ! " 
 And they surged about her with threatening 
 hands and angry execrations. 
 
 "Peace! Peace!" cried Castine, stretching 
 out his staff; and when the uproar lulled, he 
 turned to the officer and demanded sharply: 
 
 " Seize that woman ! " 
 293
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 The soldiers and priests advanced. Leon 
 took one forward step to interpose, but the 
 troopers hung upon his arms. He shook them 
 off as a stag might toss a hound, and stood at Le 
 Corbeau's side, then turned and stretched out 
 his long, lean arm. 
 
 " Not as a priest, but as a son of France I 
 warn you, . . . touch her not ! " 
 
 The priests fell back ; the officer looked and 
 smiled and gave no order to his men. Castine 
 pushed forward through the press, and con- 
 fronted Leon angrily. 
 
 "Stand aside!" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " I command you ! " 
 
 " I will not obey." 
 
 " The creature is a murderess ! " 
 
 "I care not!" 
 
 "A harlot!" 
 
 "She is a woman. . . . Listen, father, . . . 
 and you, brothers of The House of Peace. . . . 
 You condemn her, knowing not her crime, its 
 nature, or its cause. A woman, defenceless 
 and alone. . . . Let her go in peace, and on me 
 
 may your judgment fall." 
 
 294
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Again a murmur rose from priests and men- 
 at-arms; from the priests low, muttering, and 
 long; but the troopers straightened their har- 
 nessed backs and raised their sabre hilts in 
 brotherly salute. 
 
 " Hold ! " cried Castine fiercely. " We have 
 suffered you to speak in defiance of Church and 
 king. We have borne your insolence your 
 sullen disobedience. We will suffer it no long- 
 er. The woman you shield is a murderess by 
 her own confession. She has crept like a thief 
 into our sanctuary her very presence a defile- 
 ment and a curse ! " 
 
 Le Corbeau crouched at Leon's side, her face 
 half buried in his flowing robe. At Castine's 
 words she turned to him in trembling appeal. 
 
 " Father, I came for him for Leon in tears 
 and repentance for the wrong I did him." 
 
 The muttering priests drew nearer, inch by 
 inch, with snarling menace and eager hands, 
 but Leon swept their circle with his arm. 
 
 "Stand back!" 
 
 " Fool ! " the Jesuit stormed. " Fool, are you 
 mad? Are you blind to her wickedness and 
 
 shameless vice ? She the wretch the outcast ! 
 
 295
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Look! Look upon her ... in all her loath- 
 some degradation she the foul thing that 
 cowers at your feet! And you defend her? 
 Heaven help you! What can you say in her 
 defence ? " 
 
 The, tall Samaritan once more stretched his 
 arm, and the roll of his deep voice drowned his 
 brothers' murmuring: 
 
 " What saith your Master, which is God in 
 Heaven? . . . 'With what judgment ye judge ', 
 ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye 
 mete, it shall be measured to you again! " 
 
 The priests shrank back in awe, the Jesuit 
 found no word to answer, and the troopers bit 
 their lips in silence, cursed their rigid discipline, 
 and longed to cheer. 
 
 296
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THERE were sudden sounds of commotion at 
 the garden gate; Sebastian entered hurriedly, 
 and close upon his heels came the lean Phi- 
 lippe, still panting from his run. The abbe* 
 raised his hand : 
 
 " His Eminence, the Cardinal!" 
 
 From his carriage stepped that calm old min- 
 ister, and priests and troopers bent their knees 
 as the crimson cassock passed. Beneath a red 
 calotte gleamed his silvered hair, which framed 
 a face thin, placid, seamed with lines of earthly 
 care and kindliness. He leaned on a proffered 
 arm, approached the Jesuit, and spoke : 
 
 "Castine, . . . your inquiry may cease. 
 Our son is guiltless of the charge preferred." 
 
 The Jesuit frowned, and pointed a slim, accus- 
 ing finger at the woman who crouched at L 
 on's feet. " We have heard it from the wan- 
 ton's lips, not his ; the wanton whom he shielded 
 
 and still shields." 
 
 297
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Abbe Sebastian looked down reproachfully, 
 looked from the tear-stained face to the shat- 
 tered door, and understood. 
 
 " Father," she cried, " I beg forgiveness for 
 my broken pledge, but I only sought to save 
 him to save Leon, father whom you love. 
 The soldiers would have taken him away. He 
 would bear my guilt, and there were none to 
 save him!" She crept toward the abbe and 
 knelt to him. " Father you will forgive " 
 
 "No!" the Jesuit cried, and turned to the 
 cardinal in a burst of religious zeal. Tis not 
 enough that she should strip the mantle from a 
 mindless priest, exposing him to shame and 
 ridicule, but now she pollutes our robes of 
 purity with the vileness of her tainted touch ! 
 A harlot in a cloister ! A mockery ! A curse ! " 
 
 His fierceness fired the rage of the restless 
 priests, and again a vengeful storm of maledic- 
 tion poured upon the outcast's head. 
 
 Le Corbeau shrank in terror beneath the 
 harsh, unpitying castigation of their murmuring 
 tongues, but the cardinal took her hand and 
 raised her gently. 
 
 " Peace, Castine ! " he said, in calm reproof. 
 298
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 ' The sinner has repented. As Leon shielded, 
 so will I also shield. Peace ! " 
 
 He turned to the angry priests, whose voices 
 died away at the sound of his gentle speech. 
 
 " My children, I have heard the story of your 
 brother's sin, and my heart is sorely grieved; 
 but you who weep with me because of him, 
 must strive to remember that a priest of God is 
 one of God's humanity. Were he tempted not, 
 where then would be his triumph over evil the 
 glory of his life of purity ? What preach ye to 
 the world ? Mercy and forgiveness. Turn not, 
 then, from him whose feet have wandered where 
 yours, in mortal weakness, may also tread." 
 
 The brothers bowed their heads to the just 
 rebuke, and the cardinal released Le Corbeau's 
 hand and turned to Leon. 
 
 " My son, if you would once more enter The 
 House of Peace, and can kneel in penitence be- 
 fore its altar, I pledge myself to intercede for 
 the absolution of your sin." 
 
 The Samaritan inclined his head, but made 
 no answer, and the aged minister spoke on, in 
 mellow, even tones: 
 
 " Your sphere of usefulness amongst us ... 
 299
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 you have forfeited ; and henceforth your field of 
 labor lies across the sea in a new land, where 
 your harvest may be gathered and given up to 
 God. Turn then from her who has led your 
 heart astray turn, my son, forever . . . and 
 forget." 
 
 Leon's gaze passed slowly from the speaker's 
 face, rested on a woman's streaming eyes, and 
 lingered tenderly. 
 
 " If this you may not do," said the cardinal, 
 in a sterner tone, " then go you forth into the 
 world with her whose love you buy with the 
 coin of folly. Go forth without our blessing 
 without the sanction of Holy Church and an- 
 swer to your heavenly Father for the trust your 
 soul forsakes. Tempted, you fell. Forgiven, I 
 offer you return into your brotherhood." 
 
 Leon faced the cardinal: "And she 
 
 " Must fight her battle as you fight yours, . . . 
 apart from you forever." 
 
 Le Corbeau clutched Sebastian's arm, and a 
 stifled sob escaped her lips. 
 
 "Forever? Alone- 
 
 The Samaritan raised his head. " Your Emi- 
 nence 
 
 300
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 The cardinal interrupted with a swift, impe- 
 rious gesture. " Her hands are stained with a 
 fellow-creature's blood ; for this she must answer 
 to the king, and sue for pardon." 
 
 " Pardon ! " Le Corbeau cried, as the woman in 
 her blood burst forth in fierce rebellion. " Par- 
 don! And what then? ... To be cast on the 
 world and look for mercy there ! " She laughed 
 hysterically. " Mercy for the woman who has 
 fallen! Mercy ... in the human wolves that 
 snarl and tear her flesh ! Mercy . . . when you 
 crush her heart on earth and shut her soul 
 from heaven! What hope of pardon? What 
 hope ? " 
 
 The cardinal raised his hand, and once more 
 hushed the murmuring of the priests. 
 
 " My child," he said, " your sins are deep, but 
 the Father is merciful and just. Knock, . . . 
 and the gate will be opened." 
 
 "Aye, knock!" she flung back bitterly. 
 " Knock till my hands shall bleed and call in 
 vain ! Your heaven is deaf its door is barred, 
 . . . and the outcast's cry is drowned in the 
 prayers of those who pity not. Ask pity par- 
 don, if you will and wait for pardon, . . . wait I 
 
 301
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 There is pardon for the man pardon always 
 pardon! For woman . . . none!" She 
 wheeled upon the priests, in a storm which rent 
 her with its passionate despair. " The woman 
 is a serpent ! Crush her with your heel, . . . 
 and cry to God the glory of your deed ! " 
 
 The storm was passed; she sank at Sebas- 
 tian's feet, and sobbed, in broken-hearted mis- 
 ery: 
 
 " Father help me help me ! Where can I 
 turn? What hand to save me now ?" 
 
 "MINE!" 
 
 Leon strode to the stricken woman's side, and 
 would have lifted her, but the cardinal inter- 
 posed. 
 
 " Heed ere you choose," he warned. " Your 
 step, once taken, is immutable. For you there 
 is no return." 
 
 " I ask for none," the priest replied, and a 
 flush swept over his pallid cheek. " Withdraw 
 your pardon send me forth unblessed 
 stripped of my robe your curse upon my 
 name " 
 
 " No, Leon not for me ! " Le Corbeau cried. 
 
 " Not not for me ! " 
 
 302
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 But Leon paid no heed; he faced his judge, 
 in courage born of justice and of love. 
 
 " Shall I go free," he asked, " my path made 
 smooth, while hers is choked with thorns? To 
 shirk the lash which falls on her alone? To 
 bury my dishonour in an unknown land, and 
 pray for hope where manhood's spirit failed? 
 To stain your altar with a coward's lie? No, 
 Monseigneur! And no, again! You offer me 
 the bread of your forgiveness, . . . but I may 
 not eat ! " 
 
 Once more he would have raised the weeping 
 woman from the earth, but again the cardinal 
 interposed and spoke in unruffled calm : 
 
 " Think think, my son, of the life you offer 
 her. To go forth hand in hand a beggar and 
 a criminal to battle with the world. Live . . . 
 when the memory of the past shall dog your 
 every step your hidden sin a pillow for your 
 sleep. Live . . . till the passion of your selfish 
 love burns low and dies. Live without hope 
 without the God your stubborn heart forsakes. 
 This you offer her. What more ? " 
 
 "An arm to shield her helplessness . . .while 
 
 life shall last." 
 
 303
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 The cardinal's tone was coldly calm, but be- 
 hind it lay the power and wisdom of unfaltering 
 faith. Before him stood a man whose honour he 
 could trust ; a man who would give his name 
 his blood for a woman marked with the brand 
 of Cain. But the Church asked more. What 
 profited the torture of the cross if naught was 
 gained thereby save suffering? The priest 
 might give a few short years of love and tender- 
 ness and then what then ? 
 
 Leon raised his head to speak, but his tongue 
 was mute, for the gulf beyond grew dark with 
 shadows, and he shivered at the plunge. The 
 cardinal laid his hand on the shoulder of the 
 Good Samaritan, and spoke as a father speaks, 
 in duty and in love : 
 
 " Think you my sixty years are filled with un- 
 wisdom and unkindliness that my heart is 
 warped and pitiless to human grief? Ah, no, 
 my son; I've walked on trouble's road . . . and 
 know. Go seek God's mercy in your field of 
 toil. Subdue your passion. Trample on its 
 fires. Forget the woman. Shut her from your 
 heart. Go ! Leave her fate to me ! " 
 
 304
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Leon took a backward step, and stared, in 
 reeling unbelief, fearing, wondering. 
 
 "You you- ' he gasped. "And what can 
 you offer her?" 
 
 " A shield your feeble arm can never give " 
 the cardinal stepped to Le Corbeau's side and 
 flung his mantle across her shrinking form 
 " the purple of the Church. You seek to shield 
 her body. . . . I, her soul!" 
 
 Still Leon stared stared stupidly; his brain 
 was stunned, and his heart pumped vainly to 
 supply its need. He raised his head to speak, 
 and slowly it drooped again upon his breast. 
 Le Corbeau rose to go to him, but the cardinal 
 restrained her with a warning hand. Philippe 
 stepped forward, in tender sympathy, but his 
 way was barred by the Jesuit's oaken staff. 
 
 A painful stillness fell, and even the sparrows' 
 twittering was hushed in the ivy vine. Once 
 more the priest stood silently, while battle raged 
 between his soul and heart. He saw her 
 crouched and trembling beside the grey old 
 man who had been a father and a friend through 
 years of grief and toil, and his very blood cried 
 out in pity of the pain his choice must bring. 
 20 305
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 He saw the cloister with its rows of gloomy cells 
 and the breeze-swept garden drowsing in the 
 sun. He heard a droning, whispered song that 
 dinned forever in his ears : " Will you always 
 live so, Leon lonely and sad at heart, . . . with 
 none to love you with a great and lasting love? 
 . . . Will you pass the cup untasted, then ; the 
 cup that brims with the bubbling joy of love?" 
 His head was spinning, and the world swam 
 madly round and laughed and laughed. He 
 dimly saw his brother priests, with faces set and 
 drawn, waiting, waiting for his heart to die, . . . 
 while the silence piled upon him till his breath 
 grew hot and panting as it came. He faltered, 
 and turned at last to the abbe in mute appeal. 
 
 Sebastian spread his weak old arms, and 
 called from the depths of a father's yearning 
 heart: 
 
 " My son, my son, come back to the arms I 
 hold to you . . . and a love which is yours for- 
 ever. Claudien, . . . come home, . . . come 
 home!" 
 
 The priests and soldiers bowed their heads. 
 
 " Leon, . . . my Leon ! " Le Corbeau sobbed, 
 
 and sank upon her knees. 
 
 306
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 "Go forth with her," the Jesuit cried, "or 
 return once more into The House of Peace." 
 He pointed his claw-like finger at the Poppy 
 Flower, as Sebastian lifted a crucifix. " There 
 kneels the world. . . . Above you bends the 
 cross of God ! " 
 
 "Choose!" 
 
 The ivory image seemed to stoop and stretch 
 its nail-pierced hands, and the kneeling woman 
 raised her rounded arms. 
 
 " My love, ... my love," she moaned, and the 
 rest was told in her haunting eyes. 
 
 For a moment longer Leon stood, white, 
 silent, irresolute. He looked on Adrienne 
 she who had once besought him to save her 
 soul. How could he save it now, and spare her 
 the pang of parting? Did he not love her still 
 . . . with a wondrous, lasting love, far deeper 
 than his human selfishness? A love which 
 must buy her soul's salvation, even if his heart 
 were crucified. Only in parting could such a 
 price be paid. He stepped toward the goal of 
 his earthly hope, and laid his hand in tender- 
 ness on the woman's head. 
 
 "God . . . keep you, . . . Adrienne!" he 
 307
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 murmured brokenly turned sank down at 
 Sebastian's feet, and pressed his lips to the 
 ivory crucifix which shook in the abbe's 
 hands. 
 
 Around him his brothers knelt in a word- 
 less prayer. Le Corbeau staggered to her 
 feet, but was caught on the cardinal's support- 
 ing arm. 
 
 " Father," she moaned, " I have tried so hard 
 and I loved him loved him " 
 
 " Be brave, my child," the cardinal comforted. 
 " Leon is suffering for your sake. Be brave for 
 his." 
 
 Castine stepped to the waiting officer. 
 " Go," he said ; " the cardinal and she will fol- 
 low." 
 
 The lieutenant raised his hand; his men-at- 
 arms, with a lingering glance at the robe which 
 hid a soldier in the priest, turned and filed, with 
 a soundless tread, through the cloister's open 
 gate. The Jesuit made a sign, and the priests 
 rose silently and followed him. The line of 
 sombre cassocks passed slowly along the por- 
 tico, mounted the stairs to the gallery above, 
 
 and crawled into the cloister's shadowy hold. 
 
 308
 
 "Choose!"
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 Slowly, slowly that still procession moved, and 
 Leon and his abbe followed. 
 
 " Father," Le Corbeau cried, as she watched 
 one priest alone, "father, he goes without a 
 word of love without a look. He gives me his 
 hard, cold blessing . . . and forgets ! " 
 
 "No, no, my child," said the cardinal ten- 
 derly ; " Leon will not forget." 
 
 " But I love him, father love him " And 
 she would have run to him, but the cardinal re- 
 strained her by gentle touch and word. 
 
 " His sacrifice is made for you alone, and is 
 greater than your love can understand." 
 
 " He loves his cross not me," she answered 
 bitterly. " His God who is stern and merciless 
 to woman's sin. His God who thrusts me back 
 his his not mine ! " 
 
 The cardinal took her hand and held it in 
 both his own. 
 
 "Repentance," he said, "brings its fruit to 
 ripen in the sunshine of our own good works. 
 Heaven bends in pity to its children . . . and 
 will heed. Be brave, my child; this grief of 
 yours will also pass away." 
 A trumpet called faintly beyond the garden wall. 
 309
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 " Come," said the cardinal, and sought to lead 
 her toward the gate, " come, we will seek the 
 king." 
 
 But she held back pleadingly, and sobbed: 
 " A moment, father only a moment more till 
 he passes from me ... and is gone. ... I will 
 try then, father, to love your God ; . . . but it's 
 hard . . . when my heart is dying, . . . when 
 he turns without a look. . . . See ! ... he for- 
 gets forgets ' ' 
 
 The last of the silent line had disappeared, 
 and Leon and his abbe stood upon the gallery, 
 alone. Le Corbeau slipped upon her knees and 
 stretched out her hungering arms : 
 
 " Leon my love forgive ! " 
 
 The white-haired cardinal turned his back, 
 and the breast beneath the crimson vestment 
 rose and fell to a quickened pulse, for he, too, 
 was but a man. 
 
 Leon turned at the sound of her sobbing call, 
 leaned low across the railing, and waved his 
 hand in silent pledge of a memory that should 
 not die. He had given all all but a memory 
 and this his heart would keep. 
 
 The abbe placed an encircling arm about the 
 310
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 shoulder of his son, and together the two were 
 lost in the cloister's gloom. 
 
 The woman rose and sought the cardinal's 
 waiting hand, and passed, with a drooping head, 
 from the garden of The House of Peace.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 IN the convent's chapel, as the voices of the 
 nuns arose in a sad, sweet chant, low, colorless, 
 and pure, a tearful woman knelt apart. A sun- 
 beam, filtering through a crimson pane, stole 
 down to her trembling veil, and played like a 
 blood-red tongue of flame on her heaving, white- 
 clad breast. 
 
 She lifted her haunting eyes to the Mother 
 and the Child, while her ringers clung in jealous 
 tenderness to the rosary she loved. . . . That 
 rosary whose string her fierce, exultant hands 
 had snapped whose beads were scattered, . . . 
 but were found again. 
 
 Who, who shall judge if it only told, as yet, 
 two human prayers: "Would the Holy Mother 
 listen and forgive? . . . Would Leon's heart 
 forget?" 
 
 A ship, far out at sea, heeled gently to the 
 breathing of a lazy wind, and a tall priest stood 
 
 312
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY 
 
 on her after-deck and watched the receding 
 shore that dim, blue line that sank and sank, 
 and was lost in a mist of tears. 
 
 And still he stood till the lingering day was 
 old, and the sun, like a lonely, watch-worn 
 monk, crept down to his cell and slept. 
 
 In the murmur of lapping waves the priest 
 could hear a crooning, whispered song, and a 
 woman's sob in the note of a ghostly gull poised, 
 screaming, above the mast. 
 
 And still he watched. The stars came out 
 a million candles squandered in the ritual of 
 night and the moon mist lay, like a cassock's 
 fold, on the breast of the slumbering sea* 
 
 He watched, and silence fell unbroken- 
 awesome deep. The toiling vessel rose and 
 sank to the swoop of an oily swell, and the 
 phantom of the Poppy Flower swam on in its 
 bubbly wake. 
 
 THE END
 
 A BROKEN ROSARY : A Novel 
 
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 CORNET STRONG OF IRETON'S HORSE: An Epi- 
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 With eight full page line drawings by Maurice Greiffenhagen. 
 Decorative cover, izmo. $1.50. 
 
 Miss McChesney's mastery of the art of the historical novel has been attested 
 by the reception of her previous books: "Beatrix Infelix," " Rupert, by the 
 Grace of God," "Miriam Cromwell, Royalist," "Kathleen Clare," etc. 
 
 CHARLES MARRIOTT 
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE SANDS : A Novel. By CHARLES 
 MARRIOTT, author of "The Column" (18,000), and "Love 
 with Honour." I2mo. $1.50. 
 
 Mr. Marriott's first novel "The Column" was picked as one of the ten 
 best novels of the year ( 1901), and the same honour has been accorded his 
 second novel "Love with Honour" (1901). 
 
 HON. MRS. HENNIKER 
 
 CONTRASTS. By the HON. MRS. HENNIMR, author of " In 
 Scarlet and Grey." izmo. $1.5- 
 
 RICHARD GARNETT 
 
 THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS. By RICHARD GAR- 
 NETT, LL.D. A new and revised edition, containing many 
 additional stories, izmo. $1.50.
 
 THE NEW POCKET LIBRARY 
 
 A Handy Series of Editions of the Standard Novels 
 Printed from clear type, upon a specially thin and opaque paper, 
 
 specially manufactured 
 
 With short Introductions by Algar Thorold, 
 
 W. Clark Russell, and Others 
 
 1 6mo. (6 x 3 3^ inches) 
 Bound in Cloth, Price 50 cents net 
 Bound in Leather, Price 75 cents net 
 
 NEW VOLUMES 
 
 Vol. XV. EUPHRANOR. By EDWARD FITZGERALD. 
 
 Vol. XVI. TYPEE : A real Romance of the South Seas. By 
 
 HERMAN MELVILLE. Edited with an Introduction by W. 
 
 Clark Russell, and notes by Marie Clothilde Balfour. 
 Vol. XVII. OMOO : A real Romance of the South Seas. By 
 
 HERMAN MELVILLE. Edited with an Introduction by W. 
 
 Clark Russell, and notes by Marie Clothilde Balfour. 
 Vol. XVIII. MR. MIDSHIPMAN EASY. By CAPTAIN 
 
 MARRYATT. 
 
 Vol. XIX. PETER SIMPLE. By CAPTAIN MARRYATT. 
 
 Vol. XX. THE BERTRAMS. By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. With 
 an Introduction by Algar Thorold. 
 
 Vol. XXI. THE THREE CLERKS. By ANTHONY TROL- 
 LOPS. With an Introduction by Algar Thorold. 
 
 VOLUMES ALREADY PUBLISHED 
 
 Vol. I. ADAM BEDE. By GEORGE ELIOT. 
 Vol. II. SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. By GEORGE ELIOT. 
 Vol. III. THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. By GEORGE ELIOT. 
 Vol. IV. SILAS MARNER. By GEORGE ELIOT. 
 Vol. V. BARCHESTER TOWERS. By ANTHONY TROLLOPS. 
 Vol. VI. DR. THORN E. By ANTHONY TROLLOP*. 
 Vol. VII. THE WARDEN. By ANTHONY TROLLOPS. 
 Vol. VIII. FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. By ANTHONY TROLLOP*. 
 Vol. IX. LAVENGRO. By GEORGE BORROW. 
 Vol. X. THE ROMANY RYE. By GEORGE BORROW. 
 Vol. XI. THE BIBLE IN SPAIN. By GEORGE BORROW. 
 Vol. XII. THE ZINCALI. By GEORGE BORROW. 
 Vol. XIII. THE SCARLET LETTER. By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 Vol. XIV. THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. By NATHANIEL 
 HAWTHORNE.
 
 THE CANVASBACK LIBRARY 
 
 A Uniform Series of Some Favourite Popular Novels 
 
 Bound in stiff Decorative Boards 
 
 izmo. 75 cents each 
 
 rOLUMES NOW APPEARING 
 
 i. MADEMOISELLE BLANCHE. By JOHN D. BARRY, author of "A 
 
 Daughter of Thespis," "The Intriguers," etc. 
 a. HIS FORTUNATE GRACE. By GERTRUDE ATHERTON, aichor of 
 
 " Senator North,'' " Patience Sparhawk," etc. 
 
 3. THE JUDGMENT OF HELEN. By THOMAS COBB, author of "Mr. 
 
 Passingham," " Carpet Courtship," etc. 
 
 4. MADEMOISELLE MISS. By HENRY HARLAND, author of "The 
 
 Cardinal's Snuff- Box," "The Lady Paramount," etc. 
 
 5. BROKEN AWAY. By BEATRICE E. GRIMSHAW. 
 
 6. KITWYK. By MRI. JOHN LANE (Anna Eichberg King), author of 
 
 " Brown's Retreat," etc. 
 
 7. COMMENTS OF A COUNTESS. Anonymous. 
 
 8. THE USURPER. By WILLIAM J. LOCKE, author of " Where Love Is," 
 
 "Idols, "etc. 
 
 9. A SECOND COMING. By RICHARD MARSH. 
 
 10. REGINA: OR, THE SINS OF THE FATHERS. By HERMANN 
 
 SUDERMANN. (A translation, from the German, by Beatrice Marshall, of 
 "Der Katzensteg"). 
 
 11. LOVE OF COMRADES: A Romance. By FRANK MATHEW, author 
 
 of " One Queen Triumphant," " The Wood of the Brambles," etc. 
 1*. THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. MOULTON. By NATHANIEL STEPHENSON, 
 author of" They That Took the Sword," " Eleanor Dayton," etc. 
 
 13. VISITS OF ELIZABETH. By ELINOR GLTN, with photogravure front- 
 
 ispiece portrait of the heroine. 
 
 14. A YEAR OF LIFE. By W. S. LILLY. 
 
 15. THE CATHOLIC : A Novel. Anonymous. 
 
 16. JOHN BURNET OF BARNES. By JOHN BUCHAN, author of " A Lot 
 
 Lady of Old Years," "Grey Weather," etc. 
 
 17. SCRUPLES. By THOMAS COBB, author of "Severance," "The Dt 
 
 semblers," etc. 
 
 18. LUCK. O* LASSENDALE. By the RT. HON. THE EARL or IDDEILEICH, 
 
 author of " Charms : a Novel," etc. 
 
 19. SUNBEETLES: A Comedy. By THOMAS PINKERTON. 
 
 ao. IDOLS. By WILLIAM J. LOCKE, author of " Derelicts." "A Study in 
 Shadows," "The White Dove," etc. 
 
 Other ydumti in Preparation
 
 The International Studio 
 
 Universal Press Opinions of the Magazine 
 
 New York Tribune : " The Studio is to-day, by all odds, the most 
 artistic periodical printed in English." 
 
 Boston Globe : " It is like walking through a select art gallery to 
 look over the Studio, and like attending a course of first-class 
 lectures to read it." 
 
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 cannot do without." 
 
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 in pictorial embellishment and the extrinsics of superb book- 
 making. 
 
 Troy Times: " Has become famous for the beauty of its illustra- 
 tions. It is simply invaluable." 
 
 London Daily Chronicle : " The most successful art magazine in 
 Europe." 
 
 The Outlook (London) : " Shows an alertness to the needs of the 
 present day art-lover that no similar publication in any way 
 approaches." 
 
 The Sketch (London) : " It would not be easy to have another 
 art publication so distinguished for so many and so variously de- 
 lightful qualities." 
 
 The Globe : " No other periodical can be said to have a policy 
 of the same kind, or to show such complete consistency in its advo- 
 cacy of all aestheticism that is intelligent and progressive." 
 
 Le Figaro (Paris) : " Le premier magazine artistique du monde." 
 
 La Deplche de Toulouse : " Le Studio compte 4 peine cinq annees 
 d'existence, mais ce temps lui a suffi pour operer une revolution 
 veritable dans la presse artistique." 
 
 VArt Moderne : " Bien ecrite, bien editee, d'un artistique aspect 
 dans sa robe vert olive, le Studio est sans contredit la plus neuve et 
 la plus originate revue d'art illustree qu'on puisse signaler. . . . 
 Nulle autre revue d'art ne lui est comparable, ni en Angleterre ni 
 surtout sur le continent." 
 
 The Bombay Gazette ; " The Studio easily takes first place among 
 art magazines."
 
 1 he International Studio 
 
 An Illustrated Magazine of Fine and Applied Art 
 
 Published by JOHN LANE 
 
 The Bodley Head 
 67 Fifth Avenue, New York City 
 
 35 cents per Month. Annual Supscription, $3.50 
 
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 Two Specimen Copies sent, post free, for 25 cents 
 
 IT is the aim of " The International Studio" to treat of every 
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 Metal, Glass, Furniture, Decoration, Design, Bookbinding, 
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 butors to its pages. Many original illustrations, reproduced in 
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 tional Studio." 
 
 Everyone interested in Art, professionally or otherwise, 
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 the doings of the art world, both literary and technical.
 
 THE LITERARY GUILLOTINE 
 
 I2mo. $1.00 net 
 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox, writes : 
 
 " Permit me to thank the authors for a book of wit absolutely free from 
 malice. It is a collection of literary cartoons of high order. I wish I knew 
 the authors to personally thank them." 
 
 Mr. Edwin Markham ("The Man With the Hoe"} writes: 
 
 ' ' Like the corpse of the Chinese stage that picks his head up and runs off 
 nimbly at the wings, so I, forgetting that I am 'dead,' spring up from the 
 block to make my bow to the clever executioner and to express my delight at 
 the neatness of the stroke. Good fortune to the axe." 
 
 Mr. Charles Major ("Dorothy Vernon") writes: 
 
 "It is interesting, even for us who are guillotined ; as some one once said to 
 
 his executioner, 'It is a pleasure to be beheaded by so fine a gentleman.' '' 
 
 Dr. S. Weir Mitchell ("Hugh Wynne' 1 ) writes: 
 
 " I thank you very much for the clever little sketch, which really extremely 
 
 amused me even with the head of me gone." 
 
 Mr. Madison J. Cawein (" Myths and Romance'') writes: 
 " Whoever the author is, and I strongly suspect two HENRY TYRWELL 
 and WILLIAM J. LAMPTON he is certainly one of the best satisists our 
 country has ever known. His knowledge of the writings of the different 
 authors tried, as well as all their little ways and mannerisms, is simply wonderful. 
 The book has already begun to make a sensation. It has been a long time 
 since I enjoyed a clever piece of writing like this." 
 
 1 he Philadelphia Record : 
 
 "Not a few readers of this racy indictment of Richard Harding Davis, Marie 
 Corelli, et al., attribute the work to JAMES LANCASTER FORD, but 
 others are equally positive that he is JOHN KENDRICK BANGS. Cir- 
 cumstantial evidence is not lacking in support of both views." 
 
 The Springfield Republican : 
 
 "The informed reader will not go far in the task of perusing these pages with- 
 out arriving at the conclusion that 'myself stands for JAMES LANCAS- 
 TER FORD, for the earmark that he put upon 'The Literary Workshop' 
 is hardly to be mistaken." 
 
 Mr. Henry L. Sounders says : 
 
 "I should like to hazard a guess that RICHARD LE GALLIENNE 
 
 helped to sharpen the knives." 
 
 The San Francisco News-Letter : 
 
 'The identity of the author of 'The Literary Guillotine' is withheld, though 
 I strongly suspect CHARLES BATTELL LOOMIS of being the per- 
 petrator. 1 ' 
 
 The Baltimore Herald : 
 
 "In connection with the speculation as to the name of the author it may be 
 said that a number of the articles sound something like the mental evolutions 
 of GELETT BURGESS."
 
 UC SOUT>eM fCGOtM. LaWRY FOUTY 
 
 A 000129004 8