"I came two days ago. I leave for Rouen this night."

"What! you travel at night, and leave a cheery tavern like this?" All
at once the crinkle of a chill ran across the Chevalier's shoulders.
The thumb, the forefinger and the second of the priest's left hand were
twisted, reddened stumps.

"Yes, at night; and the wind will be rough, beyond the hills. But I
have suffered worse discomforts;" and to this statement the priest
added a sour smile. He had seen the shudder. He dropped the maimed
hand below the level of the table.

"You ride, however?" suggested the Chevalier.

"A Spanish mule, the gift of Father Vincent."

"Her Majesty's confessor?"

"Yes."

"You are a Jesuit?"

"I have the happiness to serve God in that order. I have just
presented my respects to her Majesty and Cardinal Mazarin. I am come
from America, my son, to see his Eminence in regard to the raising of
funds for some new missions we have in mind; but I have been
indifferently successful, due possibly to my lack of eloquence and to
the fact that my superior, Father Chaumonot, was unable to accompany me
to Paris. I shall meet him in Rouen."