The agitation and curiosity possessing Rosalie all day held her in the
evening when the wooden shutters of the tailor’s shop were closed and
only a flickering light showed through the cracks. She was restless and
uneasy during supper, and gave more than one unmeaning response to
the remarks of her crippled father, who, drawn up for supper in his
wheel-chair, was more than usually inclined to gossip.
Damase Evanturel’s mind was stirred concerning the loss of the iron
cross; the threat made by Filion Lacasse and his companions troubled
him. The one person beside the Cure, Jo Portugais, and Louis Trudel, to
whom M’sieu’ talked much, was the postmaster, who sometimes met him of
an evening as he was taking the air. More than once he had walked behind
the wheel-chair and pushed it some distance, making the little crippled
man gossip of village matters.
As the two sat at supper the postmaster was inclined to take a serious
view of M’sieu’s position. He railed at Filion Lacasse; he called the
suspicious habitants clodhoppers, who didn’t know any better--which
was a tribute to his own superior birth; and at last, carried away by a
feverish curiosity, he suggested that Rosalie should go and look through
the cracks in the shutters of the tailor-shop and find out what was
going on within. This was indignantly rejected by Rosalie, but the more
she thought, the more uneasy she became. She ceased to reply to her
father’s remarks, and he at last relapsed into gloom, and said that
he was tired and would go to bed. Thereupon she wheeled him inside his
bedroom, bade him good-night, and left him to his moodiness, which,
however, was soon absorbed in a deep sleep, for the mind of the little
grey postmaster could no more hold trouble or thought than a sieve.
Left alone, Rosalie began to be tortured. What were they doing in the
house opposite?
Go and look through the windows? But she had never spied on people in
her life! Yet would it be spying? Would it not be pardonable? In the
interest of the man who had been attacked in the morning by the tailor,
who had been threatened by the saddler, and concerning whom she had seen
a signal pass between old Louis and Filion Lacasse, would it not be a
humane thing to do? It might be foolish and feminine to be anxious, but
did she not mean well, and was it not, therefore, honourable?
The mystery inflamed her imagination. Charley’s passiveness when he was
assaulted by old Louis and afterwards threatened by the saddler seemed
to her indifference to any sort of danger--the courage of the hopeless
life, maybe. Instantly her heart overflowed with sympathy. Monsieur was
not a Catholic perhaps? Well, so much the more he should be befriended,
for he was so much the more alone and helpless. If a man was born a
Protestant--or English--he could not help it, and should not be punished
in this world for it, since he was sure to be punished in the next.
Her mind became more and more excited. The postoffice had been long
since closed, and her father was asleep--she could hear him snoring.
It was ten o’clock, and there was still a light in the tailor’s
shop. Usually the light went out before nine o’clock. She went to the
post-office door and looked out. The streets were empty; there was not
a light burning anywhere, save in the house of the Notary. Down towards
the river a sleigh was making its way over the thin snow of spring, and
screeching on the stones. Some late revellers, moving homewards from the
Trois Couronnes, were roaring at the top of their voices the habitant
chanson, ‘Le Petit Roger Bontemps’:
“For I am Roger Bontemps,
Gai, gai, gai!
With drink I am full and with joy content,
Gai, gaiment!”
The chanson died away as she stood there, and still the light was
burning in the shop opposite. A thought suddenly came to her. She would
go over and see if the old housekeeper, Margot Patry, had gone to bed.
Here was the solution to the problem, the satisfaction of modesty and
propriety.
She crossed the street quickly, hurried round the corner of the house,
and was passing the side-window of the shop, when a crack in the
shutters caught her eye. She heard something fall on the floor within.
Could it be that the tailor and M’sieu’ were working at so late an hour?
She had an irresistible impulse, and glued her eye to the crack.
But presently she started back with a smothered cry. There by the great
fireplace stood Louis Trudel picking up a red-hot cross with a pair of
pincers. Grasping the iron firmly just below the arms of the cross, the
tailor held it up again. He looked at it with a wild triumph, yet with a
malignancy little in keeping with the object he held--the holy relic he
had stolen from the door of the parish church. The girl gave a low cry
of dismay.
She saw old Louis advance stealthily towards the door of the shop
leading into the house. In bewilderment, she stood still an instant,
then, with a sudden impulse, she ran to the kitchen-door and tried it
softly. It was not locked. She opened it, entered quickly, and found old
Margot standing in the middle of the room in her night-dress.
“Oh, Rosalie, Rosalie!” cried the old woman, “something’s going to
happen. M’sieu’ Trudel has been queer all evening. I peeped in the
key-hole of the shop just now, and--”
“Yes, yes, I’ve seen too. Come!” said Rosalie, and going quickly to the
door, opened it, and passed through to another room. Here she opened
another door, leading into the hall between the shop and the house.
Entering the hall, she saw a glimmer of light above. It was the reddish
glow of the iron cross held by old Louis. She crept softly up the stone
steps. She heard a door open very quietly. She hurried now, and came to
the landing. She saw the door of Charley’s room open--all the village
knew what room he slept in--and the moonlight was streaming in at the
window.
She saw the sleeping man on the bed, and the tailor standing over him.
Charley was lying with one arm thrown above his head; the other lay over
the side of the bed.
As she rushed forward, divining old Louis’ purpose, the fiery
cross descended, and a voice cried: “‘Show me a sign from Heaven,
tailor-man!’”
This voice was drowned by that of another, which, gasping with agony
out of a deep sleep, as the body sprang upright, cried: “God-oh God!”
Rosalie’s hand grasped old Louis’ arm too late. The tailor sprang
back with a horrible laugh, striking her aside, and rushed out to the
landing.
“Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!” cried Rosalie, and, snatching a scarf from
her bosom, thrust it in upon the excoriated breast, as Charley, hardly
realising what had happened, choked back moans of pain.
“What did he do?” he gasped.
“The iron cross from the church door!” she answered. “A minute, one
minute, Monsieur!”
She rushed out upon the landing in time to see the tailor stumble on
the stairs and fall head forwards to the bottom, at the feet of Margot
Patry.
Rosalie paid no heed to the fallen man. “Oil! flour! Quick!” she cried.
“Quick! Quick!” She stepped over the body of the tailor, snatched at
Margot’s arm, and dragged her into the kitchen. “Quick-oil and flour!”
The old woman showed her where they were, moaning and whining.
“He tried to kill Monsieur,” cried Rosalie, “burned him on the breast
with the holy cross!”
With oil and flour she hurried back, over the body of the tailor, up
the stairs, and into Charley’s room. Charley was now out of bed and half
dressed, though choking with pain, and preserving consciousness only by
a great effort.
“Good Mademoiselle!” he said.
She took the scarf off gently, soaked it in oil and splashed it with
flour, and laid it quickly back on the burnt flesh.
Margot came staggering into the room.
“I cannot rouse him. I cannot rouse him. He is dead! He is dead!” she
whimpered.
“He--”
Charley swayed forward towards the woman, recovered himself, and said:
“Now not a word of what he did to me, remember. Not one word, or you
will go to jail with him. If you keep quiet, I’ll say nothing. He didn’t
know what he was doing.” He turned to Rosalie. “Not a word of this,
please,” he moaned. “Hide the cross.”
He moved towards the door. Rosalie saw his purpose, and ran out ahead of
him and down the stairs to where the tailor lay prone on his face, one
hand still holding the pincers. The little iron cross lay in a dark
corner. Stooping, she lifted up the tailor’s head, then felt his heart.
“He is not dead,” she cried. “Quick, Margot, some water,” she added,
to the whimpering woman. Margot tottered away, and came again presently
with the water.
“I will go for some one to help,” Rosalie said, rising to her feet,
as she saw Charley come slowly down the staircase, his face white with
misery. She ran and took his arm to help him down.
“No, no, dear Mademoiselle,” he said; “I shall be all right presently.
You must get help to carry him up stairs. Bring the Notary; he and I can
carry him up.”
“You, Monsieur! You--it would kill you! You are terribly hurt.”
“I must help to carry him, else people will be asking questions,” he
answered painfully. “He is going to die. It must not be known--you
understand!” His eyes searched the floor until they found the cross.
Rosalie picked it up with the pincers. “It must not be known what he did
to me,” Charley said to the muttering and weeping old woman. He caught
her shoulder with his hand, for she seemed scarcely to heed.
She nodded. “Yes, yes, M’sieu’, I will never speak.” Rosalie was
standing in the door. “Go quickly, Mademoiselle,” he said. She
disappeared with the iron cross, and flying across the street, thrust it
inside the post-office, then ran to the house of the Notary.