Twenty minutes later the tailor was lying in his bed, breathing, but
still unconscious, the Notary, M’sieu’, and the doctor of the next
parish, who by chance was in Chaudiere, beside him. Charley’s face was
drawn and haggard with pain, for he had helped to carry old Louis to
bed, though every motion of his arms gave him untold agony. In the
doorway stood Rosalie and Margot Patry.
“Will he live?” asked the Notary.
The doctor shook his head. “A few hours, perhaps. He fell downstairs?”
Charley nodded. There was silence for some time, as the doctor went on
with his ministrations, and the Notary sat drumming his fingers on the
little table beside the bed. The two women stole away to the kitchen,
where Rosalie again pressed secrecy on Margot. In the interest of the
cause she had even threatened Margot with a charge of complicity. She
had heard the phrase “accessory before the fact,” and she used it now
with good effect.
Then she took some fresh flour and oil, and thrust them inside the
bedroom door where Charley now sat clinching his hands and fighting down
the pain. Careful as ever of his personal appearance, however, he had
brushed every speck of flour from his clothes, and buttoned his coat up
to the neck.
Nearly an hour passed, and then the Cure appeared. When he entered the
sick man’s room, Charley followed, and again Rosalie and old Margot came
and stood within the doorway.
“Peace be to this house!” said the Cure. He had a few minutes of
whispered conversation with the doctor, and then turned to Charley.
“He fell down-stairs, Monsieur? You saw him fall?”
“I was in my room--I heard him fall, Cure.”
“Had he been ill during the day?”
“He appeared to be feeble, and he seemed moody.”
“More than usual, Monsieur?” The Cure had heard of the incident of the
morning when Filion Lacasse accused Charley of stealing the cross.
“Rather more than usual, Monsieur.”
The Cure turned towards the door. “You, Mademoiselle Rosalie, how came
you to know?”
“I was in the kitchen with Margot, who was not well.”
The Cure looked at Margot, who tearfully nodded. “I was ill,” she said,
“and Rosalie was here with me. She helped M’sieu’ and me. Rosalie is a
good girl, and kind to me,” she whimpered.
The Cure seemed satisfied, and after looking at the sick man for a
moment, he came close to Charley. “I am deeply pained at what happened
to-day,” he said courteously. “I know you have had nothing to do with
the beloved little cross.”
The Notary tried to draw near and listen, but the Cure’s look held him
back. The doctor was busy with his patient.
“You are only just, Monsieur,” said Charley in response, wishing that
these kind eyes were fixed anywhere than on his face.
All at once the Cure laid a hand upon his arm. “You are ill,” he said
anxiously. “You look very ill indeed. See, Vaudrey,” he added to the
doctor, “you have another patient here!”
The friendly, oleaginous doctor came over and peered into Charley’s
face. “Ill-sure enough!” he said. “Look at this sweat!” he pointed to
the drops of perspiration on Charley’s forehead. “Where do you suffer?”
“Severe pains all through my body,” Charley answered simply, for it
seemed easier to tell the truth, as near as might be.
“I must look to you,” said the doctor. “Go and lie down, and I will come
to you.”
Charley bowed, but did not move. Just then two things drew the attention
of all: the tailor showed returning consciousness, and there was noise
of many voices outside the house and the tramping of feet below-stairs.
“Go and tell them no one must come up,” said the doctor to the Notary,
and the Cure made ready to say the last offices for the dying.
Presently the noise below-stairs diminished, and the priest’s voice
rose in the office, vibrating and touching. The two women sank to their
knees, the doctor followed, his eyes still fixed on the dying man.
Presently, however, Charley did the same; for something penetrating and
reasonable in the devotion touched him.
All at once Louis Trudel opened his eyes. Staring round with acute
excitement, his eyes fell on the Cure, then upon Charley.
“Stop--stop, M’sieu’ le Cure!” he cried. “There’s other work to do.” He
gasped and was convulsed, but the pallor of his face was alive with fire
from the distempered eyes. He snatched from his breast the paper Charley
had neglected to burn. He thrust it into the Curb’s hand.
“See--see!” he croaked. “He is an infidel--black infidel--from hell!”
His voice rose in a kind of shriek, piercing to every corner of the
house. He pointed at Charley with shaking finger.
“He wrote it there--on that paper. He doesn’t--believe in God.”
His strength failed him, his hand clutched tremblingly at the air. He
laughed, a dry, crackling laugh, and his mouth opened twice or thrice
to speak, but gasping breaths only came forth. With a last effort,
however--as the priest, shocked, stretched out his hand and said: “Have
done, have done, Trudel!”--he cried, in a voice that quavered shrilly:
“He asked--tailor-man--sign--from--Heaven. Look-look!” He pointed wildly
at Charley. “I--gave him--sign of--”
But that was the end. With a shudder the body collapsed in a formless
heap, and the tailor-man was gone to tell of the work he had done for
his faith on earth.