|VOLEUR! Thief! Murder! Murder!”--it rose a high, piercing shriek, and
the wind seemed to catch up the words and eddy them around, and toss
them hither and thither until the storm and the night and the woods
were full of ghouls chanting and screaming and gibbering their hideous
melody: “_Voleur!_ Thief! Murder! Murder!”
The girl, from the other side of the prostrate priest, rose in quick
alarm to her feet, and lifted the lantern high above her head to peer
down the road.
“Listen!” she cried. “What does it mean? See the lights there! Listen!”
The lantern lifted now, Raymond could no longer see the priest's face.
He slipped his hand in desperately under the man's vest. He had felt
there once before for the heart beat when he had first stumbled upon the
other. In God's name, where was his nerve! He needed it now more than he
had ever needed it in all his dare-devil career before. He had _thought_
the priest had moved. If the man were alive, he, Raymond, was not only
in a thousandfold worse case than if he had run for it and taken his
chances--he had forfeited whatever chance there might have been. The
mere fact that he had attempted to disguise himself, to assume the
priest's garments as a means of escape, damned him utterly, irrevocably
upon the spot. His hand pressed hard against the other's body. Yes,
there was life there, a faint fluttering of the heart. No--no, it was
only himself--a tremor in his own fingers. And then a miserable sense of
disaster fell upon him. The wind howled, those shrieks still rang out,
there came hoarse shouts and the pound of running feet, but above it
all, distinct, like a knell of doom, came a low moan from the priest
upon the ground.
Sharply, as though it were being suddenly seared and burned, Raymond
snatched away his hand; and his hand struck against something hard,
and mechanically he gripped at it. The man was _alive!_ The glare of
lanterns, many of them, flashed from the turn of the road. The village
was upon the scene. The impulse seized him to run. There was the horse
and wagon standing there. His lips tightened. Madness! That would be but
the act of a fool! It was his wits, his brain, his nerve that was his
only hope now--that cool, callous nerve that had never failed him in a
crisis before.
A form, unkempt, with gray, streaming, dishevelled hair, rushed upon him
and the priest, and thrust a lantern into the faces of them both. It was
the old hag, old Mother Blondin.
“Here he is! Here he is!” she screamed. “It is he!”--her voice kept
rising until, in a torrent of blasphemous invective, it attained an
ear-splitting falsetto.
It seemed to Raymond that a hundred voices were all talking at once;
that the villagers now, as they closed in and clustered around him, were
as a multitude in their numbers; and there was light now, a blaze of it,
from a host of accursed lanterns jiggling up and down, each striving to
thrust itself a little further forward than its fellow. And then upon
Raymond settled a sort of grim, cold, ironical composure. The stakes
were very high.
“If you want your life, play for it!” urged a voice within him.
The old hag, in an abandoned paroxysm of grief, rage and fury, was
cursing, and shaking her lantern and her doubled fist at the priest;
and, not content with that, she now began to kick viciously at the
unconscious form.
Raymond rose from his knees, and laid one hand quietly upon her arm.
“Peace, my daughter!” he said softly. “You are in the presence of Holy
Church, and in the presence perhaps of death.”
She whirled upon him, her wrinkled old face, if possible, contorted more
furiously than before.
“Holy Church!” she raved. “Holy Church! Ha, ha! What have I to do with
Holy Church that kicked me from its doors! Will Holy Church give me back
my son? And what have you to do with this, you smooth-faced hypocrite!
It is the law I want, not you to stand there and mumble while you smugly
paw your crucifix!”
It came quick and sharp--an angry sibilant murmur from the crowd, a
threatening forward movement. Mechanically, Raymond's fingers fell away
from the crucifix. It was the crucifix, dangling from his neck, that
he had unconsciously grasped as he had snatched away his hand from the
priest's body--and it was the crucifix that, equally unconscious of it,
he had been grasping ever since. Strange that in his agitation he should
have grasped at a crucifix! Strange that the act and his unconscious
poise, as he held the crucifix, should have lent verisimilitude to the
part he played, the rôle in which he sought sanctuary from death!
His hand raised again. The murmuring ceased; the threatening stir was
instantly checked. And then Raymond took the old woman by the shoulders,
and with kindly force placed her in the arms of the two nearest men.
“She does not know what she is saying,” he said gently. “The poor woman
is distraught. Take her home. I do not understand, but she speaks of her
son being given back to her, and----”
“It is a murder, _mon père_,” broke in one of the men excitedly. “She
came running to the village a few minutes ago to tell us that her
son had been killed. It is this man here in the road who did it. She
recognises him, you see. There is the wound in his head, and she said
she struck him there with a piece of wood while he was struggling with
her son.”
The old woman was in hysteria now, alternately sobbing and laughing, but
no longer struggling.
“Murdered! Her son--murdered!” Raymond gasped in a startled way. “Ah,
then, be very good to her! It is no wonder that she is beside herself.”
They led her laughing and crying away.
“The law! The law! I demand the law on him!”--her voice, now guttural,
now shrill, quavering, virulent, out of control, floated back. “_Sacré
nom de Dieu_, a life for a life, he is the murderer of my son!”
And now, save for the howling of the storm, a silence fell upon the
scene. Raymond glanced quickly about him. What was it now, what was
it--ah, he understood! They were waiting for _him_. As though it were
the most obvious thing in the world to do, as though no one would dream
of doing anything else, the villagers, collectively and singly, laid
the burden of initiative upon his clerically garbed shoulders. Raymond
dropped upon his knees again beside the priest, pretending to make a
further examination of the other's wound. He could gain a moment or two
that way, a moment in which to think. The man, though still unconscious,
was moaning constantly now. At any moment the priest might regain his
senses. One thing was crucial, vital--in some way he must manouvre so
that the other should not be removed from his own immediate surveillance
until he could find some loophole of escape. Once the man began to talk,
unless he, Raymond, were beside the other to stop the man's mouth, or at
least to act as interpreter for the other's ramblings--the man was sure
to ramble at first, or at least people could be made to believe so--he,
Raymond, would be cornered like a rat in a trap, and, more to be feared
even than the law, the villagers, in their fury at the sacrilege they
would consider he had put upon them in the desecration of their priest,
would show him scant ceremony and little mercy.
He was cool enough now, quite cool--with the grim coolness of a man who
realises that his life depends upon his keeping his head. Still he bent
over the priest. He heard a girl's voice speaking rapidly--that would
be the girl with the great dark eyes who had come upon him with the
lantern, for there was no other woman here now since he had got rid
temporarily of that damnable old hag.
“... It is Father Aubert, the new curé. Labbée, at the station, told us
he had arrived unexpectedly. We have brought his trunk that he was going
to send for in the morning, and we drove fast hoping to catch up with
him so that he would not have to walk all the way. We found him here
kneeling beside that man there, that he had stumbled over as he came
along. Labbée told us, too, of the other. He said the man seemed anxious
to avoid Monsieur le Curé, and hung around the station until Father
Aubert had got well started toward St. Marleau. He must have taken the
path to the tavern, or he would not have been here ahead of Monsieur le
Curé, and----”
Raymond reached into the open travelling bag on the ground beside him,
took out the first article coming to hand that would at all serve the
purpose, a shirt, and, tearing it, made pretense at binding up the
priest's head.
“My thanks to you, mademoiselle!” he muttered soberly under his breath.
“If it were not for the existence of that path----!” He shrugged his
shoulders, and, his head lowered, a twisted smile flickered upon his
lips.
The girl had ceased speaking. They were all clustered around him,
watching him. Short exclamations, bearing little evidence of good will
toward the unconscious man, came from first one and then another.
“... _Meurtrier!_... He will hang in any case! ... The better for him if
he dies there!... What does it matter, the blackguard!...”
Raymond rose to his feet.
“No,” he said reprovingly. “It is not for us to think in that way. For
us, there is only a very badly wounded man here who needs our help and
care. We will give that first, and leave the rest in the hands of those
who have the right to judge him if he lives. See now, some of you lift
him as carefully as possible into the wagon. I will hold his head on my
lap, and we will get to the village as quickly as we can.”
It was a strange procession then that began to wend its way toward the
village of St. Marleau. The wagon proved to be a sort of buckboard, and
Raymond, clambering upon it, sitting with his back propped against the
seat, held the priest's head upon his knees. Upon the seat itself
the girl and her uncle resumed their places. With the unconscious man
stretched out at full length there was no room for the trunk; but, eager
to be of service to their new curé, so kind and gentle and tender to
even a criminal for whom the law held nothing in reserve but the gallows
and a rope, who was tolerant even of Mother Blondin in her blasphemies,
the villagers quarrelled amongst themselves for the privilege of
carrying it.
They moved slowly--that the wounded man might not be too severely
jarred. Constantly the numbers around the wagon were augmented. Women
began to appear amongst them. The entire village was aroused. St.
Marleau in all its history had known no such excitement before. A murder
in St. Marleau--and the murderer caught, and dying they said, was being
brought back to the village in the arms of the young curé, who had,
a cause even for added excitement, arrived that evening instead of
to-morrow as had been expected. Tongues clacked and wagged. It was like
a furious humming accompaniment to the howling of the wind. But out of
respect to the curé who held the dying man on his knees, they did not
press too closely about the wagon.
They passed the “tavern,” which was lighted now in every window, and
some left the wagon at this point and went to the “tavern,” and others
who had collected at the “tavern” joined the wagon. They began to
descend the hill. And now along the road below, to right and left,
lights twinkled from every house. They met people coming up the hill.
There were even children now.
Head bent over the priest, that twisted smile was back on Raymond's
lips. The man moaned at intervals, but showed no further sign of
returning consciousness. Would the other live--or die? Raymond's hands,
hidden under the priest's head, were clenched. It was a question of his
own life or the other's now--wasn't it? What hell-inspired ingenuity had
flung him into this hideous maze in which at every twist and turn, as
he sought some avenue of escape, he but found, instead, the way barred
against him, his retreat cut off, and peril, like some soulless,
immutable thing, closing irrevocably down upon him! He dared not leave
the priest; he dared not surrender the other for an instant--lest
consciousness should return. _But if the man died!_
Raymond's face, as a ghastly temptation came, was as white as the
upturned face between his knees. If the man died it would be simple
enough. For a few days, for whatever time was necessary, he could play
the rôle of priest, and then in some way--his brain was not searching
out details now, there was only the sure confidence in himself that he
would be equal to the occasion if only the chance were his--then in some
way, without attendant hue and cry, without the police of every city in
America loosed upon him, since the “murderer” of the old hag's son
would be dead, he could disappear from St. Marleau. But the man was not
dead--yet. And why should he even think the man would die! Because he
_hoped_ for it? His lips twitched; and his hands, with a slow, curious
movement, unclenched, and clenched again--and then with a sort of
mental wrench, his brain, alert and keen, was coping with the immediate
situation, the immediate danger.
The girl and her uncle were talking earnestly together on the seat. And
now, for all that he had not thrust himself forward in what had so far
transpired, the man appeared to be of some standing and authority in the
neighbourhood, for, turning from the girl, he called sharply to one of
the crowd. A villager hurried in response to the side of the wagon, and
Raymond, listening, caught snatches of the terse, low-toned instructions
that were given.
The doctor at Tournayville, and at the same time the police...
yes--to-night... at once....
“_Bien sur!_” said the villager briskly, and disappeared in the crowd.
Then the girl spoke. Raymond could not hear very distinctly, but it was
something about her mother being unprepared, and from that about a room
downstairs, and he guessed that they were discussing where they would
take the wounded man.
He straightened up suddenly. That was a subject which concerned him very
intimately. There was only one place where the priest could go, and that
was where he, Raymond, went. They were on the village street now, and,
twisting his head around to look ahead, he could make out the shadowy
form of the church steeple close at hand.
“Monsieur,” he called quietly to the man on the seat, “we will take this
poor fellow to the _presbytère_, of course.”
“Oh, but, Father Aubert”--the girl turned toward him quickly--“we were
just speaking of that. It would not be at all comfortable for you. You
see, even your own room there will not be ready for you, since you were
not expected to-night, and you will have to take Father Allard's, so
that if this man went there, too, there would be no bed at all for you.”
“I hardly think I shall need any bed to-night, mademoiselle,” Raymond
said gravely. “The man appears to be in a very critical condition. I
know a little something of medicine, and I could not think of
leaving him until--I think I heard your uncle say they were going to
Tournayville for a doctor--until the doctor arrives.”
“Yes, Monsieur le Curé,” said the man, screwing around in his seat,
“that is so. I have sent for the doctor, and also for the police--but it
is eight miles to Tournayville, and on a night like this there will be a
long while to wait, even if the doctor is to be found at once.”
“You have done well, monsieur,” commended Raymond--but under his breath,
with a savage, ironical jeer at himself, he added: “And especially about
the police, curse you!”
“But, Monsieur le Curé,” insisted the girl anxiously, “I am sure
that----”
“Mademoiselle is very kind, and it is very thoughtful of her,” Raymond
interposed gratefully; “but under the circumstances I think the
_presbytère_ will be best. Yes; I think we must decide on the
_presbytère_.
“But, yes, certainly--if that is Monsieur le Curé's wish,” agreed the
man. “Monsieur le Curé should know best. Valérie, jump down, and run on
ahead to tell your mother that we are coming.”
Valérie! So that was the girl's name! It seemed a strangely incongruous
thought that here, with his back against the wall, literally fighting
for his life, the name should seem somehow to be so appropriate to that
dark-eyed face, with its truant, wind-tossed hair, that had come upon
him so suddenly out of the darkness; that face, sweet, troubled, in
distress, that he had glimpsed for an instant in the lantern's light.
Valérie! But what was her other name? What had her mother to do with the
_presbytère_, that the uncle should have sent her on with that message?
And who was the uncle, this man here, and what was his name? And how
much of all this was he, as Father Aubert, supposed already to know? The
curé of the village, Father Allard--what correspondence, for instance,
had passed between him and Father Aubert? A hundred questions were on
his lips. He dared not ask a single one. They had turned in off the road
now and were passing by the front of the church. He lowered his head
close down to the priest's. The man still moaned in that same low and,
as it were, purely mechanical way. Some one in the crowd spoke:
“They are taking him to the _presbytère_.”
At the rear of the wagon, amongst the bobbing lanterns, surrounded by
awe-struck children and no less awe-struck women, he saw the trunk being
trundled along by two men, each grasping one end by the handle. The
crowd took up its spokesman's lead.
... To the _presbytère_.... They are going to the _presbytère_.... The
curé is taking him to the _presbytère_...
“Yes, damn you!” gritted Raymond between his teeth. “To the
_presbytère_--for the devil's masquerade!”