|IT seemed as though it were an immeasurable span of time since that
voice had rung through the courtroom. He could hear it yet--he was
hearing it always. “Father--Father François Aubert--help me--I do not
know--I do not understand.” And sometimes it was pitiful beyond that
of any human cry before; and sometimes it was dominant in its ghastly
irony. And yet that was only yesterday, and it was only the afternoon of
the next day now.
There were wild roses, and wild raspberries growing here along the side
of the road, and the smoke wreathed upward from the chimneys of the
whitewashed cottages, and the water lapped upon the shore--these things
were unchanged, undisturbed, unaffected, untouched. It seemed curiously
improper that it should be so--that the sense of values was somehow
lost.
He had come from the courtroom with his brain in a state of numbed
shock, as it were, like a wound that has taken the nerve centres by
surprise and had not yet begun to throb. It was instinct, the instinct
to fight on, the instinct of self-preservation that had bade him grope
his way to Lemoyne, the counsel for the defence. “I have friends who
have money,” he had said. “Appeal the case--spare no effort--I will see
that the expenses are met.” And after that he had driven back to St.
Marleau, and after that again he had lived through a succession of
blurred hours, obeying mechanically a sense of routine--he had talked to
the villagers, he had eaten supper with Valérie and her mother, he
had gone to bed and lain awake, he had said mass in the church that
morning--mass!
Was it the heat of the day! His brow was feverish. He took off his hat,
and turned to let the breeze from the river fan his face and head. It
was only this afternoon, a little while ago, that he had emerged from
that numbed stupor, and now the hurt and the smarting of the wound had
come. His brain was clear now--_terribly_ clear. Better that the stupor,
which was a kindly thing, had remained! He had said mass that morning.
“_Lavabo inter innocentes manus meas_--I will wash my hands among the
innocent.” In the sight of holy God, he had said that; at God's holy
altar as he had spoken, symbolising his words, he had washed his fingers
in water. It had not seemed to matter so much then, he had even mocked
cynically at those same words the night that Madame Lafleur had shown
him the altar cloth--but that other voice, those other words had
not been pounding at his ears then, as now. And now they were joined
together, his voice and that other voice, his words and those other
words: “I will wash my hands among the innocent--hanged by the neck
until you are dead, and may God have mercy on your soul.”
He stood by the roadside hatless. Through the open doorway of a
cottage a few yards away he could see old grandmother Frenier, who was
exceedingly poor, and deaf, and far up in the eighties, contentedly at
work with her spinning-wheel; on the shore, where the tide was half
out and the sand of the beach had merged into oozy mud, two bare-footed
children overturned the rocks of such size as were not beyond their
strength, laughing gleefully as they captured the sea-worms, whose
nippers could pinch with no little degree of ferocity, and with which,
later, no doubt, they intended to fish for tommy-cods; also there was
sunlight, and sparkling water, and some one driving along the road
toward him in a buckboard; and he could hear Bouchard in the carpenter
shop alternately hammering and whistling--the whistling was out of tune,
it was true, but what it lacked in melody it made up in spirit. This was
reality, this was actuality, happiness and peace, and contentment, and
serenity; and he, standing here on the road, was an integral part of the
scene--no painter would leave out the village curé standing hatless
on the road--the village curé would, indeed, stand out as the central
figure, like a benediction upon all the rest. Why then should he not in
truth, as in semblance, enter into this scene of tranquillity? Where did
they come from, those words that were so foreign to all about him, where
had they found birth, and why were they seared into his brain so that
he could not banish them? Surely they were but an hallucination--he had
only to look around him to find evidence of that. Surely they had no
basis in fact, those words--“hanged by the neck until you are dead, and
may God have mercy on your soul.”
They seemed to fade slowly away, old grandmother Frenier and her
spinning-wheel, and the children puddling in the mud, and the buckboard
coming along the road; and he no longer heard the whistling from the
carpenter shop--it seemed to fade out like a picture on a cinema
screen, while another crept there, at first intangible and undefined,
to supplant the first. It was sombre and dark, and a narrow space, and
a shadowy human form. Then there came a ray of light--sunlight, only
the gladness and the brightness were not in the sunlight because it had
first to pass through an opening where there were iron bars. But the ray
of light, nevertheless, grew stronger, and the picture took form. There
were bare walls, and bare floors, and a narrow cot--and it was a cell.
And the shadowy form became more distinct--it was a man, whose back
was turned, who stood at the end of the cell, and whose hands were each
clutched around one of the iron bars, and who seemed to be striving to
thrust his head out into the sunlight, for his head, too, was pressed
close against the iron bars. And there was something horribly familiar
in the figure. And then the head turned slowly, and the sunlight, that
was robbed of its warmth and its freedom, slanted upon a pale cheek, and
ashen lips, and eyes that were torture-burned; and the face was the face
of the man who was--to be hanged by the neck until he was dead, and upon
whose soul that voice had implored the mercy of God.
Raymond stared at his hat which was lying in the road. How had it got
there? He did not remember that he had dropped it. He had been holding
it in his hand. This buckboard that was approaching would run over it.
He stooped and picked it up, and mechanically began to brush away the
dust. That figure in the buckboard seemed to be familiar, too. Yes, of
course, it was Monsieur Dupont, the assistant chief of the Tournayville
police--the man who always answered his own questions, and clucked with
his tongue as though he were some animal learning to talk. But Monsieur
Dupont mattered little now. It was not old grandmother Frenier and her
spinning-wheel that was reality--it was Father François Aubert in the
condemned cell of the Tournayville jail, waiting to be hanged by the
neck until he was dead for the murder of Théophile Blondin.
Raymond put on his hat with forced calmness. He must settle this with
himself; he could not afford to lose his poise--either mentally or
physically. He laid no claim to the heroic or to the quixotic--he did
not want to die in the stead of that man, or in the stead of any other
man. Neither was he a coward--no man had ever called Raymond Chapelle,
or Arthur Leroy, or Three-Ace Artie a coward. He was a gambler--and
there was still a chance. There was the appeal. He was gambling now for
both their lives. He would lay down no hand, he would fight as he had
always fought--to the end--while a chance remained. There was still
a chance--the appeal. It was long odds, he knew that--but it was a
chance--and he was a gambler. He could only wait now for the turn of the
final card. He would not tolerate consideration beyond that point--not
if with all his might he could force his brain to leave that
“afterwards” alone. It was weeks yet to the date set for the execution
of Henri Mentone for the murder of Théophile Blondin, and it would
be weeks yet before the appeal was acted upon. He could only wait
now--here--here in St. Marleau, as the good young Father Aubert. He
could not run away, or disappear, like a pitiful coward, until
that appeal had had its answer. Afterwards--no, there was no
“afterwards”--not _now!_ Now, it was the ubiquitous Monsieur Dupont, the
short little man with the sharp features, and the roving black eyes that
glanced everywhere at once, who was calling to him, and clambering out
of the buckboard.
“You are surprised to see me, eh, Monsieur le Curé?” clucked Monsieur
Dupont. “Yes, you are surprised. Very well! But what would you say, eh,
if I told you that I had come to arrest Monsieur le Curé of St. Marleau?
Eh--what would you say to that?”
Arrest! Curious, the cold, calculating alertness that swept upon him at
that word! What had happened?
Was the game up--now? Curious, how he measured appraisingly--and almost
contemptuously--the physique of this man before him. And then, under his
breath, he snarled an oath at the other. Curse Monsieur Dupont and his
perverted sense of humour! It was not the first time Monsieur Dupont had
startled him. Monsieur Dupont was grinning broadly--like an ape!
“I imagine,” said Raymond placidly, “that what I would say, Monsieur
Dupont, would be to inquire as to the nature of the charge against
Monsieur le Curé of St. Marleau.”
“And I,” said Monsieur Dupont, “would at once reply--assault.
Assault--bodily harm and injury--assault upon the person of one Jacques
Bourget.”
“Oh!” said Raymond--and smiled. “Yes, I believe there have been rumours
of it in the village, Monsieur Dupont. Several have spoken to me about
it, and I even understand that the Curé of St. Marleau pleads guilty.”
And then Monsieur Dupont puckered up his face, and burst into a guffaw.
“_'Cré nom_--ah, pardon--but it is excusable, one bad little word,
eh? Yes, it is excusable. But imagine--fancy! The good, young Father
Aubert--and Jacques Bourget! I would have liked to have seen it. Yes,
I would! Monsieur le Curé, you do not look it, but you are magnificent.
Monsieur le Curé, I lift my hat to you. _Bon Dieu_--ah, pardon
again--but you were not gentle with Jacques Bourget, whom one would
think could eat you alive! And you told me nothing about it--you are
modest, eh? Yes, you are modest.”
“I have had no opportunity to be modest.” Raymond laughed, “since, so
I understand, Bourget encountered some of the villagers on his way home
that afternoon, and gave me a reputation that, to say the least of it,
left me with little to be modest about.”
“I believe you,” chuckled Monsieur Dupont. “I believe you, Monsieur
le Curé, since I, too, got the story from Jacques Bourget himself.
He desired to swear out a warrant for your arrest. You have not seen
Bourget for several days, eh, Monsieur le Curé? No, you have not seen
him. But I know very well how to handle such as he! He will swear out
no warrant. On the contrary, he would very gladly feed out of anybody's
hand just now--even yours, Monsieur le Curé. I have the brave Jacques
Bourget in jail at the present moment.”
“In jail?” Raymond's puzzled frown was genuine. “But----”
“Wait a minute, Monsieur le Curé”--Monsieur Dupont's smile was suddenly
gone. He tapped Raymond impressively on the shoulder. “There is more in
this than appears on the surface, Monsieur le Curé. You see? Yes,
you see. Well then, listen! He talked no longer of a warrant when I
threatened him with arrest for getting whisky at Mother Blondin's. I had
him frightened. And that brings us to Mother Blondin, which is one
of the reasons I am here this afternoon--but we will return to Mother
Blondin's case in a moment. You remember, eh, that I caught Bourget
driving on the road the night Mentone tried to escape, and that I made
him drive the prisoner to Tournayville? Yes, you remember. Very good!
This morning his wife comes to Tournayville to say that he has not been
seen since that night. We make a search. He is not hard to find. He has
been drunk ever since--we find him in a room over one of the saloons
just beginning to get sober again. Also, we find that since that night
Bourget, who never has any money, has spent a great deal of money. Where
did Bourget get that money? You begin to see, eh, Monsieur le Curé? Yes,
you begin to see.” Monsieur Dupont laid his forefinger sagaciously along
the side of his nose. “Very good! I begin to question. I am instantly
suspicious. Bourget is very sullen and morose. He talks only of a
warrant against you. I seize upon that story again to threaten him with,
if he does not tell where he got the money. I put him in jail, where
I shall keep him for two or three days to teach him a lesson before
letting him go. It is another Bourget, a very lamblike Bourget, Monsieur
le Curé, before I am through; though I have to promise him immunity for
turning king's evidence. Do you see what is coming, Monsieur le Curé?
No, you do not. Most certainly you do not! Very well then, listen! I am
on the track of Mentone's accomplice. Bourget was in the plot. It was
Bourget who was to drive Mentone away that night--to the St. Eustace
station--after they had throttled you. Now, Monsieur le Curé”--Monsieur
Dupont's eyes were afire; Monsieur Dupont assumed an attitude; Monsieur
Dupont's arms wrapped themselves in a fold upon his breast--“now,
Monsieur le Curé, what do you say to that?”
“It is amazing!”--Raymond's hands, palms outward, were lifted in a
gesture eminently clerical. “Amazing! I can hardly credit it. Bourget
then knows who this accomplice is?”
“No--_tonnerre_--that is the bad luck of it!” scowled Monsieur Dupont.
“But there is also good luck in it. I am on the scent. I am on the
trail. I shall succeed, shall I not? Yes, certainly, I shall succeed.
Very well then, listen! It was dark that night. The man went to
Bourget's house and called Bourget outside. Bourget could not see what
the fellow looked like. He gave Bourget fifty dollars, and promised
still another fifty as soon as Bourget had Mentone in the wagon. And it
was on your account, Monsieur le Curé, that he went to Bourget.”
Raymond was incredulous.
“On mine?” he gasped.
“Yes, certainly--on yours. It was to offer Bourget a chance to revenge
himself on you. You see, eh? Yes, you see. He said he had heard of
what you had done to Bourget. Very well! We have only to analyse that a
little, and instantly we have a clue. You see where that brings us, eh,
Monsieur le Curé?” Raymond shook his head.
“No, I must confess, I don't,” he said.
“Hah! No? _Tiens!_” ejaculated Monsieur Dupont almost pityingly. “It
is easy to be seen, Monsieur le Curé, that you would make a very poor
police officer, and an equally poor criminal--the law would have its
fingers on you while you were wondering what to do. It is so, is it not?
Yes, it is so. You are much better as a priest. As a priest--I pay
you the compliment, Monsieur le Curé--you are incomparable. Very good!
Listen, then! I will explain. The fellow said he had heard of your fight
with Bourget. Splendid! Excellent! He must then have heard of it from
_some one_. Therefore he has been seen in the neighbourhood by some one
besides Bourget. Who is that 'some one' who has talked with a stranger,
and who can very likely tell us what that stranger looks like, where
Bourget cannot? I do not say that it is certain, but that it is likely.
It may not have been so dark when he talked to this 'some one'--eh? In
any case it is enough to go on. Now, you see, Monsieur le Curé, why I am
here--I shall begin to question everybody; and for your part, Monsieur
le Curé, you can do a great deal in letting the parish know what we are
after.”
Raymond looked at Monsieur Dupont with admiration. Monsieur Dupont had
set himself another “vigil”!
“Without doubt, Monsieur Dupont!” he assured the other heartily.
“Certainly, I will do my utmost to help you. I will have a notice posted
on the church door.”
“Good!” cried Monsieur Dupont, with a gratified smile. “And now another
matter--and one that will afford you satisfaction, Monsieur le Curé.
In a day or so, I will see that Mother Blondin is the source of no more
trouble in St. Marleau--or anywhere else.”
“Mother Blondin?” repeated Raymond--and now he was suddenly conscious
that he was in some way genuinely disturbed.
“Yes,” said Monsieur Dupont. “Twice in the past we have searched her
place. We knew she sold whisky. But she was too sharp for us--and those
who bought knew how to keep their mouths shut. But with Bourget as a
witness, it is different, eh? You see? Yes, you see. She is a fester,
a sore. We will clean up the place; we will put her in jail. The air
around here will be the sweeter for it, and----”
“No,” said Raymond soberly. “No, Monsieur Dupont”--his hands reached
out and clasped on Monsieur Dupont's shoulders. He knew now what was
disturbing him. It was that surge of pity for the proscribed old woman,
that sense of miserable distress that he had experienced more than once
before. The scene of that morning, when she had clung to the palings of
the fence outside the graveyard while they shovelled the earth upon the
coffin of her son, rose vividly before him. And it was he again who was
bringing more trouble upon her now through his dealings with Jacques
Bourget. Yes, it was pity--and more. It was a swiftly matured, but none
the less determined, resolve to protect her. “No, Monsieur Dupont, I beg
of you”--he shook his head gravely--“no, Monsieur Dupont, you will not
do that.”
“Heh! No? And why not?” demanded Monsieur Dupont in jerky astonishment.
“I thought you would ask for nothing better. She is already an
_excommuniée_, and-----”
“And she has suffered enough,” said Raymond earnestly. “It would seem
that sorrow and misery had been the only life she had ever known. She is
too old a woman now to have her home taken from her, and herself sent
to jail. She is none too well, as it is. It would kill her. A little
sympathy, a little kindness, Monsieur Dupont--it will succeed far
better.”
“Bah!” sniffed Monsieur Dupont. “A little sympathy, a little kindness!
And will that stop the whisky selling that the law demands shall be
stopped, Monsieur le Curé?”
“I will guarantee that,” said Raymond calmly.
“You!” Monsieur Dupont clucked vigorously with his tongue. “You will
stop that! And besides other things, do you perform miracles, Monsieur
le Curé? How will you do that?”
“You must leave it to me”--Raymond's hands tightened in friendly fashion
on Monsieur Dupont's shoulders--“I will guarantee it. If that is a
miracle, I will attempt it. If I do not succeed I will tell you so, and
then you will do as you see fit. You will agree, will you not, Monsieur
Dupont?--and I shall be deeply grateful to you.”
Monsieur Dupont shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
“I have to tell you again that you are too soft-hearted, Monsieur le
Curé. Yes, there is no other name for it--soft-hearted. And you will be
made a fool of. I warn you! Well--very well! Try it, if you like. I
give you a week. If at the end of a week--well, you understand? Yes, you
understand.”
“I understand,” said Raymond; and, with a final dap on Monsieur Dupont's
shoulders, he dropped his hands. “And I am of the impression that
Monsieur le Curé is not the only one who is--soft-hearted.”
“Bah! Nothing of the sort! Nothing of the sort!” snorted Monsieur Dupont
in a sort of pleased repudiation, as he climbed back into the buckboard.
“It is only to open your eyes.” He picked up the reins. “I shall spend
the rest of the day around here on that other business. Do not forget
about the notice, Monsieur le Curé.”
“It shall be posted on the church door this afternoon,” Raymond
promised.
He stood for a moment looking after Monsieur Dupont, as the other drove
off; and then, turning abruptly, he walked rapidly along in the opposite
direction, and, reaching the station road that led past old Mother
Blondin's door, began to climb the hill. Yes, decidedly he would post
a notice on the church door for Monsieur Dupont! If in any way he could
aid Monsieur Dupont to lay hands on this accomplice of Henri Mentone,
he--the derision that had crept to his lips faded away, and into the
dark eyes came a sudden weariness. There was humour doubtless in the
picture of Monsieur Dupont buttonholing every one he met, as he flitted
indefatigably all over the country in pursuit for his mare's nest; but,
somehow, he, Raymond, was not in the mood for laughter--for even a grim
laughter.
There was a man waiting to be hanged; and, besides the man waiting to be
hanged, there was--Valérie.
There was Valérie who, come what would, some day, near or distant,
whether he escaped or not, must inevitably know him finally for the man
he was. Not that it would change her life, it was only those devils of
hell who tried to insinuate that she cared; but to him it was a thought
pregnant with an agony so great that he could _pray_--he who had thought
never to bow the knee in sincerity to God--yes, that he could pray,
without mimicry, without that hideous profanation upon his lips, that
he might not stand despised, a contemptuous thing, a sacrilegious
profligate, in the eyes of the woman whom he loved.
He clenched his hands. He was not logical. If he cared so much as that
why--no, here was specious argument! He _was_ logical. His love for
Valerie, great as it might be, great as it was, in the final analysis
was hopeless. If he escaped, he could never return to the village, he
could never return to her--to be recognised as the good, young Father
Aubert; if he did not escape, if he--no, that was the “afterwards,”
he would not consent to think of that--only if he did not escape there
would be more than the hopelessness of this love to concern him, there
would be death. Yes, he was logical. The love he knew for Valérie was
but to mock him, to tantalise him with a vista of what, under other
circumstances, he might have claimed by right of his manhood's
franchise--if he had not, years ago, from a boy almost, bartered away
that franchise to the devil. Well, was he to whimper now, and turn, like
a craven thing, from the bitter dregs that, while the cup was still full
and the dregs yet afar off, he had held in bald contempt and incredulous
raillery! The dregs were here now. They were not bitter on his
lips, they were bitter in his soul; they were bitter almost beyond
endurance--but was he to whimper! Yes, he was logical.
All else might be hopeless; but it was not hopeless that he might save
his life. He had a right to fight for that, and he would fight for it as
any man would fight--to the last.
He had climbed the hill now, and was approaching old Mother Blondin's
door. Logical! Yes, he was logical--but life was not all logic. In the
abstract logic was doubtless a panacea that was all-embracing; in the
presence of the actual it shrank back a futile thing from the dull
gnawing of the heart and the misery of the soul. Perhaps that was why
he was standing here at Mother Blondin's door now. God knew, she was
miserable enough; God knew, that the dregs too were now at her lips!
They were not unlike--old Mother Blon-din and himself. Theirs was a
common cup.
He knocked upon the door--and, as he knocked, he caught sight of the
old woman's shrivelled face peering at him none too pleasantly from the
window. And then her step, sullen and reluctant, crossed the floor,
and she held the door open grudgingly a little way; and the space thus
opened she blocked completely with her body.
“What do you want?” she demanded sourly.
“I would like to come in, Madame Blondin,” Raymond answered pleasantly.
“I would like to have a little talk with you.”
“Well, you can't come in!” she snarled defiantly. “I don't want to talk
to you, and I don't want you coming here! It is true I may have been
fool enough to say you had a good heart, but I want nothing to do with
you. You are perhaps not as bad as some of them; but you are all full of
tricks with your smirking mouths! No priest would come here if he were
not up to something. I am an _excommuniée_--eh? Well, I am satisfied!”
Her voice was beginning to rise shrilly. “I don't know what you want,
and I don't want to know; but you can't wheedle around me just because
Jacques Bourget knocked me down, and you----”
“It is on account of Jacques Bourget that I want to speak to you,”
Raymond interposed soothingly. “Bourget has been locked up in jail.”
She stared at him, blinking viciously behind her glasses.
“Ah! I thought so! That is like the whole tribe of you! You had him
arrested!”
“No,” said Raymond. “I did not have him arrested. You remember the note
that was read out at the trial, Madame Blcndin--about the attempted
escape of Henri Mentone?”
“Well?”--Madame Blondin's animosity at the sight of a _soutane_ was
forgotten for the moment in a newly aroused interest. “Well--what of it?
I remember! What of it?”
“It seems,” said Raymond, “that Monsieur Dupont has discovered that
Bourget was to help in the escape.”
Madame Blondin cackled suddenly in unholy mirth. “And so they arrested
him, eh? Well, I am glad! Do you hear? I am glad! I hope they wring his
neck for him! He would help the murderer of my son to escape, would he?
I hope they hang him with the other!”
“They will not hang him,” Raymond replied. “He has given all the
information in his possession to the police, and he is to go free. But
it was because of that afternoon here that he was persuaded to help in
the escape. He expected to revenge himself on me: and that story, too,
Madame Blondin, is now known to the police. Bourget has confessed to
buying whisky here, and is ready to testify as a witness against you.”
“_Le maudit!_” Mother Blondin's voice rose in a virulent scream. “I will
tear his eyes out! Do you hear? I will show Jacques Bourget what he will
get for telling on me! He has robbed me! He never pays! Well, he will
pay for this! He will pay for this! I will find some one who will cut
his tongue out! They are not all like Jacques Bourget, they are----”
“You do not quite understand, Madame Blondin,” Raymond interrupted
gravely. “It is not with Jacques Bourget that you are concerned now,
it is with the police. Monsieur Dupont came to the village this
afternoon--indeed, he is here now. He said he had evidence enough at
last to close up this place and put you in jail, and that he was going
to do so. You are in a very serious situation, Madame Blondin”--he made
as though to step forward--“will you not let me come in, as a friend,
and talk it over with you, and see what we can do?”
Mother Blondin's hand was like a claw in its bony thinness, as it
gripped hard over the edge of the door.
“No, you will not come in!” she shouted. “You, or your Monsieur Dupont,
or the police--you will not come in! Eh--they will take my home from
me--all I've got--they will put me in jail”--she was twisting her head
about in a sort of pitiful inventory of her surroundings. “They have
been trying to run me out of St. Marleau for a long time--all the _good_
people, the saintly people--you, and your hypocrites. They cross to the
other side of the road to get out of old Mother Blondin's way! And so
at last, between you, you have beaten an old woman, who has no one to
protect her since you have killed her son! It is a victory--eh! Go
tell them to ring the church bells--go tell them--go tell them! And on
Sunday, eh, you will have something to preach about! It will make a fine
sermon!”
And somehow there came a lump into Raymond's throat. There was something
fine in this wretched, tattered, unkempt figure before him--something of
the indomitable, of the unconquerable in her spirit, misapplied though
it was. Her voice fought bravely to hold its defiant, infuriated ring,
to show no sign of the misery that had stolen into the dim old eyes,
and was quivering on the wrinkled lips, but the voice had broken--once
almost in a sob.
“No, no, Madame Blondin”--he reached out his hand impulsively to lay it
over the one that was clutched upon the door--“you must not----”
She snatched her hand away--and suddenly thrust her head through the
partially open doorway into his face.
“It is not Bourget, it is not Jacques Bourget!” she cried fiercely. “It
is you! If you had not come that afternoon when you had no business to
come, this would not have happened. It is you, who----”
“That is true,” said Raymond quietly. “And that is why I am here now.
I have had a talk with Monsieur Dupont, and he will give you another
chance.”
She still held her face close to his.
“I do not believe you!” she flung out furiously. “I do not believe you!
It is some trick you are trying to play! I know Monsieur Dupont! I know
him! He would give no one a chance if he could help it! I have been too
much for him for a long time, and if he had evidence against me now he
would give me not a minute to sell any more of--of what he thinks I sell
here!”
“That also is true,” said Raymond, as quietly as before. “He could not
very well permit you to go on breaking the law if he could prevent it.
But in exchange for his promise, I have given him a pledge that you will
not sell any more whisky.”
She straightened up--and stared at him, half in amazement, half in
crafty suspicion.
“Ah, then, so it is you, and not Monsieur Dupont, who is going to stop
it--eh?” she exclaimed, with a shrill laugh. “And how do you intend to
do it--eh? How do you intend to do it? Tell me that!”
“I think it will be very simple,” said Raymond--and his dark eyes, full
of a kindly sympathy, looked into hers. “To save your home, and you,
I have pledged myself to Monsieur Dupont that this will stop, and
so--well, Madame Blondin, and so I have come to put you upon your honour
to make good my pledge.” She craned her head forward again to peer into
his face. She looked at him for a long minute without a word. Her
lips alternately tightened and were tremulous. The fingers of her
hand plucked at the door's edge. And then she threw back her head in a
quavering, jeering laugh.
“Ha, ha! Old Mother Blondin upon her honour--think of that! You, a
smooth-tongued priest--and me, an _excommuniée!_ Ha, ha! Think of that!
And what did Monsieur Dupont say, eh--what did Monsieur Dupont say?”
“He said what I know is not true,” said Raymond simply. “He said you
would make a fool of me.”
“Ah, he said that!”--she jerked her head forward again sharply. “Well,
Monsieur Dupont is wrong, and you are right. I would not do that,
because I could not--since you have already made one of yourself! Ha,
ha! Old Mother Blondin upon her _honour!_ Ha, ha! It is a long while
since I have heard that--and from a priest--ha, ha! How could any one
make a fool of a fool!” Her voice was high-pitched again, fighting for
its defiance; but, somehow, where she strove to infuse venom, there
seemed only a pathetic wistfulness instead. “And so you would trust old
Mother Blondin--eh? Well”--she slammed the door suddenly in his face,
and her voice came muffled through the panels--“well, you are a fool!”
The bolt within rasped into place--and Raymond, turned away, and began
to descend the hill.
Mother Blondin for the moment was in the grip of a sullen pride that
bade her rise in arms against this fresh outlook on life; but Mother
Blondin would close and bolt yet another door, unless he was very
much mistaken--the rear door, and in the faces of her erstwhile and
unhallowed clientele!
Yes, he had pity for the old woman who had no kin now, and who had no
friends. Pity! He owed her more than that! So then--there came a sudden
thought--so then, why not? He would not long be curé of St. Marleau, but
while he was--well, he was the curé of St. Marleau! He could not remove
the ban of excommunication, that was beyond the authority of a mere
curé, it would require at least Monsignor the Bishop to do that; but
he could remove the ban--of ostracism! Yes, decidedly, the good, young
Father Aubert could do that! He was vaguely conscious that there were
degrees of excommunication, and he seemed to remember that Valérie had
said it was but a minor one that had been laid upon Mother Blondin, and
that the villagers of their own accord had drawn more and more aloof. It
would, therefore, not be very difficult.
He quickened his step, and, reaching the bottom of the hill, made his
way at once toward the carpenter shop. He could see Madame Bouchard
hoeing in the little garden patch between the road and the front of the
shop. It was Madame Bouchard that he now desired to see.
“_Tiens! Bon jour_, Madame Bouchard!” he called out to her, as he
approached. “I am come a penitent! I did not deserve your bread! I am
sure that you are vexed with me! But I have not seen you since to thank
you.”
She came forward to where Raymond now leaned upon the fence.
“Oh, Monsieur le Curé!” she exclaimed laughingly. “How can you say such
things! Fancy! The idea! Vexed with you! It is only if you really liked
it?”
“H'm!” drawled Raymond teasingly, pretending to deliberate. “When do you
bake again, Madame Bouchard?”
She laughed outright now.
“To-morrow, Monsieur le Curé--and I shall see that you are not
forgotten.”
“It is a long way off--to-morrow,” said Raymond mournfully; and then,
with a quick smile: “But only one loaf this time, Madame Bouchard,
instead of two.”
“Nonsense!” she returned. “It is a great pleasure. And what are two
little loaves!”
“A great deal,” said Raymond, suddenly serious. “A very great deal,
Madame Bouchard; and especially so if you send one of the two loaves to
some one else that I know of.”
“Some one else?”
“Yes,” said Raymond. “To Mother Blondin.”
“To--Mother Blondin!”--Madame Bouchard stared in utter amazement.
“But--but, Monsieur le Curé, you are not in earnest! She--she is an
_excommuniée_, and we--we do not----”
“I think it would make her very glad,” said Raymond softly. “And Mother
Blondin I think has----”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say that Mother Blondin was not
likely now to sell any more whisky at the tavern, but he checked
himself. It was Mother Blondin who must be left to tell of that herself.
If he spread such a tale, she would be more likely than not to rebel at
a situation which she would probably conceive was being thrust forcibly
down her throat; and, in pure spite at what she might also conceive to
be a self-preening and boastful spirit on his part for his superiority
over her, sell all the more, no matter what the consequences to herself.
And so he changed what he was about to say. “And Mother Blondin I think
has known but little gladness in her life.”
“But--but, Monsieur le Curé,” she gasped, “what would the neighbours
say?”
“I hope,” said Raymond, “that they would say they too would send her
loaves--of kindness.”
Madame Bouchard leaned heavily upon her hoe.
“It is many years, Monsieur le Curé, since almost I was a little girl,
that any one has willingly had anything to do with the old woman on the
hill.”
“Yes,” said Raymond gently. “And will you think of that, Madame
Bouchard, when you bake to-morrow--the many years--and the few that are
left--for the old woman on the hill.”
The tears had sprung to Madame Bouchard's eyes. He left her standing
there, leaning on the hoe.
He went on along the road toward the _presbytère_. It had been a strange
afternoon--an illogical one, an imaginary one almost. It seemed to have
been a jumble of complexities, and incongruities, and unrealities--there
was the man who was to be hanged by the neck until he was dead; and
Monsieur Dupont who, through a very natural deduction and not because he
was a fool, for Monsieur Dupont was very far from a fool, was now vainly
engaged like a dog circling around in a wild effort to catch his own
tail; and there was Mother Blondin who had another window to gaze from;
and Madame Bouchard who had still another. Yes, it had been a strange
afternoon--only now that voice in the courtroom was beginning to ring
in his ears again. “Father--Father François Aubert--help me--I do not
understand.” And the gnawing was at his soul again, and again his hat
was lifted from his head to cool his fevered brow.
And as he reached the church there came to him the sound of organ notes,
and instead of crossing to the _presbytère_ he stepped softly inside to
listen--it would be Valérie--Valérie, and Gauthier Beaulieu, the altar
boy, probably, who often pumped the organ for her when she was at
practice. But as he stepped inside the music ceased, and instead he
heard them talking in the gallery, and in the stillness of the church
their voices came to him distinctly.
“Valérie”--yes, that was the boy's voice--“Valérie, why do they call him
the good, young Father Aubert?”
“Such a question!” Valérie laughed. “Why do you call him that yourself?”
“I don't--any more,” asserted the boy. “Not after what I saw at mass
this morning.”
Raymond drew his breath in sharply. What was this! What was this that
Gauthier Beaulieu, the altar boy, had seen at mass! He had fooled the
boy--the boy could not have seen anything! He drew back, opening the
door cautiously. They were coming down the stairs now--but he must
hear--hear what it was that Gauthier Beaulieu had seen.
“Why, what do you mean, Gauthier?” Valérie asked.
“I mean what I say,” insisted the boy doggedly. “It is not right to call
him that! When he was kneeling there this morning, and I guess it was
the bright light because the stained window was open, for I never saw it
before, I saw his hair all specked with white around his temples. And
a man with white in his hair isn't young, is he! And I saw it,
Valérie--honest, I did!”
“Your eyes should have been closed,” said Valérie. “And----”
Raymond was crossing the green to the _presbytère_.