“He is asleep,” he said. “Do not disturb him.”
“Asleep!”—the turnkey in amazement thrust his head inside the cell; and then he looked in wonder at Raymond. “Asleep—but Monsieur Lemoyne told me of the news when he went out. Asleep—after that! The man who never sleeps!”
But Raymond only shook his head, and did not answer, and walked on down the corridor, and out into the courtyard. It was dusk now. He seemed to be moving purely by intuition. It was not the way—the man was to live. His mind was obsessed with that. It was not the way. There were two ways left—two out of the three.
The turnkey, who had followed in respectful silence, spoke again as he opened the jail gates.
“Au revoir, Monsieur le Cure”—he lifted his cap. “Monsieur le Curé will return to-morrow?”
To-morrow! Raymond's hands fumbled with the halter, as he untied the horse. To-morrow! There were two ways left, and the time was short. To-morrow—what would to-morrow bring!
“Perhaps,” he said, unconscious that his reply had been long delayed—and found that he was speaking to closed gates, and that the turnkey was gone.
And then Raymond smiled as he seated himself in the buckboard and drove away—the smile a curious twitching of the lips. The turnkey was a tactful man who would not intrude upon Monsieur le Curé's so easily understood sorrow for the condemned man!
He drove on through the town, and turned into the St. Marleau road that wound its way for miles along the river's shore. And as he had driven slowly on his way to the jail, so he drove slowly on his return to the village, the horse left almost to guide itself and to set its own pace.
The dusk deepened, and the road grew dark—it seemed fitting that the road should grow dark. There were two ways left. The jaws of the trap were narrowing—one of the three ways was gone. There were two left. Either he must stand in that other's place, and hang in that other's place; or run for it with what start he could, throw them off his trail if he could, and write from somewhere a letter that would exonerate the other and disclose the priest's identity—-a letter to the Bishop unquestionably, if the letter was to be written at all, for the Bishop, not only because he knew the man personally and could at once establish his identity, but because, in the very nature of the case, with the life of one of his own curés at stake, the Bishop, above all other men, would have both the incentive and the power to act. Two ways! One was a ghastly, ignominious death, to hang by the neck until he was dead—the other was to be a fugitive from the law, to become a hunted, baited beast, fighting every moment with his wits for the right to breathe. There were two ways! One was death—one held a chance for life. And the time was short.
It was the horse that turned of its own accord in past the church, and across the green to the presbytère.
He left the horse standing there—Narcisse would come and get it presently—and went up the steps, and entered the house. The door of the front room was open, a light burned upon his desk. Along the hall, from the dining room, Madame Lafleur came hurrying forward smilingly.
“Supper is ready, Monsieur le Curé,” she called out cheerily. “Poor man, you must be tired—it was a long drive to take so soon after your illness, and before you were really strong again.”
“I am late,” said Raymond; “that is the main thing, Madame Lafleur. I put you always, it seems, to a great deal of trouble.”
“Tut!” she expostulated, shaking her head at him as she smiled. “It is scarcely seven o'clock. Trouble! The idea! We did not wait for you, Monsieur le Curé, because Valérie had to hurry back to Madame Blondin. Madame Blondin is very, very low, Monsieur le Curé. Doctor Arnaud, when he left this afternoon, said that—but I will tell you while you are eating your supper. Only first—yes—wait—it is there on your desk. Monsieur Labbée sent it over from the station this afternoon—a telegram, Monsieur le Curé.”
A telegram! He glanced swiftly at her face. It told him nothing. Why should it!
“Thank you,” he said, and stepping into the front room, walked over to the desk, picked up the yellow-envelope, tore it open calmly, and read the message.
His back was toward the door. He laid the slip of paper down upon the desk, and with that curious trick of his stretched out his hand in front of him, and held it there, and stared at it. It was steady—without tremor. It was well that it was so. He would need his nerve now. He had been quite right—the time was short. There remained—one hour. In an hour from now, on the evening train, Monsignor the Bishop, who was personally acquainted with Father François Aubert, would arrive in St. Marleau.
AN hour! There lay an hour between himself—and death. Primal, elemental, savage in its intensity, tigerish in its coming, there surged upon him the demand for life—to live—to fight for self-preservation. And yet how clear his brain was, and how swiftly it worked! Life! There lay an hour between himself—and death. The horse was still outside. The overalls, the old coat, the old hat belonging to the sacristan were still at his disposal in the shed. He would ostentatiously set out to drive to the station to meet the Bishop, hide the horse and buckboard in the woods just before he got there, change his clothes, run on the rest of the way, remain concealed on the far side of the tracks until the train arrived—and, as Monsignor the Bishop descended from one side of the train to the platform, he, Raymond, would board it from the other. There would then, of course, be no one to meet the Bishop. The Bishop would wait patiently no doubt for a while; then Labbée perhaps would manage to procure a vehicle of some sort, or the Bishop might even walk. Eventually, of course, it would appear that Father Aubert had set out for the station and had not since been seen—but it would be a good many hours before the truth began to dawn on any one. There would be alarm only at first for the safety of the good, young Father Aubert—and meanwhile he would have reached Halifax, say One could not ask for a better start than that!
Life! With the crisis upon him, his mind held on no other thing. Life—the human impulse to live and not to die! No other thing—but life! It was an hour before the train was due—he could drive to the station easily in half an hour. There was no hurry—but there was Madame Lafleur who, he was conscious, was watching him from the doorway—Madame Lafleur, and Madame Lafleur's supper. He would have need of food, there was no telling when he would have another chance to eat; and there was Madame Lafleur, too, to enlist as an unwitting accomplice.
“Monsieur le Curé”—it was Madame Lafleur speaking a little timidly from the doorway—“it—it is not bad news that Monsieur le Curé has received?”
“Bad news!” Raymond picked up the telegram, and, turning from the desk, walked toward her. “Bad news!” he smiled. “But on the contrary, my dear Madame Lafleur! I was thinking only of just what was the best thing to do, since it is now quite late, and I did not receive the telegram this afternoon, as I otherwise should had I not been away. Listen! Monsignor the Bishop, who is on his way”—Raymond glanced deliberately at the message—“yes, he says to Halifax—who then is on his way to Halifax, will stop off here this evening.”
Madame Lafleur was instantly in a flutter of excitement.
“Oh, Monsieur le Curé!”—her comely cheeks grew rosy, and her eyes shone with pleasure. “Oh, Monsieur le Curé—Monsignor the Bishop! He will spend the night here?” she demanded eagerly.
Raymond patted her shoulder playfully, as he led her toward the dining room.
“Yes, he will spend the night here, Madame Lafleur”—it was strange that he could laugh teasingly, naturally. “But first, a little supper for a mere curé, eh, Madame Lafleur—since Monsignor the Bishop will undoubtedly have dined on the train.”
“Oh, Monsieur le Curé!” She shook her head at him.
“And then,” laughed Raymond, as he seated himself at the table, “since the horse is already outside, I will drive over to the station and meet him.”
He ate rapidly, and, strangely enough, with an appetite. Madame Lafleur bustled about him, quite unable to keep still in her excitement. She talked, and he answered her. He did not know what she said; his replies were perfunctory. There was an excuse to be made for going to the shed instead of getting directly into the buckboard and driving off. Madame Lafleur would undoubtedly and most naturally watch him off from the front door. But—yes, of course—that was simple—absurdly simple! Well then, another thing—it would mean at least a good hour to him if the village was not on tiptoe with expectancy awaiting the Bishop's arrival, and thus be ready to start out to discover what had happened to the good, young Father Aubert on the instant that the alarm was given; or, worse still, that any one, learning of the Bishop's expected arrival, should enthusiastically drive over to the station as a sort of self-appointed delegation of welcome, just a few minutes behind himself. In that case anything might happen. No, it would not do at all! Every minute of delay and confusion on the part of St. Marleau, and Labbée, and Madame Lafleur no less than the others, was priceless to him now. He remembered his own experience. It would take Labbée a long time to find a horse and wagon; and Madame Lafleur, on her part, would think nothing of a prolonged delay in his return—if he left her with the suggestion, that the train might be late! Well, there was no reason why he should not accomplish all this. So far, it was quite evident, since Madame Lafleur had had no inkling of what the telegram contained, that no one knew anything about it; and that Labbée, whom he was quite prepared to credit with being loose-tongued enough to have otherwise spread the news, had not associated the Bishop's official signature—with Monsignor the Bishop! It was natural enough. The telegram was signed simply—“Montigny”—not the Bishop of Montigny.
He had eaten enough—he pushed back his chair and stood up.
“I think perhaps, Madame Lafleur,” he said reflectively, “that it would be as well not to say anything to any one until Monsignor arrives.” He handed her the telegram. “It would appear that his visit is not an official one, and he may prefer to rest and spend a quiet evening. We can allow him to decide that for himself.”
Madame Lafleur adjusted her spectacles, and read the message.
“But, yes, Monsieur le Curé,” she agreed heartily. “Monsignor will tell us what he desires; and if he wishes to see any one in the village this evening, it will not be too late when you return. But, Monsieur le Curé”—she glanced at the clock—“hadn't you better hurry?”
“Yes,” said Raymond quickly; “that's so! I had!”
Madame Lafleur accompanied him to the front door, carrying a lamp. At the foot of the steps Raymond paused, and looked back at her. It had grown black now, and there was no moon.
“I'll run around to the shed and get a lantern,” he called up to her—and, without waiting for a reply, hurried around the corner of the house.
He laughed a little harshly, his lips were tightly set, as he reached the shed door, opened it, and closed it behind him. He struck a match, found and lighted a lantern, procured a small piece of string, tucked the sacristan's overalls, and the old coat and hat swiftly under his soutane—and a moment later was back beside the buckboard again.
He tied the lantern in front of the dash-board, and climbed into the seat. Madame Lafleur was still standing in the doorway. He hesitated an instant, as he picked up the reins. The sweet, motherly old face smiled at him. A pang came and found lodgment in his heart. It was like that, standing there in the lamp-lit doorway of the presbytère, that he had seen her for the first time—as he saw her now for the last. He had grown to love the silver-haired little old lady with her heart of gold—and so he looked—and a mist came before his eyes, for this was his good-bye.
“You will be back in an hour?” she called out. “You forget, Madame Lafleur”—he forced himself to laugh in the old playful, teasing way—“that the train is sometimes more than an hour late itself!”
“Yes, that is true!” she said. “Au revoir, then, Monsieur le Curé!”
He answered quietly.
“Good-night, Madame Lafleur!”
He drove out across the green, and past the church, and, a short distance down the road, where he could no longer be seen from the windows of the presbytère, he leaned forward and extinguished the lantern. He smiled curiously to himself. It was the only act that appeared at all in consonance with escape! He was a fugitive now, a fugitive for life—and a fugitive running for his life. It seemed as though he should be standing up in the buckboard, and lashing at the horse until the animal was flecked with foam, and the buckboard rocked and swayed with a mad speed along the road. Instead—he had turned off and was on the station road now—the horse was labouring slowly up the steep hill. It seemed as though there should be haste, furious haste, a wild abandon in his flight—that there should be no time to mark, or see, or note, as he was noting now, the twinkling lights of the quiet village nestling below him there along the river's shore. It seemed that his blood should be whipping madly through his veins—instead he was contained, composed, playing his last hand with the old-time gambler's nerve that precluded a false lead, that calculated deliberately, methodically, and with deadly coolness, the value of every card. And yet, beneath this nerve-imposed veneer, he was conscious of a thousand emotions that battered and seethed and raged at their barriers, and sought to fling themselves upon him and have him for their prey.
He laughed coldly out into the night. It was not the fool who tore like a madman, boisterously, blindly, into the open that would escape! He had ample time. He had seen to that, even if he had appeared to accept Madame Lafleur's injunction to hurry. He need reach the station but a minute or so ahead of the train. Meanwhile, the minor details—were there any that he had overlooked? What about the soutane and the clerical hat, for instance, after he had exchanged them for the sacristan's things? Should he hide them where he left the horse and buckboard in the woods? He shook his head after a moment. No; they would probably find the horse before morning, and they might find the soutane. There must be no trace of Father Aubert—the longer they searched the better. And then, more important still, when finally the alarm was spread, the description that would be sent out would be that of a man dressed as a priest. No; he would take them with him, wrap them up in a bundle around a stone, and somewhere miles away, say, throw them from the car into the water as the train crossed a bridge. So much for that! Was there anything else, anything that he——
A lighted window glowed yellow in the darkness from a little distance away. He had come to the top of the rise. It was old Mother Blondin's cottage. He had meant to urge the horse into a trot once the level was gained—but instead the horse was forgotten, and the animal plodded slowly forward at the same pace at which it had ascended the hill.
Raymond's eyes were fixed upon the light. Old Mother Blondin's cottage—and in that room, beyond that light, old Mother Blondin, the old woman on the hill, the excommuniée, lay dying. And there was a shadow on the window shade—the shadow of one sitting in a chair—a woman's shadow—Valerie!
He stopped the horse, and, sitting there in the buck-board opposite the cottage, he raised his hand slowly and took his hat from his head.
“Go on—fool!”—with a snarl, vicious as the cut of a whip-lash, came that inner voice. “You may have time—but you have none to throw away!”
“Be still!” answered Raymond's soul. “This is my hour. Be still!”
Valerie! That shadow on the window he knew was Valerie—and within was that other shadow, the shadow of death. This was his good-bye to old Mother Blondin, who had drunk of the common cup with him, and knelt with him in the moonlit church, her hand in his, outcasts, sealing a most strange bond—and this was his good-bye to Valérie. Valérie—a shadow there on the window shade. That was all—a shadow—all that she could ever be, nothing more tangible in his life through the years to come, if there were years, than a shadow that did not smile, that did not speak to him, that did not touch his hand, or lift brave eyes to look into his. A shadow—that was all—a shadow. It was brutal, cruel, remorseless, yet immeasurably true in its significance, this good-bye—this good-bye to Valérie—a shadow.
The shadow moved, and was gone; from miles away, borne for a great distance on the clear night air, came faintly the whistle of a train—and Raymond, springing suddenly erect, his teeth clenched together, snatched at the whip and laid it across the horse's back.
The wagon lurched forward, and he staggered with the plunge and jerk—and his whip fell again. And he laughed now—no longer calm—and lashed the horse. It was not time that he was racing, there was ample time, the train was still far away; it was his thoughts—to outrun them, to distance them, to leave them behind him, to know no other thing than that impulse for life that alone until now so far this night had swayed him.
And he laughed—and horse and wagon tore frantically along the road, and the woods were about him now, and it was black, black as the mouth of Satan's pit and the roadway to it were black. He was flung back into his seat—and he laughed at that. Life—and he had doddled along the road, preening himself on his magnificent apathy! Life—and the battle and the fight for it was the blood afire, reckless of fear and of odds, the laugh of defiance, the joy of combat, the clenched fist shaken in the face of hell itself! Life—in the mad rush for it was appeal! On! The wagon reeled like a drunken thing, and the wheels twisted in the ruts; a patch of starlight seeping through the branches overhead made a patch of gloom in the inky blackness underneath, and in this patch of gloom wavering tree trunks, like uncouth monsters as they flitted by, snatched at the wheel-hubs to wreck and overturn the wagon, but he was too quick for them, too quick—they always missed. On! Away from memory, away from those good-byes, away from every thought save that of life—life, and the right to live—life, and the fight to hurl that gibbet with its dangling rope a smashed and battered and splintered thing against the jail wall where they would strangle him to death and bury him in their cursed lime!
On! Why did not the beast go faster! Were those white spots that danced before his eyes a lather of foam on the animal's flanks? On—along the road to life! Faster! Faster! It was not fast enough—for thoughts were swift, and they were racing behind him now in their pursuit, and coming closer, and they would overtake him unless he could go faster—faster! Faster, or they would be upon him, and—a big and brave and loyal man.
A low cry, a cry of sudden, overmastering hurt, was drowned in the furious pound of the horse's hoofs, in the rattle and the creaking of the wagon, and in the screech and grinding of the wagon's jolt and swing. And, unconscious that he held the reins, unconscious that he tightened them, his hands, clenched, went upward to his face. There was no black road, no plunging horse, no mad, insensate rush, ungoverned and unguided, no wagon rocking demoniacally through the night—there was a woman who knelt in the aisle of a church, and in her arms she held a man, and across the shattered chancel rail there lay a mighty cross, and the shadow of the cross fell upon them both, and the woman's eyes were filled with tears, and she spoke: “A big and brave and loyal man.”
Tighter against his face he pressed his clenched hands, unconscious that the horse responded to the check and gradually slowed its pace. Valérie! The woman was Valerie—and he was the man! God, the hurt of it—the hurt of those words ringing now in his ears! She had given him her all—her love, her faith, her trust. And in return, he——
The reins dropped from his hands, and his head bowed forward. Life! Yes, there was life this way for him—and for Valerie the bitterest of legacies. He would bequeath to her the belief that she had given her love not only to a felon but to a coward. A coward! And no man, he had boasted, had ever called him a coward. Pitiful boast! Life for himself—for Valerie the fuller measure of misery! Yes, he loved Valérie—he loved her with a traitor's and a coward's love!
His lips were drawn together until they were bloodless. In retrospect his life passed swiftly, unbidden before him—and strewn on every hand was wreckage. And here was the final, crowning act of all—the coward's act—the coward afraid at the end to face the ruin he had, disdainful, callous, contemptuous then of consequence, so consistently wrought since boyhood! If he got away and wrote a letter it would save the man's life, it was true; but it was also true that he ran because he was cornered and at the end of his resources, and because what he might write would, in any case, be instantly discovered if he did not run—and to plead his own innocence in that letter, in the face of glaring proof to the contrary, in the face of the evidence he had so carefully budded against another, smacked only of the grovelling whine of the condemned wretch afraid. None would believe him. None! It was paltry, the police were inured to that; all criminals were eager to protest their innocence, and pule out their tale of extenuating circumstances. None would believe him. Valérie would not believe.
Folds of his cheeks were gripped and crushed in his hands until the finger nails bit into the flesh. He was innocent. He had not murdered that scarred-faced drunken hound—only Valérie would neither believe nor know; and in Valérie's eyes he would stand a loathsome thing, and in her soul would be a horror, and a misery, and a shame that was measured only by the greatness and the depth of the love she had given him, for in that greatness and that depth lay, too, the greatness and the depth of that love's dishonour and that love's abasement. But if—but if——
For a moment he did not stir or move, his eyes seeing nothing, fixed before him—and then steadily his head came up and poised far back on the broad, square shoulders, and the tight lips parted in a strange and sudden smile. If he drove to the station and met Monsignor the Bishop, and drove Monsignor the Bishop back to St. Marleau—then she would believe. No one else could or would believe him, the proof was irrefutable against him, they would convict him, and the sentence would be death; but she in her splendid love would believe him, and know that she had loved—a man. There had been three ways, but one had gone that afternoon; and then there had been two ways, but there was only one now, the man's way, for the other was the coward's way. And, taking this, he could lift his head and stand before them all, for in Valérie's face and in Valérie's eyes there would not be—-what was worse than death. To save Valérie from what he could—not from sorrow, not from grief, that he could not do—but that she might know that her love had been given where it was held a sacred, a priceless and a hallowed thing, and was not outraged and was not degraded because it had been given to him! To save Valerie from what he could—to save himself in his own eyes from the self-abasing knowledge that through a craven fear he had bartered away his manhood and his self-respect, that through fear he ran, and that through fear he hid, and that through fear, though he was innocent, he dared not stand—a man!
He stopped the horse, and stepped down to the ground; and, searching for a match, found one, and lighted the lantern where it hung upon the dash-board. He was calm now, not with that calmness desperately imposed by will and nerve, but with a calmness that was like to—peace. And, standing there, the lantern light fell upon him, and gleamed upon the crucifix upon his breast. And he lifted the crucifix, and, wondering, held it in his hand, and looked at it. It was here in these woods and on this road that he had first hung it about his neck in insolent and bald denial of the Figure that it bore. It was very strange! He had meant it then to save his life; and now—he let it slip gently from his fingers, and climbed back into the buckboard—and now it seemed, as though strengthening him in the way he saw at last, in the way he was to take, as though indeed it were the way itself, came radiating from it, like a benediction, a calm and holy—peace.
And there was no more any turmoil.
And he picked up the reins and drove on along the road.
THE train had come and gone, as Raymond reached the station platform. He had meant it so. He had meant to avoid the lights from the car windows that would have illuminated the otherwise dark platform; to avoid, if possible, a disclosure in Labbée's, the station agent's, presence. Afterwards, Labbée would know, as all would know—but not now. It was not easy to tell; the words perhaps would not come readily even when alone with Monsignor the Bishop, as they drove back together to the village.
There were but two figures on the platform—Labbée, who held a satchel in his hand; and a tall, slight form in clerical attire.
“Ah, Father Aubert—salut!” Labbée called out. “You are late; but we saw your light coming just as the train pulled out, and so——”
“Well, well, François, my son!”—it was a rich, mellow voice that broke in on the station agent.
Raymond stood up and lifted his hat—lifted it so that it but shaded his face the more.
“Monsignor!” he said, in a low voice. “This is a great honour.”
“Honour!” the Bishop responded heartily. “Why should I not come, I—but do I sit on this side?”—he had stepped down into the buckboard, as he grasped Raymond's hand.
“Yes, Monsignor”—Raymond's wide-brimmed clerical hat was far over his eyes. The lantern on the front of the dash-board left them in shadow; Labbée's lantern for the moment was behind them, as the station agent stowed the Bishop's valise under the seat. He took up the reins, and with an almost abrupt “goodnight” to the station agent, started the horse forward along the road.
“Good-night!” Labbée shouted after them. “Goodnight, Monsignor!”
“Good-night!” the Bishop called back—and turned to Raymond. “Yes, as I was saying,” he resumed, “why should I not come? I was passing through St. Marleau in any case. I have heard splendid things of my young friend, the curé, here. I wanted to see for myself, and to tell him how pleased and gratified I was.”
“You are very good, Monsignor,” Raymond answered, his voice still low and hurried.
“Excellent!” pursued the Bishop. “Most excellent! I do not know when I have been so pleased over anything. The parish perhaps”—he laughed pleasantly—“would not object if Father Allard prolonged his holiday a little—eh—François, my son?”
Raymond shook his head.
“Hardly that, Monsignor”—he dared indulge in little more than monosyllables—it was even strange the Bishop had not already noticed that his voice was not the voice of Father François Aubert. And yet what did it matter? In a moment, in five minutes, in half an hour, the Bishop would know all—he would have told the Bishop all. Why should he strive now to keep up a deception that he was voluntarily to acknowledge almost the next instant? It was not argument in his mind, not argument again that brought indecision and chaotic hesitancy, it was not that—the way was clear, there was only one way, the way that he would take—? and yet, perhaps because it was so very human, because perhaps he sought for still more strength, because perhaps it was so almost literally the final, closing act of his life, he waited and clung to that moment more, and to that five minutes more.
“Well, well,” said the Bishop happily, “we will perhaps have to look around and see if we cannot find for you a parish of your own, my son. And who knows—eh—perhaps we have already found it?”
How queerly the lantern jerked its rays up and down the horse's legs, and cast its shadows along the road! He heard himself speaking again.
“You are very good, Monsignor”—they were the same words with which he had replied before—he uttered them mechanically.
He felt the Bishop's hand close gently, yet firmly, upon his shoulder.
“François, my son”—the voice had suddenly become grave—“what is the matter? You act strangely. Your voice does not somehow seem natural—it is very hoarse. You have a cold perhaps, or perhaps you are ill?”
“No, Monsignor—I am not ill.”
“Then—but, you alarm me, my son!” exclaimed the Bishop anxiously. “Something has happened?”
“Yes, Monsignor—something has happened.”
How curiously his mind seemed to be working! He was conscious that the Bishop's hand remained in kindly pressure on his shoulder as though inviting his confidence, conscious that the man beside him maintained a sympathetic, tactful silence, waiting for him to speak; but his thoughts for the moment now were not upon the immediate present, but upon the immediate afterwards when his story had been told.
The buckboard rattled on along the road; it entered the wooded stretch—and still went on. When he had told this man beside him all, they would drive into the village. Then presently they would set out for Tournayville, and Monsieur Dupont, and the jail. But before that—there was Valérie. He turned his head still further away—even in the blackness his face must show its ashen whiteness. There was Valérie—Valérie who would believe—but Valérie who was to suffer, and to know agony and sorrow—and he, who loved her, must look into her face and see the smile die out of it, and the quiver come to her lips, and see her eyes fill, while with his own hands he dealt her the blow, which, soften it as he would, must still strike her down. It was the only way—the way of peace. It seemed most strange that peace should lie in that black hour ahead for Valérie and for himself—that peace should lie in death—and yet within him, quiet, undismayed, calm and untroubled in its own immortal truth, was the knowledge that it was so.
Raymond lifted his head suddenly—through the-trees there showed the glimmer of a light—as it had showed that other night when he had walked here in the storm. Had they come thus far—in silence! Involuntarily he stopped the horse. It was the light from old Mother Blondin's cottage, and here was the spot where he had stumbled that night over the priest whom he had thought dead, as the other lay sprawled across the road. It was strange again—most strange! He had not deliberately chosen this spot to tell——
“François, my son—what is it?”—the Bishop's voice was full of deep concern.
For a moment Raymond did not move, and he did not speak. Then he laid down the reins, and, leaning forward, untied the lantern from the dash-board—and, taking off his hat, held up the lantern between them until the light fell full upon his face.
There was a quick and startled cry from the Bishop, and then for an instant—silence. And Raymond looked into the other's face, even as the other looked into his. It was a face full of dignity and strength and quiet, an aged, kindly face, crowned with hair that was silver-white; but the blue eyes that spoke of tranquillity were widened now in amazement, surprise and consternation.
And then the Bishop spoke.
“Something has happened to François,” he said, in a hesitant, troubled way, “and you have come from Tournayville to take his place perhaps, or perhaps to—to be with him. Is it as serious as that—and you were loath to break the news, my son? And yet—and yet I do not understand. The station agent said nothing to indicate that anything was wrong, though perhaps he might not have heard; and he called you Father Aubert, though, too, that possibly well might be, for it was dark, and I myself did not see your face. My son, I fear that I am right. Tell me, then! You are a priest from Tournayville, or from a neighbouring parish?”
“I am not a priest,” said Raymond steadily.
The Bishop drew back sharply, as though he had been struck a blow.
“Not a priest—and in those clothes!”
“No, Monsignor.”
The fine old face grew set and stern.
“And Francois Aubert, then—where is Father Francois Aubert?”
“Monsignor”—Raymond's lips were white—“he is in the condemned cell at Tournayville—under sentence of death—he is——”
“Condemned—to death! François Aubert—condemned to death!”—the Bishop was grasping with one hand at the back of the seat. And then slowly, still grasping at the seat, he pulled himself up and stood erect, and raised his other hand over Raymond in solemnity and adjuration. “In the name of God, what does this mean? Who are you?”
“I am Raymond Chapelle,” Raymond answered—and abruptly lowered the lantern, and a twisted smile of pain gathered on his lips. “You have heard the name, Monsignor—all French Canada has heard it.” The Bishop's hand dropped heavily to his side.
“Yes, I have heard it,” he said sternly. “I have heard that it was a proud name dishonoured, a princely fortune dissolutely wasted. And you are Raymond Chapelle, you say! I have heard this much, that you had disappeared, but after that——”
Raymond put his head down into his hands, and drew his hands tightly across his face.
“This is the end of the story,” he said. “Listen, Monsignor”—he raised his head again. “You have heard, too, of the murder of Théophile Blondin that was committed here a little while ago. It is for that murder that François Aubert was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged.” He paused an instant, his lips tight. “Monsignor, it is I who killed Théophile Blondin. It is I who, since that night, have lived here as the curé—as Father François Aubert.”
How ghastly white the aged face was! As ghastly as his own must be! The other's hands were gripping viselike at his shoulders.
“Are you mad!” the Bishop whispered hoarsely. “Do you know what you are saying!”
“I know”—there was a sort of unnatural calm and finality in Raymond's tones now. “I was on the train the night that Father Aubert came to St. Marleau. I had a message for the mother of a man who was killed in the Yukon, Monsignor. The mother lived here. There was a wild storm that night. There was no wagon to be had, and we both walked from the station. But I did not walk with the priest. You, who have heard of Raymond Chapelle, know why—I despised a priest—I knew no God. Monsignor”—he turned and pointed suddenly—“you see that light through the trees? It is the light I saw that night, as I stumbled over the body of a man lying here in the road. The man was Father Aubert. The limb of a tree had fallen and struck him on the head. I thought him dead. I went over to that house for help.”
He paused again. The Bishop's hands, withdrawn,* were clasped now upon a golden crucifix—it was like his own crucifix, only it was larger, much larger than his own. But the Bishop's white face was still close to his; and the blue eyes seemed to have grown darker, and were upon him in a fixed, tense way, as though to read his soul.
“And then?”—he saw the Bishop's lips move, he did not hear the Bishop speak.
At times the horse moved restively; at times there came the chirping of insects from the woods; at times a breeze stirred and whispered through the leaves. Raymond, staring at the yellow flicker of the lantern, set now upon the floor of the buckboard at their feet, spoke on, in his voice that same unnatural calm. It seemed almost as though he himself were listening to some stranger speak. It was the story of that night he told, the story of the days and nights that followed, the story of old Mother Blondin, the story of the cross, the story of the afternoon in the condemned cell, the story of his ride for liberty of an hour ago, the story of his sacrilege and his redemption—the story of all, without reservation, save the story of Valérie's love, for that was between Valérie and her God.
And when he had done, a silence fell between them and endured for a great while.
And then Raymond looked up at last to face the condemnation he thought to see in the other's eyes—and found instead that the silver hair was bare of covering, and that the tears were flowing unchecked down the other's cheeks.
“God's ways are beyond all understanding”—the Bishop seemed to be speaking to himself. He brushed the tears now from his cheeks, as he looked at Raymond. “It is true there is not any proof, and without proof that it was in self-defence, then——”
“It is the end,” said Raymond simply—and, standing up, took the sacristan's old coat from under his soutane. “We will drive to the village, Monsignor; and then, if you will, to the jail in Tournayville.” Slowly he unbuttoned his soutane from top to bottom, and took it off, and laid it over the back of the seat; and, standing there erect, his face white, his eyes half closed, like a soldier in unconditional surrender, he unclasped the crucifix from around his neck, and held it out to the Bishop—and bowed his head.
He felt the Bishop's hands close over his, and over the crucifix, and gently press it back.
“Cling to it, my son”—the Bishop's voice was broken. “It is yours, for you have found it—and, with it, pardon, and the faith that is more precious than life, than the life you are offering to surrender now. It seems as though it were God's mysterious way, the hand of God—the hand of God that would not let you lose your soul. And now, my son, kneel down, for I would pray for a brave man.”
A quiet pressure upon his shoulders brought Raymond to his knees. His eyes, were wet; he covered his face with his hands.
“Father, have mercy upon us”—the Bishop's voice was tremulous and low. “Lord, have mercy upon us. Look down in pity upon this man whom Thou hast brought unto Thyself, and who now in expiation of his past offences offers his life that another may not die. Father, grant us Thy divine mercy. Father, show us the way, if there be a way, and if it be Thy will, that he may not drink of this final cup; and if that may not be, then in Thy love continue unto him the strength Thou gavest him to bring him thus far upon his road.”
And silence fell again between them. And there was a strange gladness in Raymond's heart that this man, where he had thought no man would, should have believed. It altered no fact, the cold and brutal evidence, clear cut before a jury would not be a scene such as this, for the evidence in the light of logic and before the law would say he lied; it held out no hope, he knew that well—but it brought peace again. And so he rose from his knees, and feeling out blindly for the old sacristan's coat, put it on, and spoke to the horse, and the buckboard moved forward.
And a little way along, just around the turn of the road, they came out of the woods in front of old Mother Blondin's cottage. And standing by the roadside in the darkness was a figure. And a voice called out:
“Is that you, Father Aubert? I went to the presbytère for you, and mother said you had gone to meet Monsignor. I have been waiting here to catch you on the way back.”
It was Valérie.