The Sin That Was His by Frank Packard

Author:Frank Packard [Packard, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aeterna Classics
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XV—HOW HENRI MENTONE RODE WITH JACQUES BOURGET

IT was eight o'clock—the clock was striking in the kitchen—as Raymond entered the presbytère again. He stepped briskly to the door of the front room, opened it, and paused—no, before going in there to wait, it would be well first to let Madame Lafleur know that he was back, to establish the fact that it was after his return that the man had escaped, that his evening walk could in no way be connected with what would set all St. Marleau by the ears in the morning. And so he passed on to the dining room, which Madame Lafleur used as a sitting room as well. She was sewing beside the table lamp.

“Always busy, Madame Lafleur!” he called out cheerily, from the threshold. “Well, and has Mademoiselle Valérie returned?”

“Ah, it is you, Monsieur le Curé!” she exclaimed, dropping her work on her knees. “And did you enjoy your walk? No, Valérie has not come back here yet, though I am sure she must have got back to her uncle's by now. Did you want her for anything, Monsieur le Curé—to write letters? I can go over and tell her.”

“But, no—not at all!” said Raymond hastily. He indicated the rear room with an inclination of his head. “And our pauvre there?”

Madame Lafleur's sweet, motherly face grew instantly troubled.

“You can hear him tossing on the bed yourself, Monsieur le Curé. I have just been in to see him. He has one of his bad moods. He said he wanted nothing except to be left alone. But I think he will soon be quiet. Poor man, he is so weak he will be altogether exhausted—it is only his mind that keeps him restless.”

Raymond nodded.

“It is a very sad affair,” he said slowly, “a very sad affair!” He lifted a finger and shook it playfully at Madame Lafleur. “But we must think of you too—eh? Do not work too late, Madame Lafleur!”

She answered him seriously.

“Only to finish this, Monsieur le Curé. See, it is an altar cloth—for next Sunday.” She held it up. “It is you who work too hard and too late.”

It was a cross on a satin background. He stared at it. It had been hidden on her lap before. He had not been thinking of—a cross. For the moment, assured of Henri Mentone's escape, he had been more light of heart than at any time since he had come to St. Mar-leau; and, for the moment, he had forgotten that he was a meddler with holy things, that he was—a priest of God! It seemed as though this were being flaunted suddenly now as a jeering reminder before his eyes; and with it he seemed as suddenly to see the chancel, the altar of the church where the cloth was to play its part—and himself kneeling there—and, curse the vividness of it! he heard his own lips at their sacrilegious work: “ Lavabo inter innocentes manus meas: et circumdabo altare tuum, Domine.

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