The curé shook the lieutenant's arm gently.
"Did I not tell you the chassepôts were not found? And why? Because too many knew where they were hidden. Because out of that many I feared there might be one to betray. There is always a Judas. So I got one man whom I knew, and he dug them up and hid them afresh."
"Where, father?"
The question was put with a feverish eagerness—it seemed to the curé with an eagerness too feverish. He drew his hand, his whole body away.
"You have matches? Light one!" he said, in a startled voice.
"But the window—!"
"Light one!"
Every moment of time was now of value. Fevrier took the risk and lit the match, shading it from the window so far as he could with his hand.
"That will do."
Fevrier blew out the light. The curé had seen him, his uniform and his features. He, too, had seen the curé, had noticed his thin emaciated face, and the eyes staring out of it feverishly bright and preternaturally large.