M. des Graves interposed at once. “That is enough, my son. You have made a sufficient confession. ‘For these and all my other sins’——”
But Louis scarcely heeded him. His brain, spurred by its recent costly effort at concentration, was beginning to hurry him towards the regions of delirium, yet not so fast but that he seemed to know it, and to make painful attempts to regain control of his thoughts. “For these and all my other sins,” he repeated mechanically. “Gilbert, you must believe me. My God! you don’t think that! . . . which I cannot now remember . . . which I cannot . . . I cannot remember about Gilbert . . . but he is dead, and it is my fault . . . because I hated him . . . and now he is dead. . . . Marigny, Marigny, there are women in the town . . . we have only three rounds left . . . no, I shall stay by the gun. . . . O God! will the pain never cease! . . . I did not think it was so difficult to die. . . . Gilbert was lucky; he died quickly. . . . O Gilbert, if you would only listen! . . . mon père, he keeps turning away his head . . . but I never betrayed him . . . God knows I never betrayed him. . . .”
“Louis, Louis!” exclaimed M. des Graves, in great distress, careless that he used the name, and horrified at witnessing the sands of life slipping away in a fashion so useless and so heart-rending. His remonstrance had no result except to wake in the wandering mind some faint echo of the past.
“It is no use, Father . . . let me go! He says I have no honour . . . he will not listen because he is dead . . . dead . . .” The broken voice paused for an instant, and, losing something of its fever, began to grow weaker. “How wide the river is . . . they will never all get across . . . there are so many dead . . . Lescure was a long time dying . . . and Royrand. . . . I cannot remember any more. . . . For all my sins, which I cannot now remember. . . . If only M. des Graves . . . were here . . . but he is . . . dead, too. . . .” And suddenly he exclaimed, on a note of horror: “Gilbert, who gave you that wound?”
But at the appeal to himself the priest could bear it no longer. Better the risk of shock than this fatal expenditure of strength. He got up from his place, and, kneeling down by the side of the bed where the young man could see him, took one of the thin hands into his own. “Louis, my dear child, I am here. You must not imagine these things; they are not true. All was well between you and Gilbert; do you not remember? You have made a good confession. Try now to recollect yourself while I give you absolution.”
His revelation had all the effect he could have desired, and none of those he feared. The faint voice died down into silence. But Louis was too near death for anything to surprise him. He looked up at M. des Graves quietly, accepting his presence naturally and without wonder. His hand moved in the priest’s, the transient shadow of a smile flickered for an instant round his drawn mouth, he gave a long sigh, perhaps of contentment, perhaps of fatigue, and his eyelids fell.
M. des Graves stood up and gave him absolution. Then he knelt down again, and after a long look at the young, worn face stooped and kissed it.
The Vicomte reopened his lustreless eyes. The question in them was unmistakable.
“I think so, my dear child,” said the priest solemnly.
And Louis received the fiat with the same dreamy composure as that with which he had accepted M. des Graves’ presence. The priest had the impression that, once his mind was quieted, the mere sensation of respite from prolonged physical pain flooded it to the exclusion of any other emotion. But even as he thought this Saint-Ermay slowly and with difficulty raised his right hand and began to grope underneath his coarse shirt. Finding nothing there but his bandages he turned away his head, and M. des Graves, following his gaze, beheld, hanging by a rusty nail to the rafters, its ribbon worn and very faded, the miniature of Lucienne. Louis made a gesture towards it that was half a gesture of farewell, and his hand fell on the coverlet.