M. Chassin leant forward. “That was a figure of speech, I presume?” he put in like lightning.
“What do you mean?” asked the Comte, startled.
“You spoke of letting him off—as if you had the power to do it.”
The Comte recovered himself. “Do not be absurd, Abbé!” he said scornfully. “Am I the Judge of all the earth? Of course it was a figure of speech! How could I absolve him for what is done and can never be undone? Put his behaviour down, at the best, to mistaken judgment, we have to suffer for our mistakes just as much as for our crimes.”
The Abbé sat back in his chair again. “Since you know that so well, Monsieur de Brencourt,” he said gravely, “it might occur to you that it is a mistake—a dangerous mistake—to play with other people’s remorse. You might conceivably know that torment yourself one day!”
“I’ll take the risk of that,” said the Comte drily, and got up. “Especially as I have no idea what you mean about ‘playing’ with other people’s,” he added, not at all certain what that phrase did mean in the mouth that had uttered it. It was time, at any rate, to end this dangerous interview, which had not told him what he wanted to know. One thing was clear, that if the priest knew Mme Vidal’s secret he would eventually tell the “Marquis de Kersaint,” and after that, no doubt, would come the deluge, and either he, Artus de Brencourt, or his late adversary would really be swept away in it, this time. But if there came no deluge, then M. Chassin did not know.
“If you will excuse me, mon père,” he said, looking down at him, “I must quit this interesting conversation for my duties. Ask M. de . . . Kersaint when you go in to him again, to send for me if he wants me.” And he left the room.
So the Abbé Chassin knew that he did not mean ever to tell Gaston de Trélan that his wife was alive, that he meant to go on withholding the knowledge for his own purpose. And his heart was hardened against M. de Brencourt.