CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IN WHICH, THOUGH THE WORLD IS STILL A VOID, THERE IS THE SHINING OF A GREAT LIGHT
Two days have passed.
Sunday was one long monotony, made up of vain watching and restless contemplation. To-day something really stupendous happened. Something so truly great and vital that, even though Celeste has not returned, and, for aught I know, my death hides in the next minute, I am deliriously happy. I'll tell the glorious news as quickly as I can.
This morning, bright and early, a messenger arrived from Father John. He bore no written communication, but stated in a nervous, jerky, breathless way that his reverence desired my presence at the earliest possible moment, on a matter of the gravest importance. These were not his words, but this is the way his halting vernacular translated into English. I questioned the shabby, awkward rustic. He knew nothing but that I was wanted, and wanted quickly, and that he who sent this word was "tarnation fidgety." Unable to form any sort of conjecture as to the nature of this peculiarly urgent business, I departed at once in company with the half grown youth, not sorry of his presence upon this occasion, as I probably would have been upon any other.
The old priest met me at the door, and I saw at once that he was powerfully impressed, for some reason. His long-stemmed pipe was in his hand, but unlighted. He decorously led me to the chair where I had sat upon a former visit, and took a seat opposite. The library table was between us, as before. I saw two letters upon the table in front of him, side by side. One was almost square, pale blue, and a glance told me the superscription was a woman's. The other was of the regular business size, had a card in the corner which I could not make out, and the address was typewritten. I waited in silence.
"M'sieu—"
He stopped, and I saw that his emotion was pressing hard upon him. His sensitive lips quivered and twitched, and the muscles of his face were agitated. A sympathetic pity took the place of wonder within me, and I had the desire to do or say something which would help him. But there was nothing I could do or say. I was completely in the dark, and could only give him respectful, but silent attention.
"M'sieu," he began again, after a brief interval during which I knew he was struggling manfully with his feelings; "I have somezing to say—much to say. Never was I so shock—so hurt, m'sieu. Never more s'prise'." His voice grew to a surer tone now. "I have here two letter. Zis is from Bereel." He put the tip of one yellow finger upon the pale blue envelope. "In it she confess she tol' ze—ze—ze lie on you. She say now it was ze joke, an' for me to correc'; zat she made ze love to you, an' not you to her. O ze shame, m'sieu—ze shame!" He put one hand across his eyes and shook his head sorrowfully. "I belief her w'en she tol' me zat firs' tale, for she is my blood, an' I love her, an' I was anger wiz you, m'sieu. If Bereel an' I have cause' you to suffer an' to loose ze li'l wil' ma'm'selle—I shall never forgive us! Ah! m'sieu, I am 'shame' to as for pardon—but she was my blood—my Bereel, an' I b'lief her."