There was a polite murmur of surprise from the Municipal Council. The curé sprang to his feet.
"Alice, my child!" he cried, "look at me."
Her eyes met his own, her lips twitching nervously, her breast heaving.
"I wish you to judge me before you go," he pleaded. "They accuse me of being a thief;" his voice rose suddenly to its full vibrant strength; "they do not know the truth."
Alice leaned forward, her lips parted.
"God only knows what this winter has been," declared his reverence—"Empty nets—always empty nets."
He struck the table with his clenched fist. "Empty nets!" he cried, "until I could bear it no longer. My children were in dire need; they came to you," he declared, turning to the mayor, "and you refused them."
The mayor shrugged his shoulders with a grunt of resentment.
"I gave what I could, while it lasted, from the public fund," he explained frankly; "there were new roads to be cut."