“Ask her,” said the curé.
“Why was this, Madame Roulleau?” said the doctor, sadly.
“We wanted the money,” she answered at once; “the money you gave us for the girl. And what Ignace had to do about it brought in money. We knew it must all go again when M. Saint-Martin came home. Last night I said to myself that I would tell you; I do not know why I came here; the sister said something, I believe. She is staying with him.” And then, with a bitter cry which they never forgot, “He is dead—dead! I dared not send for you, and you might have saved him.” She went swiftly out of the room, down the stairs, into the street. If they had wished to stop her they could scarcely have done so; but they all stood dumb, that last cry ringing in their ears.
“Libera nos a malo,” said the curé, at last, under his breath. “Amen.”
He was a just man. Perhaps his prayer had not only to do with that poor stricken woman who had gone out from them. Perhaps he was thinking also of the evil of suspicions and accusations without cause. He was a just man, but ungracious. He wanted to speak at once to M. Deshoulières, and the words would not come readily. Thérèse was looking shyly and beseechingly at Fabien. Why did he not acknowledge the unconscious wrong that he had done? Nobody spoke. It was Nannon who broke the silence, coming in from the balcony.
“The saints preserve us! She has gone down the street as if there were a mob at her heels.”
“I may as well go and search for the will, I believe,” said M. Deshoulières, turning round with a sigh. Thérèse still looked at Fabien. Why did he not speak?
“M. Saint-Martin,” said the curé, gravely, “I think there is a duty for us to perform before we can allow M. Deshoulières to leave us—a duty and a reparation. My own share in the matter has been the heaviest. I beg to offer him my most sincere apologies.”
“It may or may not be, as this woman says,” Fabien answered grudgingly; “it does not explain it altogether to my mind. At all events it is impossible to congratulate M. Deshoulières upon his choice of a notary. I shall make a point of having the rascal punished, and meanwhile may I request you, monsieur, to do us the favour to fetch the will without delay? The sooner one gets out of this hole the better.”
“Allow me to repudiate M. St. Martin’s sentiments altogether,” said the curé, with a flush on his sallow cheek. “I beg to decline having any thing to do with the reading of the papers connected with this—what I may call—unfortunate will. It had better be delayed until the arrival of the lawyer.”