Framed in the doorway, a little worn black bag in his hand, his soutane splashed high with mud though it was caught up now around his waist with a cord, stood Father Anton, the beloved of all Bernay-sur-Mer. And, as he stood there and the kindly blue eyes searched the figure on the bed, the fine old face, under its crown of silver hair, grew very grave—and without moving from his position he beckoned to Jean.
"Jean, my son," he said softly, "make our little Marie-Louise here put on dry clothing. I will be a little while with Gaston alone."
Marie-Louise was standing behind the priest. Father Anton stepped aside for Jean to pass—and then the door dosed quietly.
"Jean!"—she caught his arm. "Jean tell me!"
Jean did not answer—there were no words with which to answer her.
"Oh, Jean!" she said—and a little sob broke her voice.
"Go and put on dry things, Marie-Louise," he said.
"No—not now," she answered. "Give me your hand."
They stood there in the darkness. He felt her hand tremble. Neither spoke. Father Anton's voice, in a low, constant murmur, came to them now.
Her hand tightened.