“And you were afraid—for me? It was for me that you have done this?”
She did not answer. The colour was still in her cheeks—her eyes were lowered.
“The blessed saints!” cried Madame Lafleur, crossing herself. “The devils! They would do harm to Father Aubert! Well, I am sorry for that man no longer! He——”
They were coming along the hall—Henri Mentone handcuffed to Monsieur Dupont's companion, and Monsieur Dupont himself in the rear.
“Monsieur le Curé!” Henri Mentone called out wildly. “Monsieur le Curé, do not——”
“Enough! Hold your tongue!” snapped Monsieur Dupont, giving the man a push past Raymond toward the front door. “Do you appeal to Monsieur le Curé because he has been good to you—or because you intended to knock Monsieur le Curé on the head to-night! Bah! Hurry him along, Marchand!” Monsieur Dupont paused before Valérie and her mother. “You will do me a favour, mesdames? A very great favour—yes? You will retire instantly to bed—instantly. I have my reasons. Yes, that is right—go at once.” He turned to Raymond. “And you, Monsieur le Curé, you will wait for me here, eh? Yes, you will wait. I will be back on the instant.”
The hall was empty. In a subconscious sort of way Raymond stepped back into his room, and, reaching the desk, stood leaning heavily against it. His brain would tolerate no single coherent thought. Valérie had done this for fear of harm to him, Valérie had... there was Jacques Bourget who if he attempted now to... it was no wonder that Henri Mentone had been restless all evening, knowing that he had lost the note, and not daring to question... the day after to-morrow there was to be a trial at the criminal assizes... Valérie had not met his eyes, but there had been the crimson colour in her face, and she had done this to save him... were they still laughing, those hell-devils... were they now engaged in making Valérie love him, and making her torture her soul because she was so pure that no thought could strike her more cruelly than that love should come to her for a priest? Ah, his brain was logical now! His hands clenched, and unclenched, and clenched again. Impotent fury was upon him. If it were true! Damn them to the everlasting place from whence they came! But it was not true! It was but another trick of theirs to make him writhe the more—to make him believe she cared!
A footstep! He looked up. Monsieur Dupont was back.
“Tiens!” cried Monsieur Dupont. “Well, you have had an escape, Monsieur le Curé! An escape! Yes, you have! But I do not take all the credit. No, I do not. She is a fine girl, that Valérie Lafleur. If she were a man she would have a career—with the police. I would see to it! But you do not know yet what it is all about, Monsieur le Curé, eh?”
“There was a note and money that Mademoiselle Valérie said she found”—Raymond's voice was steady, composed.