Labbée, who had at first appeared a little nervous, now pulled down his vest, and looked around him with an air of importance.
“I told him that the path came out at the tavern. When I said 'tavern,' he was at once very interested. I thought then it was because he was glad to know there was a place to stay—it was such a terrible night, you understand? So I told him it was only a name we gave it, and that it was no place for one to go. I told him it was kept by an old woman, who was an excommuniée, and who made whisky on the sly, and that her son was——”
“Misérable!”—it was Mother Blondin, in a furious scream. Her eyes, under her matted gray hair, glared fiercely at Labbée.
“Silence!” roared the clerk of the court, leaping to his feet.
Raymond's hand closed over the clenched, bony fist that Mother Blondin had raised, and gently lowered it to her lap.
“He will do you no harm, Madame Blondin,” he whispered reassuringly. “And see, you must be careful, or you will get into serious trouble.”
Her hand trembled with passion in his, but she did not draw it away. It was strange that she did not! It was strange that he felt pity for her when so much was at stake, when pity was such a trivial and inconsequent thing! This was a murder trial, a trial for the killing of this woman's son. It was strange that he should be holding the mother's hand, and—it was Raymond who drew his hand away. He clasped it over his other one until the knuckles grew white.
“And then?” prompted the crown prosecutor.
“And then, I do not remember how it came about,” Labbée continued, “he spoke of Madame Blondin having money—enough to buy out any one around there. I said it was true that it was the gossip that she had made a lot, and that she had a well-filled stocking hidden away somewhere.”
“Crapule!”—Mother Blondin's voice, if scarcely audible this time, had lost none of its fury.