The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

All! There came a bitter and abysmal irony. Puppets! All were puppets upon a set stage—from the judge on the bench to that dismayed thing yonder who wrung his hands before the imposing majesty of the law! All! That was all, was it—the few words he had said? Who then was the author of every word that had been uttered in the room, who then had pulled the strings that jerked these automatons about in their every movement! Ah, here was Lemoyne this time, the prisoner's counsel. This time there was to be a cross-examination. Yes, certainly, he would like to help Lemoyne, but Lemoyne must not try to trap him. Lemoyne, too, was a puppet, and therefore Lemoyne could not be expected to know how very true it was that “Henri Mentone” was on trial for his life, and that “Henri Mentone” would fight for that life with any weapon he could grasp, and that Lemoyne would do the prisoner an ill turn to put “Henri Mentone” on the defensive! Well—he brushed his hand across his forehead, and fixed his eyes steadily on Lemoyne—he was ready for the man.

“Monsieur le Curé”—Lemoyne had come very close to the witness stand, and Lemoyne's voice was soberly modulated—“Monsieur le Curé, I have only one question to ask you. You have been with this unfortunate man since the night you found him on the road, you have nursed him night and day as a mother would a child, you have not been long in St. Marleau, but in that time, so I am told, and I can very readily see why, you have come to be called the good, young Father Aubert by all your parish. Monsieur le Curé, you have been constantly with this man, for days and nights you have scarcely left his side, and so I come to the question that, it seems to me, you, of all others, are best qualified to answer.” Lemoyne paused. He had placed his two hands on the edge of the witness box, and was looking earnestly into Raymond's face. “Monsieur le Curé, do you believe that when the prisoner says that he remembers nothing of the events of that night, that he has no recollection of the crime of which he is accused—do you believe, Monsieur le Curé, that he is telling the truth?”

There had been silence in the courtroom before—it was a silence now that seemed to palpitate and throb, a living silence. Instinctively the crown prosecutor had made as though to rise from his chair; and then, as if indifferent, had changed his mind. No one else in the room had moved. Raymond glanced around him. They were waiting—for his answer. The word of the good, young Father Aubert would go far. Lemoyne's eyes were pleading mutely—for the one ground of defence, the one chance for his client's life. But Lemoyne did not need to plead—for that! They must not hang the man! They were waiting—for his answer. Still the silence held. And then Raymond raised his right hand solemnly.

“As God is my judge,” he said, “I firmly believe that the man is telling the truth.”

Benches creaked, there was the rustle of garments, a sort of unanimous and involuntary long-drawn sigh; and it seemed to Raymond that, as all eyes turned on the prisoner, they held a kindlier and more tolerant light. And then, as he walked back to the other witnesses and took his seat, he heard the crown prosecutor speak—as though disposing of the matter in blunt disdain:

“The prosecution rests.”

Valérie laid her hand over his.

“I am so glad—so glad you said that,” she whispered.

Monsieur Dupont leaned forward, and clucked his tongue very softly.

“Hah, Monsieur le Curé!” He wagged his head indulgently. “Well, I suppose you could not help it—eh? No, you could not. I have told you before that you are too soft-hearted.”