The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

“No, I must confess, I don't,” he said.

“Hah! No? Tiens!” ejaculated Monsieur Dupont almost pityingly. “It is easy to be seen, Monsieur le Curé, that you would make a very poor police officer, and an equally poor criminal—the law would have its fingers on you while you were wondering what to do. It is so, is it not? Yes, it is so. You are much better as a priest. As a priest—I pay you the compliment, Monsieur le Curé—you are incomparable. Very good! Listen, then! I will explain. The fellow said he had heard of your fight with Bourget. Splendid! Excellent! He must then have heard of it from some one. Therefore he has been seen in the neighbourhood by some one besides Bourget. Who is that 'some one' who has talked with a stranger, and who can very likely tell us what that stranger looks like, where Bourget cannot? I do not say that it is certain, but that it is likely. It may not have been so dark when he talked to this 'some one'—eh? In any case it is enough to go on. Now, you see, Monsieur le Curé, why I am here—I shall begin to question everybody; and for your part, Monsieur le Curé, you can do a great deal in letting the parish know what we are after.”

Raymond looked at Monsieur Dupont with admiration. Monsieur Dupont had set himself another “vigil”!

“Without doubt, Monsieur Dupont!” he assured the other heartily. “Certainly, I will do my utmost to help you. I will have a notice posted on the church door.”

“Good!” cried Monsieur Dupont, with a gratified smile. “And now another matter—and one that will afford you satisfaction, Monsieur le Curé. In a day or so, I will see that Mother Blondin is the source of no more trouble in St. Marleau—or anywhere else.”

“Mother Blondin?” repeated Raymond—and now he was suddenly conscious that he was in some way genuinely disturbed.

“Yes,” said Monsieur Dupont. “Twice in the past we have searched her place. We knew she sold whisky. But she was too sharp for us—and those who bought knew how to keep their mouths shut. But with Bourget as a witness, it is different, eh? You see? Yes, you see. She is a fester, a sore. We will clean up the place; we will put her in jail. The air around here will be the sweeter for it, and——”

“No,” said Raymond soberly. “No, Monsieur Dupont”—his hands reached out and clasped on Monsieur Dupont's shoulders. He knew now what was disturbing him. It was that surge of pity for the proscribed old woman, that sense of miserable distress that he had experienced more than once before. The scene of that morning, when she had clung to the palings of the fence outside the graveyard while they shovelled the earth upon the coffin of her son, rose vividly before him. And it was he again who was bringing more trouble upon her now through his dealings with Jacques Bourget. Yes, it was pity—and more. It was a swiftly matured, but none the less determined, resolve to protect her. “No, Monsieur Dupont, I beg of you”—he shook his head gravely—“no, Monsieur Dupont, you will not do that.”

“Heh! No? And why not?” demanded Monsieur Dupont in jerky astonishment. “I thought you would ask for nothing better. She is already an excommuniée, and——-”

“And she has suffered enough,” said Raymond earnestly. “It would seem that sorrow and misery had been the only life she had ever known. She is too old a woman now to have her home taken from her, and herself sent to jail. She is none too well, as it is. It would kill her. A little sympathy, a little kindness, Monsieur Dupont—it will succeed far better.”