“Bah!” sniffed Monsieur Dupont. “A little sympathy, a little kindness! And will that stop the whisky selling that the law demands shall be stopped, Monsieur le Curé?”
“I will guarantee that,” said Raymond calmly.
“You!” Monsieur Dupont clucked vigorously with his tongue. “You will stop that! And besides other things, do you perform miracles, Monsieur le Curé? How will you do that?”
“You must leave it to me”—Raymond's hands tightened in friendly fashion on Monsieur Dupont's shoulders—“I will guarantee it. If that is a miracle, I will attempt it. If I do not succeed I will tell you so, and then you will do as you see fit. You will agree, will you not, Monsieur Dupont?—and I shall be deeply grateful to you.”
Monsieur Dupont shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
“I have to tell you again that you are too soft-hearted, Monsieur le Curé. Yes, there is no other name for it—soft-hearted. And you will be made a fool of. I warn you! Well—very well! Try it, if you like. I give you a week. If at the end of a week—well, you understand? Yes, you understand.”
“I understand,” said Raymond; and, with a final dap on Monsieur Dupont's shoulders, he dropped his hands. “And I am of the impression that Monsieur le Curé is not the only one who is—soft-hearted.”
“Bah! Nothing of the sort! Nothing of the sort!” snorted Monsieur Dupont in a sort of pleased repudiation, as he climbed back into the buckboard. “It is only to open your eyes.” He picked up the reins. “I shall spend the rest of the day around here on that other business. Do not forget about the notice, Monsieur le Curé.”
“It shall be posted on the church door this afternoon,” Raymond promised.
He stood for a moment looking after Monsieur Dupont, as the other drove off; and then, turning abruptly, he walked rapidly along in the opposite direction, and, reaching the station road that led past old Mother Blondin's door, began to climb the hill. Yes, decidedly he would post a notice on the church door for Monsieur Dupont! If in any way he could aid Monsieur Dupont to lay hands on this accomplice of Henri Mentone, he—the derision that had crept to his lips faded away, and into the dark eyes came a sudden weariness. There was humour doubtless in the picture of Monsieur Dupont buttonholing every one he met, as he flitted indefatigably all over the country in pursuit for his mare's nest; but, somehow, he, Raymond, was not in the mood for laughter—for even a grim laughter.