“No, you will not come in!” she shouted. “You, or your Monsieur Dupont, or the police—you will not come in! Eh—they will take my home from me—all I've got—they will put me in jail”—she was twisting her head about in a sort of pitiful inventory of her surroundings. “They have been trying to run me out of St. Marleau for a long time—all the good people, the saintly people—you, and your hypocrites. They cross to the other side of the road to get out of old Mother Blondin's way! And so at last, between you, you have beaten an old woman, who has no one to protect her since you have killed her son! It is a victory—eh! Go tell them to ring the church bells—go tell them—go tell them! And on Sunday, eh, you will have something to preach about! It will make a fine sermon!”
And somehow there came a lump into Raymond's throat. There was something fine in this wretched, tattered, unkempt figure before him—something of the indomitable, of the unconquerable in her spirit, misapplied though it was. Her voice fought bravely to hold its defiant, infuriated ring, to show no sign of the misery that had stolen into the dim old eyes, and was quivering on the wrinkled lips, but the voice had broken—once almost in a sob.
“No, no, Madame Blondin”—he reached out his hand impulsively to lay it over the one that was clutched upon the door—“you must not——”
She snatched her hand away—and suddenly thrust her head through the partially open doorway into his face.
“It is not Bourget, it is not Jacques Bourget!” she cried fiercely. “It is you! If you had not come that afternoon when you had no business to come, this would not have happened. It is you, who——”
“That is true,” said Raymond quietly. “And that is why I am here now. I have had a talk with Monsieur Dupont, and he will give you another chance.”
She still held her face close to his.
“I do not believe you!” she flung out furiously. “I do not believe you! It is some trick you are trying to play! I know Monsieur Dupont! I know him! He would give no one a chance if he could help it! I have been too much for him for a long time, and if he had evidence against me now he would give me not a minute to sell any more of—of what he thinks I sell here!”
“That also is true,” said Raymond, as quietly as before. “He could not very well permit you to go on breaking the law if he could prevent it. But in exchange for his promise, I have given him a pledge that you will not sell any more whisky.”
She straightened up—and stared at him, half in amazement, half in crafty suspicion.