The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

“Ah, then, so it is you, and not Monsieur Dupont, who is going to stop it—eh?” she exclaimed, with a shrill laugh. “And how do you intend to do it—eh? How do you intend to do it? Tell me that!”

“I think it will be very simple,” said Raymond—and his dark eyes, full of a kindly sympathy, looked into hers. “To save your home, and you, I have pledged myself to Monsieur Dupont that this will stop, and so—well, Madame Blondin, and so I have come to put you upon your honour to make good my pledge.” She craned her head forward again to peer into his face. She looked at him for a long minute without a word. Her lips alternately tightened and were tremulous. The fingers of her hand plucked at the door's edge. And then she threw back her head in a quavering, jeering laugh.

“Ha, ha! Old Mother Blondin upon her honour—think of that! You, a smooth-tongued priest—and me, an excommuniée! Ha, ha! Think of that! And what did Monsieur Dupont say, eh—what did Monsieur Dupont say?”

“He said what I know is not true,” said Raymond simply. “He said you would make a fool of me.”

“Ah, he said that!”—she jerked her head forward again sharply. “Well, Monsieur Dupont is wrong, and you are right. I would not do that, because I could not—since you have already made one of yourself! Ha, ha! Old Mother Blondin upon her honour! Ha, ha! It is a long while since I have heard that—and from a priest—ha, ha! How could any one make a fool of a fool!” Her voice was high-pitched again, fighting for its defiance; but, somehow, where she strove to infuse venom, there seemed only a pathetic wistfulness instead. “And so you would trust old Mother Blondin—eh? Well”—she slammed the door suddenly in his face, and her voice came muffled through the panels—“well, you are a fool!”

The bolt within rasped into place—and Raymond, turned away, and began to descend the hill.

Mother Blondin for the moment was in the grip of a sullen pride that bade her rise in arms against this fresh outlook on life; but Mother Blondin would close and bolt yet another door, unless he was very much mistaken—the rear door, and in the faces of her erstwhile and unhallowed clientele!

Yes, he had pity for the old woman who had no kin now, and who had no friends. Pity! He owed her more than that! So then—there came a sudden thought—so then, why not? He would not long be curé of St. Marleau, but while he was—well, he was the curé of St. Marleau! He could not remove the ban of excommunication, that was beyond the authority of a mere curé, it would require at least Monsignor the Bishop to do that; but he could remove the ban—of ostracism! Yes, decidedly, the good, young Father Aubert could do that! He was vaguely conscious that there were degrees of excommunication, and he seemed to remember that Valérie had said it was but a minor one that had been laid upon Mother Blondin, and that the villagers of their own accord had drawn more and more aloof. It would, therefore, not be very difficult.

He quickened his step, and, reaching the bottom of the hill, made his way at once toward the carpenter shop. He could see Madame Bouchard hoeing in the little garden patch between the road and the front of the shop. It was Madame Bouchard that he now desired to see.

“Tiens! Bon jour, Madame Bouchard!” he called out to her, as he approached. “I am come a penitent! I did not deserve your bread! I am sure that you are vexed with me! But I have not seen you since to thank you.”