The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

“To—Mother Blondin!”—Madame Bouchard stared in utter amazement. “But—but, Monsieur le Curé, you are not in earnest! She—she is an excommuniée, and we—we do not——”

“I think it would make her very glad,” said Raymond softly. “And Mother Blondin I think has——”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that Mother Blondin was not likely now to sell any more whisky at the tavern, but he checked himself. It was Mother Blondin who must be left to tell of that herself. If he spread such a tale, she would be more likely than not to rebel at a situation which she would probably conceive was being thrust forcibly down her throat; and, in pure spite at what she might also conceive to be a self-preening and boastful spirit on his part for his superiority over her, sell all the more, no matter what the consequences to herself. And so he changed what he was about to say. “And Mother Blondin I think has known but little gladness in her life.”

“But—but, Monsieur le Curé,” she gasped, “what would the neighbours say?”

“I hope,” said Raymond, “that they would say they too would send her loaves—of kindness.”

Madame Bouchard leaned heavily upon her hoe.

“It is many years, Monsieur le Curé, since almost I was a little girl, that any one has willingly had anything to do with the old woman on the hill.”

“Yes,” said Raymond gently. “And will you think of that, Madame Bouchard, when you bake to-morrow—the many years—and the few that are left—for the old woman on the hill.”

The tears had sprung to Madame Bouchard's eyes. He left her standing there, leaning on the hoe.

He went on along the road toward the presbytère. It had been a strange afternoon—an illogical one, an imaginary one almost. It seemed to have been a jumble of complexities, and incongruities, and unrealities—there was the man who was to be hanged by the neck until he was dead; and Monsieur Dupont who, through a very natural deduction and not because he was a fool, for Monsieur Dupont was very far from a fool, was now vainly engaged like a dog circling around in a wild effort to catch his own tail; and there was Mother Blondin who had another window to gaze from; and Madame Bouchard who had still another. Yes, it had been a strange afternoon—only now that voice in the courtroom was beginning to ring in his ears again. “Father—Father François Aubert—help me—I do not understand.” And the gnawing was at his soul again, and again his hat was lifted from his head to cool his fevered brow.