And as he reached the church there came to him the sound of organ notes, and instead of crossing to the presbytère he stepped softly inside to listen—it would be Valérie—Valérie, and Gauthier Beaulieu, the altar boy, probably, who often pumped the organ for her when she was at practice. But as he stepped inside the music ceased, and instead he heard them talking in the gallery, and in the stillness of the church their voices came to him distinctly.
“Valérie”—yes, that was the boy's voice—“Valérie, why do they call him the good, young Father Aubert?”
“Such a question!” Valérie laughed. “Why do you call him that yourself?”
“I don't—any more,” asserted the boy. “Not after what I saw at mass this morning.”
Raymond drew his breath in sharply. What was this! What was this that Gauthier Beaulieu, the altar boy, had seen at mass! He had fooled the boy—the boy could not have seen anything! He drew back, opening the door cautiously. They were coming down the stairs now—but he must hear—hear what it was that Gauthier Beaulieu had seen.
“Why, what do you mean, Gauthier?” Valérie asked.
“I mean what I say,” insisted the boy doggedly. “It is not right to call him that! When he was kneeling there this morning, and I guess it was the bright light because the stained window was open, for I never saw it before, I saw his hair all specked with white around his temples. And a man with white in his hair isn't young, is he! And I saw it, Valérie—honest, I did!”
“Your eyes should have been closed,” said Valérie. “And——”
Raymond was crossing the green to the presbytère.