And then she raised her head—and suddenly, but as though she were afraid even of her own act, as though she still fought against some decision she had forced upon herself, she walked slowly forward into the room, and set the lamp down upon the desk.
“Yes, there is some one in trouble”—the words came steadily, but scarcely above a whisper; and her hand was tense about the white throat now, where before it had mechanically clutched at the dressing-gown. “I am in trouble—Father Aubert.”
“You—Valérie!” He was conscious, even in his startled exclamation, of a strange and disturbing prescience. Father Aubert—he could not remember when she had called him that before—Father Aubert. It was very rarely that she called him that, it was almost always Monsieur le Curé. And he—her name—he had called her Valérie—not Mademoiselle Valérie—but Valérie, as once before, when she had stood out there in the hall the night they had taken that man away, her name had sprung spontaneously to his lips.
“Yes,” she said, and bowed her head. “I am in trouble, father; for I have sinned.”
“Sinned—Valérie”—the words were stumbling on his lips. How fast that white throat throbbed! Valérie, pure and innocent, meant perhaps to confess to—Father Aubert. Well, she should not, and she would not! Not that! She should not have to remember in the “afterwards” that she had bared her soul at the shrine of profanity. Back again into his voice he forced a cheery, playful reassurance. “It cannot be a very grievous sin that Mademoiselle Valérie has been guilty of! Of that, I am sure! And to-morrow——”
“No, no!” she cried out. “You do not know! See, be indulgent with me now, father—I am in trouble—in very deep and terrible trouble. I—I cannot even confess and ask you for absolution—but you can help me—do not try to put me off—I—I may not have the courage again. See, I—I am not very brave, and I am not very strong, and the tears are not far off. Help me to do what I want to do.”
“Valérie!” he scarcely breathed her name. Help her to do what she wanted to do! There was another prescience upon him now; but one that he could not understand, save that it seemed to be pointing toward the threshold of a moment that he was to remember all his life.
“Sit down there in your chair, father, please”—her voice was very low again. “Sit there, and let me kneel before you.”
He stepped back as from a blow.
“No, Valérie, you shall not kneel to me”—he did not know what he was saying now. Kneel! Valérie kneel to him! “You shall not kneel to me, I——”