“But how long has it hung there on the wall, Narcisse?” Raymond interrupted with a tolerant smile—Narcisse had been known at times to verge on garrulity!
“But I am telling you, Monsieur le Curé,” said the old sacristan earnestly. “We began to build this fine stone church, and when it was finished the little old wooden church was torn down, and we brought the cross here, and it has been here ever since, and that is thirty-two—no, thirty-three years ago, Monsieur le Curé—it will be thirty-three years this coming November.”
“And in those thirty-three years,” observed Raymond, “I imagine that the cross has remained untouched?”
“But, yes, Monsieur le Curé! Untouched—yes, of course! It was consecrated by Monsignor the Bishop himself—not the present bishop, Monsieur le Curé will understand, but the old bishop who is since dead, and——”
“Quite so,” said Raymond. “Well, come here, nearer to the door, Narcisse. Now, look at the cross very carefully, and see if you can discover why I asked you if it had remained untouched all those years?”
The old man strained his eyes across the chancel to the opposite wall—and shook his head.
“No, Monsieur le Curé, I see nothing—only the cross there as usual.”
“Look higher up,” prompted Raymond. “Do you not see that all but one of the fastenings are broken, and that it is about to fall?”
“Fall? About to fall?” The old man rubbed his eyes, and stared, and rubbed his eyes again. “Yes—yes—it is true! I see now! The cords have rotted away. It is no wonder—in all that time. I—I should have thought of that long, long ago.” He turned a white face to Raymond. “It—it is the mercy of God that it did not happen, Monsieur le Curé, with anybody there! It would have killed Bouchard, and madame, and the children! It would have crushed them to death! Monsieur le Curé, I am a misérable! I am an old man, and I forget, but that is not an excuse. Yes, Monsieur le Curé, I am a misérable!”
Raymond laid his hand on the old sacristan's shoulder.