“Yes,” Raymond answered.
The turnkey nodded.
“Pauvre diable! He will be glad! He has been calling for you all the time. It did no good to tell him you were sick, and Father Décan could do nothing with him. He has been very bad—not hard to manage, you understand, Monsieur le Curé—but he does not sleep except when he is exhausted, because he says there is only a little while left and he will live that much longer if he keeps awake. Tiens! I have never had a murderer here to be hanged before, and I do not like it. I dream of the man myself!”
Raymond made no reply. They had entered the jail now, and the turnkey was leading the way along a cell-flanked corridor.
“Yes, I dream of him every night, and the job ahead of us—and so does Jacques, the other turnkey.” The man nodded his head again; then, over his shoulder: “He has a visitor with him now, Monsieur le Curé, but that will not matter—it is Monsieur l'Avocat, Monsieur Lemoyne, you know.”
Lemoyne! Lemoyne—here! Why? Raymond reached out impulsively, and, catching the turnkey's arm, brought the man to a sudden halt.
“Monsieur Lemoyne, you say!” he exclaimed sharply. “What is Monsieur Lemoyne doing here?”
“But—but, I do not know, Monsieur le Curé,” the turnkey, taken by surprise, stammered. “He comes often, he is often here, it is the privilege of the prisoner's lawyer. I—I thought that perhaps Monsieur le Curé would care to see him too. But perhaps Monsieur le Curé would prefer to wait until he has gone?”
“No”—Raymond's hand fell away from the other's arm. “No—I will see him. I was afraid for the moment that he might have brought—bad news. That was all.”
“Ah, yes, I understand, Monsieur le Curé”—the turnkey nodded once more. “But I do not know. Monsieur Lemoyne said nothing when he came in.”