It was the horse that turned of its own accord in past the church, and across the green to the presbytère.
He left the horse standing there—Narcisse would come and get it presently—and went up the steps, and entered the house. The door of the front room was open, a light burned upon his desk. Along the hall, from the dining room, Madame Lafleur came hurrying forward smilingly.
“Supper is ready, Monsieur le Curé,” she called out cheerily. “Poor man, you must be tired—it was a long drive to take so soon after your illness, and before you were really strong again.”
“I am late,” said Raymond; “that is the main thing, Madame Lafleur. I put you always, it seems, to a great deal of trouble.”
“Tut!” she expostulated, shaking her head at him as she smiled. “It is scarcely seven o'clock. Trouble! The idea! We did not wait for you, Monsieur le Curé, because Valérie had to hurry back to Madame Blondin. Madame Blondin is very, very low, Monsieur le Curé. Doctor Arnaud, when he left this afternoon, said that—but I will tell you while you are eating your supper. Only first—yes—wait—it is there on your desk. Monsieur Labbée sent it over from the station this afternoon—a telegram, Monsieur le Curé.”
A telegram! He glanced swiftly at her face. It told him nothing. Why should it!
“Thank you,” he said, and stepping into the front room, walked over to the desk, picked up the yellow-envelope, tore it open calmly, and read the message.
His back was toward the door. He laid the slip of paper down upon the desk, and with that curious trick of his stretched out his hand in front of him, and held it there, and stared at it. It was steady—without tremor. It was well that it was so. He would need his nerve now. He had been quite right—the time was short. There remained—one hour. In an hour from now, on the evening train, Monsignor the Bishop, who was personally acquainted with Father François Aubert, would arrive in St. Marleau.