The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

“And then,” laughed Raymond, as he seated himself at the table, “since the horse is already outside, I will drive over to the station and meet him.”

He ate rapidly, and, strangely enough, with an appetite. Madame Lafleur bustled about him, quite unable to keep still in her excitement. She talked, and he answered her. He did not know what she said; his replies were perfunctory. There was an excuse to be made for going to the shed instead of getting directly into the buckboard and driving off. Madame Lafleur would undoubtedly and most naturally watch him off from the front door. But—yes, of course—that was simple—absurdly simple! Well then, another thing—it would mean at least a good hour to him if the village was not on tiptoe with expectancy awaiting the Bishop's arrival, and thus be ready to start out to discover what had happened to the good, young Father Aubert on the instant that the alarm was given; or, worse still, that any one, learning of the Bishop's expected arrival, should enthusiastically drive over to the station as a sort of self-appointed delegation of welcome, just a few minutes behind himself. In that case anything might happen. No, it would not do at all! Every minute of delay and confusion on the part of St. Marleau, and Labbée, and Madame Lafleur no less than the others, was priceless to him now. He remembered his own experience. It would take Labbée a long time to find a horse and wagon; and Madame Lafleur, on her part, would think nothing of a prolonged delay in his return—if he left her with the suggestion, that the train might be late! Well, there was no reason why he should not accomplish all this. So far, it was quite evident, since Madame Lafleur had had no inkling of what the telegram contained, that no one knew anything about it; and that Labbée, whom he was quite prepared to credit with being loose-tongued enough to have otherwise spread the news, had not associated the Bishop's official signature—with Monsignor the Bishop! It was natural enough. The telegram was signed simply—“Montigny”—not the Bishop of Montigny.

He had eaten enough—he pushed back his chair and stood up.

“I think perhaps, Madame Lafleur,” he said reflectively, “that it would be as well not to say anything to any one until Monsignor arrives.” He handed her the telegram. “It would appear that his visit is not an official one, and he may prefer to rest and spend a quiet evening. We can allow him to decide that for himself.”

Madame Lafleur adjusted her spectacles, and read the message.

“But, yes, Monsieur le Curé,” she agreed heartily. “Monsignor will tell us what he desires; and if he wishes to see any one in the village this evening, it will not be too late when you return. But, Monsieur le Curé”—she glanced at the clock—“hadn't you better hurry?”

“Yes,” said Raymond quickly; “that's so! I had!”

Madame Lafleur accompanied him to the front door, carrying a lamp. At the foot of the steps Raymond paused, and looked back at her. It had grown black now, and there was no moon.

“I'll run around to the shed and get a lantern,” he called up to her—and, without waiting for a reply, hurried around the corner of the house.

He laughed a little harshly, his lips were tightly set, as he reached the shed door, opened it, and closed it behind him. He struck a match, found and lighted a lantern, procured a small piece of string, tucked the sacristan's overalls, and the old coat and hat swiftly under his soutane—and a moment later was back beside the buckboard again.