“Excellent!” pursued the Bishop. “Most excellent! I do not know when I have been so pleased over anything. The parish perhaps”—he laughed pleasantly—“would not object if Father Allard prolonged his holiday a little—eh—François, my son?”
Raymond shook his head.
“Hardly that, Monsignor”—he dared indulge in little more than monosyllables—it was even strange the Bishop had not already noticed that his voice was not the voice of Father François Aubert. And yet what did it matter? In a moment, in five minutes, in half an hour, the Bishop would know all—he would have told the Bishop all. Why should he strive now to keep up a deception that he was voluntarily to acknowledge almost the next instant? It was not argument in his mind, not argument again that brought indecision and chaotic hesitancy, it was not that—the way was clear, there was only one way, the way that he would take—? and yet, perhaps because it was so very human, because perhaps he sought for still more strength, because perhaps it was so almost literally the final, closing act of his life, he waited and clung to that moment more, and to that five minutes more.
“Well, well,” said the Bishop happily, “we will perhaps have to look around and see if we cannot find for you a parish of your own, my son. And who knows—eh—perhaps we have already found it?”
How queerly the lantern jerked its rays up and down the horse's legs, and cast its shadows along the road! He heard himself speaking again.
“You are very good, Monsignor”—they were the same words with which he had replied before—he uttered them mechanically.
He felt the Bishop's hand close gently, yet firmly, upon his shoulder.
“François, my son”—the voice had suddenly become grave—“what is the matter? You act strangely. Your voice does not somehow seem natural—it is very hoarse. You have a cold perhaps, or perhaps you are ill?”
“No, Monsignor—I am not ill.”
“Then—but, you alarm me, my son!” exclaimed the Bishop anxiously. “Something has happened?”