The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

“This is the end of the story,” he said. “Listen, Monsignor”—he raised his head again. “You have heard, too, of the murder of Théophile Blondin that was committed here a little while ago. It is for that murder that François Aubert was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged.” He paused an instant, his lips tight. “Monsignor, it is I who killed Théophile Blondin. It is I who, since that night, have lived here as the curé—as Father François Aubert.”

How ghastly white the aged face was! As ghastly as his own must be! The other's hands were gripping viselike at his shoulders.

“Are you mad!” the Bishop whispered hoarsely. “Do you know what you are saying!”

“I know”—there was a sort of unnatural calm and finality in Raymond's tones now. “I was on the train the night that Father Aubert came to St. Marleau. I had a message for the mother of a man who was killed in the Yukon, Monsignor. The mother lived here. There was a wild storm that night. There was no wagon to be had, and we both walked from the station. But I did not walk with the priest. You, who have heard of Raymond Chapelle, know why—I despised a priest—I knew no God. Monsignor”—he turned and pointed suddenly—“you see that light through the trees? It is the light I saw that night, as I stumbled over the body of a man lying here in the road. The man was Father Aubert. The limb of a tree had fallen and struck him on the head. I thought him dead. I went over to that house for help.”

He paused again. The Bishop's hands, withdrawn,* were clasped now upon a golden crucifix—it was like his own crucifix, only it was larger, much larger than his own. But the Bishop's white face was still close to his; and the blue eyes seemed to have grown darker, and were upon him in a fixed, tense way, as though to read his soul.

“And then?”—he saw the Bishop's lips move, he did not hear the Bishop speak.

At times the horse moved restively; at times there came the chirping of insects from the woods; at times a breeze stirred and whispered through the leaves. Raymond, staring at the yellow flicker of the lantern, set now upon the floor of the buckboard at their feet, spoke on, in his voice that same unnatural calm. It seemed almost as though he himself were listening to some stranger speak. It was the story of that night he told, the story of the days and nights that followed, the story of old Mother Blondin, the story of the cross, the story of the afternoon in the condemned cell, the story of his ride for liberty of an hour ago, the story of his sacrilege and his redemption—the story of all, without reservation, save the story of Valérie's love, for that was between Valérie and her God.

And when he had done, a silence fell between them and endured for a great while.

And then Raymond looked up at last to face the condemnation he thought to see in the other's eyes—and found instead that the silver hair was bare of covering, and that the tears were flowing unchecked down the other's cheeks.

“God's ways are beyond all understanding”—the Bishop seemed to be speaking to himself. He brushed the tears now from his cheeks, as he looked at Raymond. “It is true there is not any proof, and without proof that it was in self-defence, then——”