“It is the end,” said Raymond simply—and, standing up, took the sacristan's old coat from under his soutane. “We will drive to the village, Monsignor; and then, if you will, to the jail in Tournayville.” Slowly he unbuttoned his soutane from top to bottom, and took it off, and laid it over the back of the seat; and, standing there erect, his face white, his eyes half closed, like a soldier in unconditional surrender, he unclasped the crucifix from around his neck, and held it out to the Bishop—and bowed his head.
He felt the Bishop's hands close over his, and over the crucifix, and gently press it back.
“Cling to it, my son”—the Bishop's voice was broken. “It is yours, for you have found it—and, with it, pardon, and the faith that is more precious than life, than the life you are offering to surrender now. It seems as though it were God's mysterious way, the hand of God—the hand of God that would not let you lose your soul. And now, my son, kneel down, for I would pray for a brave man.”
A quiet pressure upon his shoulders brought Raymond to his knees. His eyes, were wet; he covered his face with his hands.
“Father, have mercy upon us”—the Bishop's voice was tremulous and low. “Lord, have mercy upon us. Look down in pity upon this man whom Thou hast brought unto Thyself, and who now in expiation of his past offences offers his life that another may not die. Father, grant us Thy divine mercy. Father, show us the way, if there be a way, and if it be Thy will, that he may not drink of this final cup; and if that may not be, then in Thy love continue unto him the strength Thou gavest him to bring him thus far upon his road.”
And silence fell again between them. And there was a strange gladness in Raymond's heart that this man, where he had thought no man would, should have believed. It altered no fact, the cold and brutal evidence, clear cut before a jury would not be a scene such as this, for the evidence in the light of logic and before the law would say he lied; it held out no hope, he knew that well—but it brought peace again. And so he rose from his knees, and feeling out blindly for the old sacristan's coat, put it on, and spoke to the horse, and the buckboard moved forward.
And a little way along, just around the turn of the road, they came out of the woods in front of old Mother Blondin's cottage. And standing by the roadside in the darkness was a figure. And a voice called out:
“Is that you, Father Aubert? I went to the presbytère for you, and mother said you had gone to meet Monsignor. I have been waiting here to catch you on the way back.”
It was Valérie.