The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

“Monsieur,” he called quietly to the man on the seat, “we will take this poor fellow to the presbytère, of course.”

“Oh, but, Father Aubert”—the girl turned toward him quickly—“we were just speaking of that. It would not be at all comfortable for you. You see, even your own room there will not be ready for you, since you were not expected to-night, and you will have to take Father Allard's, so that if this man went there, too, there would be no bed at all for you.”

“I hardly think I shall need any bed to-night, mademoiselle,” Raymond said gravely. “The man appears to be in a very critical condition. I know a little something of medicine, and I could not think of leaving him until—I think I heard your uncle say they were going to Tournayville for a doctor—until the doctor arrives.”

“Yes, Monsieur le Curé,” said the man, screwing around in his seat, “that is so. I have sent for the doctor, and also for the police—but it is eight miles to Tournayville, and on a night like this there will be a long while to wait, even if the doctor is to be found at once.”

“You have done well, monsieur,” commended Raymond—but under his breath, with a savage, ironical jeer at himself, he added: “And especially about the police, curse you!”

“But, Monsieur le Curé,” insisted the girl anxiously, “I am sure that——”

“Mademoiselle is very kind, and it is very thoughtful of her,” Raymond interposed gratefully; “but under the circumstances I think the presbytère will be best. Yes; I think we must decide on the presbytère.

“But, yes, certainly—if that is Monsieur le Curé's wish,” agreed the man. “Monsieur le Curé should know best. Valérie, jump down, and run on ahead to tell your mother that we are coming.”

Valérie! So that was the girl's name! It seemed a strangely incongruous thought that here, with his back against the wall, literally fighting for his life, the name should seem somehow to be so appropriate to that dark-eyed face, with its truant, wind-tossed hair, that had come upon him so suddenly out of the darkness; that face, sweet, troubled, in distress, that he had glimpsed for an instant in the lantern's light. Valérie! But what was her other name? What had her mother to do with the presbytère, that the uncle should have sent her on with that message? And who was the uncle, this man here, and what was his name? And how much of all this was he, as Father Aubert, supposed already to know? The curé of the village, Father Allard—what correspondence, for instance, had passed between him and Father Aubert? A hundred questions were on his lips. He dared not ask a single one. They had turned in off the road now and were passing by the front of the church. He lowered his head close down to the priest's. The man still moaned in that same low and, as it were, purely mechanical way. Some one in the crowd spoke:

“They are taking him to the presbytère.”