And then Raymond lifted his head, and his eyes, and with measured pace walked forward up the steps to where the two women stood.
Valérie's introduction was only another warning to him to be upon his guard—she seemed to imply that he naturally knew her mother's name.
“Father Aubert, this is my mother,” she said.
With a sort of old-world grace, the elder woman bowed.
“Ah, Monsieur le Curé,” she said quickly, “what a terrible thing to have happened! Valérie has just told me. And what a welcome to the parish for you! Not even a room, with that pauvre unfortunate, misérable and murderer though he is, and——”
“But it is a welcome of the heart, I can see that,” Raymond interposed, and smiled gravely, and took both of the old lady's hands in his own. “And that is worth far more than the room, which, in any case, I shall hardly need to-night. It is you, not I, who should have cause to grumble, for, to my own unexpected arrival, I bring you the added trouble and inconvenience of this very badly wounded and, I fear, dying man.”
“But—that!” she exclaimed simply. “But Monsieur le Curé would never have thought of doing otherwise! Valérie meant only kindness, but she should not have made any other suggestion. It is for nothing else, if not this, the presbytère! Le pauvre misérable”—she crossed herself reverently—“even if he has blood that thought of doing otherwise! Valérie meant only kindness, but she should not have made any other suggestion. It is for nothing else, if not this, the presbytère! Le pauvre misérable”—she crossed herself reverently—“even if he has blood that is not his own upon him.”
They were coming up the steps, carrying the wounded priest.
“This way!” said the little old lady softly. “Valérie, dear, hold your lamp so that they can see. Ah, le pauvre misérable; ah, Monsieur le Curé!”
The girl leading, they passed down a short hallway, entered a bedroom at the rear of the house, and Valérie set the lamp upon the table.