“Ah! You did not tell me that, mademoiselle,” he said soberly.
“And I am sorry I have told you now, if it is going to worry you,” she said quickly. “You must not say anything to him. The next time I went in he was so sorry that it was pitiful.”
In a fury—at times! Was it strange! Was it strange if one did not sit unmoved to watch, fettered, bound, impotent, a horrible doom creeping inexorably upon one! Was it strange if at times, all recollection blotted out, conscious only that one was powerless to avert that creeping terror, one should experience a paroxysm of fury that rocked one to the very soul—and at times in anguish left one like a helpless child! He had seen the man like that—many times in the last few days. And he, too, had seen that same terror creep like a dread thing out of the night upon himself to hover over him; and he could see it now lurking there, ever present—but he, Raymond, could fight!
The door of the rear room opened and closed; and Monsieur Dupont's voice resounded from the hall.
“Where is Monsieur le Curé? Ho, Monsieur le Curé!”
Valérie looked toward him inquiringly.
“Shall I tell them you are here?” she asked.
Raymond nodded mechanically.
“Yes—if you will, please.”
He leaned against the desk, his hands gripping its edge behind his back. What was it now that this Monsieur Dupont wanted? He was never sure of Dupont. And this morning his brain was fagged, and he did not want to cope with this infernal Monsieur Dupont! He watched Valérie walk across the room, and disappear outside in the hall.