He had other things to do than waste time in toying with visionary sentiment! There was one detail in that scene of peace he had not seen—that man in the rear room of the presbytère who was going to trial for the murder of Théophile Blondin, because he was decked out in the clothes of one Raymond Chapelle, alias Henri Mentone. It would be well perhaps for Raymond Chapelle to remember that, and to remember nothing else for the remainder of the afternoon!
He went on through the woods, heading as nearly as he could judge in a direction that would bring him out at the rear of the tavern. And now he laughed shortly to himself. Peace! There would be a peace that would linger long in somebody's memory at Mother Blondin's this afternoon, if only luck were with him! He was on a priestly mission—to console, bring comfort to the old hag for the loss of her son—and, quite incidentally, to precipitate a fight with any of the loungers who might be burying their noses in Mother Blondin's home-made whiskey-blanc! He laughed out again. St. Marleau would talk of that, too, and applaud the righteousness of the good, young Father Au^ bert—but he would attain the object he sought. He, the good, young Father Aubert, the man with a rope around his neck, whose hands were against everyman's, had too many friends in St. Marleau—he needed an enemy now! It was the one thing that would make the night's work sure.
He reached the edge of the wood to find himself even nearer the tavern than he had expected—and to find, too, that he would not have to lie long in wait for a visitor to Mother Blondin's. There was one there already. So far then, he could have asked for no better luck. He caught the sound of voices—the old hag's, high-pitched and querulous; a man's, rough and domineering. Looking cautiously through the fringe of trees that still sheltered him, Raymond discovered that he was separated from Mother Blondin's back door by a matter of but a few yards of clearing. The door was open, and a man, heavy-built, in a red-checkered shirt, a wide-brimmed hat of coarse straw, was forcing his way past the shrivelled old woman. As the man turned his head sideways, Raymond caught a glimpse of the other's face. It was not a pleasant face. The eyes were black, narrow and shifty under a low brow; and a three days' growth of black stubble on his jaws added to his exceedingly dirty and unkempt appearance.
Mother Blondin's voice rose furiously.
“You will pay first!” she screamed. “I know you too well, Jacques Bourget! Do you understand? The money! You will pay me first!”
“Or otherwise you will tell the police, eh?” the man guffawed contemptuously. He pushed his way inside the house, and pushed a table that stood in the centre of the room roughly back against the wall. “You shut your mouth!” he jeered at her—and, stooping down, lifted up a trap door in the floor. “Now trot along quick for some glasses, so you can keep count of all we both drink!”
“You are a thief, a robber, a crapule, a—” she burst into a stream of blasphemous invective. Her wrinkled face grew livid with ungovernable rage. She shook a bony fist at him. “I will show you what you will get for this! You think I am alone—eh? You think I am an old woman that you can rob as you like—eh? You think my whisky is for your guzzling throat without pay—eh? Well, I will show you, you——”
The man made a threatening movement toward her, and she retreated back out of Raymond's sight—evidently into an inner room, for her voice, as virago-like as ever, was muffled now.
“Bring me a glass, and waste no time about it!” the man called after her. “And if you do not hold your tongue, something worse will happen to you than the loss of a drop out of your bottle!”
The man turned, and descended to the cellar through the trapdoor.