The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

IT was late, a good half hour after the usual supper time, when Raymond returned to the presbytère. He had done a very strange thing. He had gone into the church, and sat there in the silence and the quiet of the sacristy—and twilight had come unnoticed. It was the quiet he had sought, respite for a mind that had suddenly seemed nerve-racked to the breaking point as he had come down the hill from Mother Blondin's. It had been dim, and still, and cool, and restful in there—in the church. There was still Valerie, still the priest who had not died, still his own peril and danger, and still the hazard of the night before him; all that had not been altered; all that still remained—but in a measure, strangely, somehow, he was calmed. He was full of apologies now to Madame Lafleur, as he sat down to supper.

“But it is nothing!” she said, placing a lamp upon the table. She sat down herself; and added simply, as though, indeed, no reason could be more valid: “I saw you go into the church, Monsieur le Curé.”

“Yes,” said Raymond, his eyes now on Valerie's empty seat. “And where is Mademoiselle Valerie? Taking our pauvre Mentone his supper?”

“Oh, no!” she answered quickly. “I took him his supper myself a little while ago—though I do not know whether he will eat it or not. Valerie went over to her uncle's about halfpast five. She said something about going for a drive.”

Raymond cut his slice of cold pork without comment. He was conscious of a dismal sense of disappointment, a depression, a falling of his spirits again. The room seemed cold and dead without Valérie there, without her voice, without her smile. And then there came a sense of pique, of irritation, unreasonable no doubt, but there for all that. Why had she not included him in the drive? Fool! Had he forgotten? He could not have gone if she had—he had other things to do than drive that evening!

“Yes,” said Madame Lafleur, significantly reverting to her former remark, as she handed him his tea, “yes, I do not know if the poor fellow will eat anything or not.”

Raymond glanced at her quickly. What was the matter? Had anything been discovered! And then his eyes were on his plate again. Madame Lafleur's face, whatever her words might be intended to convey, was genuinely sympathetic, nothing more.

“Not eat?” he repeated mildly. “And why not, Madame Lafleur?”

“I am sure I do not know,” she replied, a little anxiously. “I have never seen him so excited. I thought it was because he was to be taken away to-morrow morning. And so, when we went out this afternoon, I tried to say something to him about his going away that would cheer him up. And would you believe it, Monsieur le Curé, he just stared at me, and then, as though I had said something droll, he—fancy, Monsieur le Curé, from a man who was going to be tried for his life—he laughed until I thought he would never stop. And after that he would say nothing at all; and since he has come in he has not been for an instant still. Do you not hear him, Monsieur le Curé?”

Raymond heard very distinctly. His ears had caught the sounds from the moment he had entered the presbytère. Up and down, up and down, from that back room came the stumbling footfalls; then silence for a moment, as though from exhaustion the man had sunk down into a chair; and then the pacing to and fro again. Raymond's lips tightened in understanding, as he bent his head over his plate. Like himself, the man in there was waiting—for darkness!