Slowly M. Fille shut the door, and very slowly he came back. Almost blindly, as it might seem, and with a moan, he dropped into his chair. His eyes fixed themselves on George Masson.
“Ah—that!” he said helplessly. “That! The little Zoe—dear God, the little Zoe, and the poor madame!” His voice was aching with pain and repugnance.
“If you were not such an icicle naturally, I’d be thinking your interest in the child was paternal,” said the master-carpenter roughly, for the virtuous horror of the other’s face annoyed him. He had had a vexing day.
The Clerk of the Court was on his feet in a second. “Monsieur, you dare!” he exclaimed. “You dare to multiply your crimes in that shameless way. Begone! There are those who can make you respect decency. I am not without my friends, and we all stand by each other in our love of home—of sacred home, monsieur.”
There was something right in the master-carpenter at the bottom, with all his villainy. It was not alone that he knew there were fifty men in the Parish of St. Saviour’s who would man-handle him for such a suggestion, and for what he had done at the Manor Cartier, if they were roused; but he also had a sudden remorse for insulting the man who, after all, had tried to do him a service. His amende was instant.
“I take it back with humble apology—all I can hold in both hands, m’sieu’,” he said at once. “I would not insult you so, much less Madame Barbille. If she’d been like what I’ve hinted at, I wouldn’t have gone her way, for the promiscuous is not for me. I’ll tell you the whole truth of what happened to-day this morning. Last night I met her at the river, and—Then briefly he told all that had happened to the moment when Jean Jacques had left him at the flume with the words, ‘Moi, je suis philosophe!’ And at the last he said:
“I give you my word—my oath on this”—he laid his hand on the Testament on the table—“that beyond what you saw, and what Jean Jacques saw, there has been nothing.” He held up a hand as though taking an oath.
“Name of God, is it not enough what there has been?” whispered the little Clerk.
“Oh, as you think, and as you say! It is quite enough for me after to-day. I’m a teetotaller, but I’m not so fond of water as to want to take my eternal bath in it.” He shuddered slightly. “Bien sur, I’ve had my fill of the Manor Cartier for one day, my Clerk of the Court.”
“Bien sur, it was enough to set you thinking, monsieur,” was the dry comment of M. Fille, who was now recovering his composure.