He seemed in earnest when he spoke—but that was his way; it had done him service often. “I do good whenever it comes my way to do it,” he continued. “I left my work this morning”—he lied of course—“and hired a buggy to bring me over here, all at my own cost, to save a fellow-man. There in the Court House he was sure of prison, with a wife and three small children weeping in ‘The Red Eagle’; and there I come at great expense and trouble to tell the truth—before all to tell the truth—and save him and set him free. Yonder he is in the tavern, the work of my hands, a gift to the world from an honest man with a good heart and a sense of justice. But for me there would be a wife and three children in the bondage of shame, sorrow, poverty and misery”—his eyes again ravished the brown eyes of Palass Poucette’s widow—“and here again I drink to my own health and to that of all good people—with charity to all and malice towards none!”
The little bottle of golden cordial was raised towards Mere Langlois. The fingers of one hand, however, were again seeking those of the comely young widow who was half behind him, when he felt them caught spasmodically away. Before he had time to turn round he heard a voice, saying: “I should have thought that ‘With malice to all and charity towards none,’ was your motto, Dolores.”
He knew that voice well enough. He had always had a lurking fear that he would hear it say something devastating to him, from the great chair where its owner sat and dispensed what justice a jury would permit him to do. That devastating something would be agony to one who loved liberty and freedom—had not that ever been his watchword, liberty and freedom to do what he pleased in the world and with the world? Yes, he well knew Judge Carcasson’s voice. He would have recognized it in the dark—or under the black cap. “M’sieu’ le juge!” he said, even before he turned round and saw the faces of the tiny Judge and his Clerk of the Court. There was a kind of quivering about his mouth, and a startled look in his eyes as he faced the two. But there was the widow of Palass Poucette, and, if he was to pursue and frequent her, something must be done to keep him decently figured in her eye and mind.
“It cost me three dollars to come here and save a man from jail to-day, m’sieu’ le juge,” he added firmly. The Judge pressed the point of his cane against the stomach of the hypocrite and perjurer. “If the Devil and you meet, he will take off his hat to you, my escaped anarchist”—Dolores started almost violently now—“for you can teach him much, and Ananias was the merest aboriginal to you. But we’ll get you—we’ll get you, Dolores. You saved that guilty fellow by a careful and remarkable perjury to-day. In a long experience I have never seen a better performance—have you, monsieur?” he added to M. Fille.
“But once,” was the pointed and deliberate reply. “Ah, when was that?” asked Judge Carcasson, interested.
“The year monsieur le juge was ill, and Judge Blaquiere took your place. It was in Vilray at the Court House here.”
“Ah—ah, and who was the phenomenon—the perfect liar?” asked the Judge with the eagerness of the expert.
“His name was Sebastian Dolores,” meditatively replied M. Fille. “It was even a finer performance than that of to-day.”
The Judge gave a little grunt of surprise. “Twice, eh?” he asked. “Yet this was good enough to break any record,” he added. He fastened the young widow’s eyes. “Madame, you are young, and you have an eye of intelligence. Be sure of this: you can protect yourself against almost anyone except a liar—eh, madame?” he added to Mere Langlois. “I am sure your experience of life and your good sense—”
“My good sense would make me think purgatory was hell if I saw him”—she nodded savagely at Dolores as she said it, for she had seen that last effort of his to take the fingers of Palass Poucette’s widow—“if I saw him there, m’sieu’ le juge.”