All at once the love of this new life welled up in him, as a spring of water overflows its bounds. A voice kept ringing in his ears, “I will pray for you.” Subconsciously his mind kept saying, “Rosalie—Rosalie—Rosalie!” There was nothing now that he would not do to avert his being taken away upon this ridiculous charge. Mistaken identity? To prove that, he must at once prove himself—who he was, whence he came. Tell the Cure, and make it a point of honour for his secret to be kept? But once told, the new life would no longer stand by itself as the new life, cut off from all contact with the past. Its success, its possibility, must lie in its absolute separateness, with obscurity behind—as though he had come out of nothing into this very room, on that winter morning when memory returned.
It was clear that he must, somehow, evade the issue. He glanced at Jo, whose eyes, strained and painful, were fixed upon the door. Here was a man who suffered for his sake.... He took a step forward, as though with sudden resolve, but there came a knocking, and, pausing, he motioned Jo to open the door. Then, turning to a shelf, he took something from it hastily, and kept it in his hand.
Jo roused himself with an effort, and opened to the knocking.
Three people entered: the Seigneur, the Cure, and the Abbe Rossignol, an ascetic, severe man, with a face of intolerance and inflexibility. Two constables in plain clothes followed; one stolid, one alert, one English and one French, both with grim satisfaction in their faces—the successful exercise of his trade is pleasant to every craftsman. When they entered, Charley was standing with his back to the fireplace, his eye-glass adjusted, one hand stroking his beard, the other held behind his back.
The Cure came forward and shook hands in an eager friendly way.
“My dear Monsieur,” said he, “I hope that you are better.”
“I am quite well, thank you, Monsieur le Cure,” answered Charley. “I shall get back to work on Monday, I hope.”
“Yes, yes, that is good,” responded the Cure, and seemed confused. He turned uneasily to the Seigneur. “You have come to see my friend Portugais,” Charley remarked slowly, almost apologetically. “I will take my leave.” He made a step forward. The two constables did the same, and would have laid their hands upon his shoulder but that the Seigneur said tartly:
“Stand off, Jack-in-boxes!”
The two stood aside, and looked covertly at the Seigneur, whose temper seemed unusually irascible. Charley’s face showed no surprise, but he looked inquiringly at the Cure.