“You spoke of treachery just now,” said Moyse. “How do you propose to answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?”
“Be silent, my poor son,” said Father Laxabon. “Do not spend your remaining moments in aggravating your crimes.”
“A few minutes’ patience, father. I never before ventured to speak freely to my uncle. Not on account of any severity of his—he never was severe to me—but on account of a certain awe I felt of him—an awe which the events of this day have had a wonderful power to dispel.”
“It is well,” said Toussaint. “There should be no awe of the creature when but a moment’s darkness separates one from the Creator. Speak freely and fearlessly, Moyse.”
“I ask,” said Moyse, in a somewhat softened tone, “how you will answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?”
“Not by revealing to him the vices of the spirit he gave me to guide. If your father’s heart must be broken for you, it shall be for having thus lost a noble and gallant son, and not for— But it is no time for reproach from me. Let me go now, my poor boy.”
“Not yet, uncle. It is far from sunrise yet. How do you mean to report of me to Génifrède? Will you make her detest me? Will you work upon her fears—her fears of my ghost—to make her seek refuge with another? Will you trample on the memory of the dead, to drive her into the arms of some living lover, that you may no longer be reminded of the poor wretch that you first fostered, and then murdered?”
“Leave us!” said Laxabon to Toussaint. “He is desperate. Leave him to me, that he may not plunge deeper into sin with every word he speaks.”
“Presently, father.—Moyse, what Génifrède hears of you will be according to what Father Laxabon has to report of your last hours. Be assured that I shall not interpose between you and her. It rests with yourself to justify her love, and engage her affections to your memory. She has been laid to sleep this night, not out of enmity to you, but to save her brain. As Providence has decreed, it has also saved her life. When she awakes, she will regard you as a martyr to a professional necessity. A woman’s love is sanctified and made immortal when baptised in the blood of martyrdom. Hers may be so, if your last moments are full of holy contrition, and purged from passion. Of Father Laxabon, and not of me, will Génifrède inquire concerning you.”
“This is kind—this is generous,” said Moyse, looking wistfully in his uncle’s face.