Accordingly, as they were preparing to leave the vessel (the care of poor Loic having been handed over to the village curé), Christian boldly tendered his request.
“No, my friend, I cannot do it,” replied the Abbé promptly.
“Read it yourself,” urged Christian. “No harm can possibly come of it. My friend will do exactly as I tell him. In fact, it will be to your benefit that it should go.”
Still the Jesuit shook his head. Suddenly, however, in the midst of an argument on the part of the Englishman, he gave in and took the letter.
“Give it to me,” he said; “I will risk it.”
Christian watched him place the letter within the breast of his “soutane,” unread. The two lay-brethren were noting every movement.
Presently the priest removed his broad-brimmed hat and passed through the little doorway into the dimly lighted cabin where the dead sailor lay. He left the door ajar. After glancing at the dead man's still face he fell upon his knees by the side of the low bunk, and remained with bowed head for some moments. At last he rose to his feet and took the Englishman's letter from his breast. The envelope was unclosed, and with smooth, deliberate touch he opened the letter and read it by the light of the candle at the dead man's head, of which the rays were to illuminate the wandering soul upon its tortuous way. The priest read each word slowly and carefully, for his knowledge of English was limited. Then he stood for some seconds motionless, with arms hanging straight, staring at the flame of the candle with weary, wondering eyes. At last he raised his hand and held the flimsy paper in the flame of the candle till it was all burnt away. The charred remains fluttered to the ground, and one wavering flake of carbonised paper sank gently upon the dead man's throat, laid bare by the hand of his frenzied wife.
“He said that I was not a Jesuit,” murmured the priest, as he burnt the envelope, and across his pale face there flitted an unearthly smile.
Scarcely had the thin smoke mingled with the incense-laden air when Christian pushed open the door. The two men looked their last upon the rigid face dimly illuminated by the light of the wavering candles, and then turned to leave the ship.
The carriage was waiting for them on the quay, and Christian noticed that the two men who had been watching him since his arrival at Audierne were on the box. René Drucquer and himself were invited to enter the roomy vehicle, and by the way in which the door shut he divined that it was locked by a spring.