Claude came into the room, while the servant lighted a standard lamp of considerable power, that shone full upon a face from which all natural carnation had changed to an ashen greyness, the face of a man in the last stage of a bad illness.
"You look dead-beat," said the priest, as they clasped hands. "You have been travelling night and day, I suppose."
"I came straight from her grave, from their grave. She lies in the cemetery at San Marco, beside her husband and his daughter, the girl who loved her, and whose love brought those two together."
"It was her wish, I conclude."
"There was a letter found—a letter written half a year ago, at the beginning of her illness, in which she begged that I would lay her there—in his grave—nowhere else. It was he that she loved best, always, always. Her real, her only perfect love was for him."
"May that absolve her of her sins. I would have done much, striven long and late to bring her into the fold, if she would have let me, but she would not. Well, she shall not want for an intercessor while I live and pray."
And then, looking up at his visitor, who stood before him, a tragical figure in the bright, hard light of the lamp, his face haggard and wan against the rich darkness of his sable collar:
"Sit down, Claude," he said gently, in a tone of ineffable compassion, the voice that day by day had spoken to sorrow and to sin. "I see you have come to tell me your troubles. Take off that heavy coat and draw your chair to the fire, and open your heart to me, unless indeed you will come to my confessional to-morrow and let me hear you there. I would much rather you did that."
"Selon les règles. No! Be kind, Father, and let me talk to you here. I will keep nothing back this time. There shall be no more secrets—no surprises. I have come to the end of my book. She is dead, and I have nothing left to care about—nothing left to hide. There is not a joy this world can offer to man for which I would hold up a finger now she is gone."
"What do you want me to do for you?"