But one of the peasants—a brawny fisherman of the coast, caught him by the collar, dragging him back.
Père Mouet was ready to follow up his advantage.
"My children," he cried. "Ah, my children, you will listen to me. You will return to your homes and pray God and His dear saints to keep you in peace from all the madness and evil of these terrible days."
His voice broke off, quavering with emotion, but the crowd answered by a sigh—a long sigh as of waves receding from impregnable cliffs back into the deep.
Here and there a woman sobbed and a man muttered prayer or oath. They were remembering how this Père Mouet had indeed a right to call them his children; for had he not been a father to them these forty years and more?
One recalled how he sat up three nights with little Gaston when he had the fever, another of the prayers he offered without payment for the soul of the poor Louis who died unshriven last autumn. Then how good he had been when bad days came during the winter. Père Mouet had been the only one who had a cheery word then, always cheery, always helpful, always ready to nurse a sick one, or get food for a hungry one. As for the children, there was not one in Kérnak who did not adore him.
And now what were they doing?
That was the question many put to themselves, and hung their heads in very shame for answer. But Jean Floessel was quick to see the way in which the wind was blowing.
Nom d'un chien! Was he to have all his eloquence and exertions wasted because these fools were ready to listen to one old man?
Bah! they had also learnt how to deal with priests in Paris.