“The finger of God is in it!” she exclaimed devoutly.
“His hand directs all things,” Père Antoine returned quietly; “it is our blindness which does not recognize it.”
There was another pause, and in it Madame Michel surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eyes. The regular throbbing tick of the clocks sounded distinctly from the shop, and little Péron began to doze, with his head on the low stool in the corner; it was past his bedtime, but he was forgotten.
“When will M. de Bruneau be tried?” asked Jacques des Horloges, at last.
“Immediately,” Père Antoine replied; “’tis a well established case; there are several witnesses, all relatives of M. le Marquis.”
“Sent purposely, no doubt,” exclaimed madame indignantly. “The old rogue!”
“I am sorry for the poor gentleman,” Michel said once more; “he is like to have a short shrift. Will you see him again, mon père?”
“I have a permit from the king,” the priest replied, “and I shall stay with the unhappy prisoner to the end. There is absolutely no earthly hope, and I fear M. de Bruneau has never set great store by the heavenly.”
As he spoke, he rose from his seat to leave them, and the movement startled Péron, who opened his sleepy eyes just as the priest glanced in his direction.
“The child has been asleep,” Père Antoine remarked, smiling. “How great a blessing is the unconscious freedom from care! I had well nigh forgotten your present, Péron,” he added, thrusting his hand into his wallet and drawing out a pale blue silk handkerchief; “I brought this for you, little one, because you begged for a silk handkerchief the other day.”