"Keep nothing back, my son. Let me hear all."
What he had seen was a man running up and down in front of Poussette's, in some agitation as he fancied, presently to be joined by two or three others.
"Thus I lived, hating. I left this place, hating, and I followed him, you know whom I mean, hating. I met him there or rather I sought him out and helped him to fall, watched him drink strong liquor and did not intervene, did not stay his hand. I made him drunk—I left him drunk—I left him drunk. I went away and lied. I said he was ill and I locked the door and took the key. I went back again and saw him; he was still drunk and I was glad, because I thought 'This will keep him here, this will make her hate and avoid him, this will prevent the marriage'."
Father Rielle, though listening intently, still kept his gaze riveted on the peculiar actions of the men outside Poussette's. The running to and fro continued, but now suddenly an impulse prompted them to go in one direction; they pointed, gesticulated, and then with startling rapidity disappeared around the corner of the bridge. By this time the priest was convinced that something was transpiring of serious and uncommon import, yet he gave precedence to the wants of the penitent, kneeling with head on his hands.
"I vowed he should never marry her—you know of whom I am speaking, of both?"
"I know, my son."
"I say—I followed him. I took a room—I will tell you where, later—which enabled me to watch him should he go out. Then I fell ill myself and had to be kept in bed. O the torture, the pain, of knowing that I might miss him, that he might leave without my knowledge, I, from weakness, being unable to overtake him! And that happened, that came to pass, as I feared it would."
"You watched him go?"
"No. When I recovered sufficiently to walk, I went to find him. I went to that place where I had helped to make him drunk, but he was gone."
"What day was that?"