"You seem to think me innocent of this charge?" he remarked calmly.
F. Chevreuse was silent with astonishment.
"You probably do think so," Mr. Schöninger went on, in the same tone. "But whatever your opinion may be, you do not know. Crimes are committed from various motives and under various circumstances. Some are almost accidental. Neither is crime committed by the low and rude alone, nor by the bad alone. There is nothing in the character or circumstances of any man which would render it impossible that he should ever be guilty of a crime. I repeat, then, that you cannot be sure of my innocence; and, till it is proved, there can be no intercourse between us. I am willing to give you credit for a charitable impulse; but I do not want charity. I want justice!" His eyes flashed out, and his face began to redden again. Mr. Schöninger had not become cool by spending a night in jail.
F. Chevreuse did not stir, though he was in fact dismissed. Mr. Schöninger, seeing that his visitor did not sit, rose, and stood waiting to bow him out.
"I cannot go away and leave you so, in such a place!" the priest exclaimed after a moment, during which he seemed to have made an inner effort to go. "It is monstrous! Cannot you see that it is so? Why, last night we were like friends; and I insist that there is no reason why we should not be friends to-day."
"What! Even if I should be guilty?" asked the prisoner in a low voice.
F. Chevreuse made a gesture of impatience, and was about to utter a still more impatient protest, when he met a look so cold, yet so thrilling with a significance he could not interpret, that he drew back involuntarily.
The Jew's face darkened. "Your convictions are, apparently, not so deep as you had supposed, sir," he said freezingly. "I am afraid you would find yourself disappointed as to the extent of confidence you would be able to repose in me. The sober second thought is best. Our paths are separate."
For the first time something like anger showed momentarily in the priest's face, and gave a certain sternness to the first words he spoke; but it was over in an instant. "You are quite right, sir!" he said. "It is impossible for me to go with you, unless I am met with entire frankness and confidence. If you choose that our paths shall be separate, I will not force myself on you; but we need not be antagonistic. Farewell!"
He turned and groped in the door-way for the passage-step, his own shadow being added to those which already wrapped the place in an obscurity almost like night. He saw the jailer in the long corridor before him, waiting to lock the door, and he had just found where to set his foot, when he felt a warm touch on his hand that still held by the stone door-way inside the cell. The touch was slight, but it was a caress, either a kiss or the quick pressure of a soft palm. He had hardly time to be fully aware of it before he stood in the corridor, and the jailer was locking the door behind him.