“Yes, monsieur, but I wish you to understand that nothing has ever happened between us. He has been more honourable and gentle to me than any man I could have dreamed of. He is a good man, from heart to head.”
She gave Paul a very wonderful look.
“Now, tell Monsieur Lefèbre everything.”
And Paul told him, beginning with his life before the war, and then linking it to that March morning when he had been tempted to lose his old self in Beckett’s death. He watched Monsieur Lefèbre’s face as he made his confession, as though the mirror of this man’s humanity would show him the very judgment of God. Lefèbre sat with his head a little forward, his face very grave and somewhat sad. He had glanced up quickly when Paul had confessed that he was English, but after that he kept his eyes fixed on the table in front of him. The sacristy began to grow dim, and Lefèbre’s face grew dim with it. A feeling of solemnity seemed to fill the place, with its rude, home-made furniture, and its air of austerity. Lefèbre listened and said nothing. He was like some sombre figure in a sanctuary, obscure, enigmatical, waiting to give judgment.
There was a moment when Brent faltered, obsessed by a sudden sense of loneliness. His left arm and hand were resting on the table. He felt something touch his fingers. His hand closed on Manon’s.
His heart seemed to take courage, and the obscure figure of Lefèbre ceased to be terrible.
The man on the bed began to ask him abrupt questions.
“You are a widower?”
“Yes.”
“And this man—whose name you took—he had no wife, mother, or children?”