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At last, when he needed a new suit so torn had his others become at woodchopping and many kinds of work he went to the village tailor, and was promptly told that nothing but Luc Pomfrette's grave-clothes would be cut and made in that house.
"What did she do?" Pomfrette's hands clinched. "What's in my own noddle, and not for any one else," he answered sulkily. "Tiens, tiens, what a close mouth! What did she do? Who knows? What you think she do, it's this. You think she pretends to love you, and you leave all your money with her.
Then he trotted out of the house and away to the Little Chemist, who came passively with him. All that day, and for many days, they fought to save Pomfrette's life. The Cure came also; but Pomfrette was in fever and delirium. Yet the good M. Fabre's presence, as it ever did, gave an air of calm and comfort to the place.
Pomfrette's face was pitiful to see drawn, staring. "Junie!" he said hoarsely. Her eyes were red with weeping, her face was very pale. "M'sieu' le Cure" she said, "you must listen to me" the Cure's face had become forbidding "sinner though I am. You want to be just, don't you? Ah, listen! I was to be married to Luc Pomfrette, but I did not love him then.
At a word from Parpon the shrivelled old sexton cleared a way through the aisle, making a stir, through which the silver bell at Pomfrette's knee tinkled, in answer, as it were, to the tinkling of the acolyte's bell in the sanctuary. People turned at the sound, women stopped telling their beads, some of the choir forgot their chanting.
From a distant corner of the gallery a deeply veiled woman also looked down at Pomfrette, and her hand trembled on the desk before her. At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. "What is it, Parpon?" he asked gravely. "It is Luc Pomfrette, M'sieu' le Cure." Pomfrette's eyes were closed. "He swore that he would never come to Mass again," answered the good priest.
Then he trotted out of the house and away to the Little Chemist, who came passively with him. All that day, and for many days, they fought to save Pomfrette's life. The Cure came also; but Pomfrette was in fever and delirium. Yet the good M. Fabre's presence, as it ever did, gave an air of calm and comfort to the place.
He scarcely knew what he said, but it had meaning. "Good-bye-leper," he answered. Pomfrette's arm flew out to throw the pitcher at the mealman's head, but Duclosse, with a grunt of terror, flung up in front of his face the small bag of meal that he carried, the contents pouring over his waistcoat from a loose corner.
What do you think were her last words?" There was a hectic flush on Pomfrette's face, and his eyes were intense and burning as they looked up fixedly at the Cure. "I can't think any more," answered Pomfrette slowly. "I've no head." "What she said is for your heart, not for your head, Luc," rejoined the Cure gently.
From a distant corner of the gallery a deeply veiled woman also looked down at Pomfrette, and her hand trembled on the desk before her. At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. "What is it, Parpon?" he asked gravely. "It is Luc Pomfrette, M'sieu' le Cure." Pomfrette's eyes were closed. "He swore that he would never come to Mass again," answered the good priest.
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