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Updated: August 24, 2024
The dullest observer could not have failed to recognise that there was something extraordinary in such a head, either for good or evil. The Abbe Drucquer advanced across the bare stone floor, and took his stand at the left side of the table, within a yard of his Provincial's elbow.
Despite the countless one-sided and ingenious arguments instilled into his eager young mind in guise of mental armour against the dangers of the world, Rene Drucquer found himself, at the very first contact with the world, unconvinced that he was fighting upon the righteous side. Brest had been left behind in a shimmering blue haze.
He took no notice of his surroundings, which, though simple and somewhat bare, were not devoid of comfort. In the meantime, Rene Drucquer had followed the door-keeper up a broad flight of stairs to a second corridor which was identical with that below, except that a room took the place of this small entrance-lobby and broad door.
He saw there Christian Vellacott walking by the side of the hard-faced old monk with long, hesitating strides, like a man who had forgotten how to use his legs. It was exactly six weeks since the young journalist had passed through that garden with Rene Drucquer, and those weeks had been to him a strange and not unpleasant dream.
Rene Drucquer, the man kneeling on the slimy deck, was as nearly a religious fanatic as his soft, sweet nature would allow. With greater bodily strength and attendant greater passions, he would have been a simple monomaniac. In him the passion for self-devotion was singularly strong, and contact with men had cooled it down into an unusually deep sense of duty.
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