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It was still while he was only a bundle of bones that one Sunday morning, Parpon, without a word, lifted him up in his arms and carried him out of the house. Pomfrette did not speak at first: it seemed scarcely worth while; he was so weak he did not care. "Where are you going?" he said at last, as they came well into the village. The bell in St.
"I will not obey you, M'sieu' le Cure," said he. "I'll forgive him before he repents." "You will share his sin," answered the Cure sternly. "No; his punishment, M'sieu'," said the dwarf; and turning on his heel, he trotted to where Pomfrette stood alone in the middle of the road, a dark, morose figure, hatred and a wild trouble in his face.
Pomfrette heard, and he drew himself together, his jaws shutting with ferocity, and his hand flying to the belt where his voyageur's case-knife hung. The Cure did not see this. Without turning his head towards Pomfrette, he said: "I have commanded you, my children. Leave the leper alone."
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.
She is to buy masses for your father's soul; she is to pay money to the Cure for the good of the Church; she is to buy a little here, a little there, for the house you and she are going to live in, the wedding and the dancing over. Very well. Ah, my Pomfrette, what is the end you think? She run away with Dicey the Protestant, and take your money with her. Eh, is that so?"
Parpon's hands alone cared for the house; he did all that was to be done; no woman had entered the place since Pomfrette's cousin, old Mme. Burgoyne, left it on the day of his shame. When at last Pomfrette opened his eyes, and saw the Cure standing beside him, he turned his face to the wall, and to the exhortation addressed to him he answered nothing.
"I'm used to that; I've had a bad time here in Pontiac." His thin hands moved restlessly. His leg moved, and the little bell tinkled the bell that had been like the bell of a leper these years past. "But you live, and you have years yet before you, in the providence of God. Luc Pomfrette, you blasphemed against your baptism, and horribly against God himself.
"Till he was carried, M'sieu' le Cure and I've carried him." "Did you come of your own free will, and with a repentant heart, Luc Pomfrette?" asked the Cure. "I did not know I was coming no." Pomfrette's brown eyes met the priest's unflinchingly. "You have defied God, and yet He has spared your life." "I'd rather have died," answered the sick man simply. "Died, and been cast to perdition!"
There was not a stick of fire-wood in the shed, not a thing to eat or drink in cellar or cupboard. The door of the shed at the back was open, and the dog-chains lay covered with frost and half embedded in mud. With a shiver of misery Pomfrette raised the brandy to his mouth, drank every drop, and threw the bottle on the floor. Then he went to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside.
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.
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