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Pomfrette pulled out a greasy dollar-bill from his pocket the last he owned in the world and threw it on the counter. Then he reached over, caught up a brandy-bottle from the shelf, knocked off the neck with a knife, and, pouring a tumblerful, drank it off at a gasp. His head came up, his shoulders straightened out, his eyes snapped fire.
The foot of the man still beat the ground angrily, and the little bell kept tinkling. He was gasping with passion, and he did not answer yet. "Luc Pomfrette, what have you to say?" asked the Cure again. He motioned back Lacasse, the constable of the parish, who had suddenly appeared with a rusty gun and a more rusty pair of handcuffs. Still the voyageur did not answer.
He would soon have stiffened for ever had not Parpon the dwarf, passing along the road, seen the open door and the sprawling body, and come and drawn Pomfrette inside the house.
The speaker was Parpon the dwarf, the oddest, in some ways the most foolish, in others the wisest man in Pontiac. "That is no excuse," said the Cure. "It is the only one he has, eh?" answered Parpon. His eyes were fixed meaningly on those of Pomfrette. "It is no excuse," repeated the Cure sternly. "The blasphemy is horrible, a shame and stigma upon Pontiac for ever."
Already banishment, isolation, seemed to possess Pomfrette, to surround him with loneliness. The very effort he made to be defiant of his fate appeared to make him still more solitary.
He would soon have stiffened for ever had not Parpon the dwarf, passing along the road, seen the open door and the sprawling body, and come and drawn Pomfrette inside the house.
He could see the fat, wheezy Duclosse hesitate, but the arid, alert Garotte had determination in every motion and look. They came nearer; they were about to pass; there was no sign. Pomfrette stopped short. "Good-day, lime-burner; good-day, Duclosse," he said, looking straight at them. Garotte made no reply, but walked straight on. Pomfrette stepped swiftly in front of the mealman.
He thrust the bottle inside his coat, went to the door, flung it open with a bang, and strode out into the street, muttering as he went. As the landlord came to close the door Medallion said: "The leper has a memory, my friends." Then he also walked out, and went to his office depressed, for the face of the man haunted him. Pomfrette reached his deserted, cheerless house.
The picture was so ludicrous that Pomfrette laughed with a devilish humour, and flinging the pitcher at the bag, he walked away towards his own house. Duclosse, pale and frightened, stepped from among the fragments of crockery, and with backward glances towards Pomfrette joined his comrade.
Once or twice Pomfrette struggled, but Parpon held him tight, saying: "It's no use; you must come; we've had enough. Besides " "Besides what?" asked Pomfrette faintly. "Never mind," answered Parpon.
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