Something black and irregular in the outline of the
bed at my side attracted my eyes. I saw that it was Edouard's head
buried in the drapery. As in a dream I laid my numb hand upon those
crisp curls. I was an old man, she a weak, wretched girl. She raised her
face at my touch, and burned in my brain a vision of stricken agony, of
horrible soul-pain, which we liken, for want of a better simile, to the
anguish in the eyes of a dying doe. Her lips moved; she said something,
I know not what. Then she went, and I was left alone with Elysee. His
words--broken, stumbling words--I remember:
"She asked to see you, Sebastian, my friend. I could not refuse. Her
papers were forged. She did come from Algiers, where her uncle is a
Capuchin. I do not ask, I do not wish to know, how much you know of
this. Before my Redeemer, I feel nothing but pity for the poor lamb. Lie
still, my friend; try to sleep. We are both older men than we were
yesterday."
There is little else to tell. Only twice have reflections of this
episode in my old life reached me in the seclusion of a missionary post
at the foot of the Andes. I learned a few weeks ago that the wretched
Abonus had bought a sailor's cafe on the Toulon wharves with his five
thousand francs. And I know also that the heart of the Marshal-President
was touched by the sad story of Renee, and that she left the prison La
Salpetriere to lay herself in penitence at the foot of Mother Church.
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