Part 18 (1/2)
”His name was Sebastian Dolores,” meditatively replied M. Fille. ”It was even a finer performance than that of to-day.”
The Judge gave a little grunt of surprise. ”Twice, eh?” he asked. ”Yet this was good enough to break any record,” he added. He fastened the young widow's eyes. ”Madame, you are young, and you have an eye of intelligence. Be sure of this: you can protect yourself against almost anyone except a liar--eh, madame?” he added to Mere Langlois. ”I am sure your experience of life and your good sense--”
”My good sense would make me think purgatory was h.e.l.l if I saw him”--she nodded savagely at Dolores as she said it, for she had seen that last effort of his to take the fingers of Pala.s.s Poucette's widow--”if I saw him there, m'sieu' le juge.”
”We'll have you yet--we'll have you yet, Dolores,” said the Judge, as the Spaniard prepared to move on. But, as Dolores went, he again caught the eyes of the young widow.
This made him suddenly bold. ”'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour,'--that is the commandment, is it not, m'sieu' le juge?
You are doing against me what I didn't do in Court to-day. I saved a man from your malice.”
The crook of the Judge's cane caught the Spaniard's arm, and held him gently.
”You're possessed of a devil, Dolores,” he said, ”and I hope I'll never have to administer justice in your case. I might be more man than judge.
But you will come to no good end. You will certainly--”
He got no further, for the attention of all was suddenly arrested by a wagon driving furiously round the corner of the Court House. It was a red wagon. In it was Jean Jacques Barbille.
His face was white and set; his head was thrust forward, as though looking at something far ahead of him; the pony stallions he was driving were white with sweat, and he had an air of tragic helplessness and panic.
Suddenly a child ran across the roadway in front of the ponies, and the wild cry of the mother roused Jean Jacques out of his agonized trance.
He sprang to his feet, wrenching the horses backward and aside with deftness and presence of mind. The margin of safety was not more than a foot, but the child was saved.
The philosopher of the Manor Cartier seemed to come out of a dream as men and women applauded, and cries arose of ”Bravo, M'sieu' Jean Jacques!”
At any other time this would have made Jean Jacques nod and smile, or wave a hand, or exclaim in good fellows.h.i.+p. Now, however, his eyes were full of trouble, and the gla.s.siness of the semi-trance leaving them, they s.h.i.+fted restlessly here and there. Suddenly they fastened on the little group of which Judge Carca.s.son was the centre. He had stopped his horses almost beside them.
”Ah!” he said, ”ah!” as his eyes rested on the Judge. ”Ah!” he again exclaimed, as the glance ran from the Judge to Sebastian Dolores. ”Ah, mercy of G.o.d!” he added, in a voice which had both a low note and a high note-deep misery and shrill protest in one. Then he seemed to choke, and words would not come, but he kept looking, looking at Sebastian Dolores, as though fascinated and tortured by the sight of him.
”What is it, Jean Jacques?” asked the little Clerk of the Court gently, coming forward and laying a hand on the steaming flank of a spent and trembling pony.
As though he could not withdraw his gaze from Sebastian Dolores, Jean Jacques did not look at M. Fille; but he thrust out the long whip he carried towards the father of his vanished Carmen and his Zoe's grandfather, and with the deliberation of one to whom speaking was like the laceration of a nerve he said: ”Zoe's run away--gone--gone!”
At that moment Louis Charron, his cousin, at whose house Gerard Fynes had lodged, came down the street galloping his horse. Seeing the red wagon, he made for it, and drew rein.
”It's no good, Jean Jacques,” he called. ”They're married and gone to Montreal--married right under our noses by the Protestant minister at Terreba.s.se Junction. I've got the telegram here from the stationmaster at Terreba.s.se.... Ah, the villain to steal away like that--only a child--from her own father! Here it is--the telegram. But believe me, an actor, a Protestant and a foreigner--what a devil's mess!”
He waved the telegram towards Jean Jacques.
”Did he owe you anything, Louis?” asked old Mere Langlois, whose practical mind was alert to find the material status of things.
”Not a sou. Well, but he was honest, I'll say that for the rogue and seducer.”
”Seducer--ah, G.o.d choke you with your own tongue!” cried Jean Jacques, turning on Louis Charron with a savage jerk of the whip he held. ”She is as pure--”
”It is no marriage, of course!” squeaked a voice from the crowd.
”It'll be all right among the English, won't it, monsieur le juge?”
asked the gentle widow of Pala.s.s Poucette, whom the scene seemed to rouse out of her natural shyness.