The dice were thrown, the card was turned--against him. His luck was out. It was like walking tamely to where the noose dangled and awaited his neck to walk toward those gaping people clustered around the door, to walk into the _presbytère_. But it was his only chance. Yes, there was a chance--one chance left. If he could hold out until evening, until darkness!
Until evening, until darkness--with the night before him in which to attempt his escape! But there were still eight hours or more to evening. There were only a few more steps to go before he reached the _presbytère_. The distance was pitifully short. In those few steps he must plan everything; plan that that accursed noose swaying before his eyes should----
"_Dies illa, dies iræ_--that day, a day of wrath." What brought those words flashing through his mind! He had said them once that morning--but a little while ago--in church--as a priest--at Théophile Blondin's funeral. Damn it, they were not meant for him! They did not mean to-day. They were not premonitory. He was not beaten yet!
In the shed behind the _presbytère_ there was a pair of the old sacristan's overalls, and an old coat, and an old hat. He had noticed them yesterday. They would serve his purpose--a man in a pair of overalls and a dirty, torn coat would not look much like a priest. Yes, yes; that would do, it was the way--when night came. He would have the darkness, and he would hide the next day, and the day after, and travel only by night. It invited pursuit of course, the one thing that next to capture itself he had struggled and plotted to avoid, but it was the only chance now, and, if luck turned again, he might succeed in making his way out of the country--when night came.
But until then! What until then? That was where his danger lay now--in those hours until darkness.
"Yes!" whispered Raymond fiercely to himself. "Yes--if only you keep your head!"
What was the matter with him? Had he forgotten! It was what he had been prepared to face that night when he had brought the priest to the _presbytère_, should the man then have recovered sufficiently to speak. It should be still easier now to make any one believe that the man was wandering in his mind, was not yet lucid or coherent after so long a lapse from consciousness. And the very story that the man would tell must sound like the ravings of a still disordered mind! He, Raymond, would insist that the man be kept very quiet during the day; he, Raymond, would stay beside the other's bed. Was he not the curé! Would they not obey him, show deference to his judgment and his wishes--until night came!