“Monsieur l’Abbé!”
The Abbé swung round quite disconcerted. Hanaud, holding the mask hidden in the handkerchief in his left hand, removed his hat with his right, and bowed respectfully.
“You noticed, no doubt, that the little rearrangement had already been made.”
The sentence, Greek to Mr. Ricardo and the Commissaire, had the clearest meaning for the Abbé Fauriel. Consternation shone in his eyes, the blood withdrew from his cheeks, leaving them mottled, and his nose and the skin beneath his eyes like tallow. His face in a second seemed to have sunk and grown thin. He was an old and shrivelled man. But he had the spirit of a young one. He raised his head high, and now in place of the consternation there was the glint of battle in his eyes. He stood square; and then, turning slightly towards the Commissaire Herbesthal, he said in a biting voice:
“This no doubt is the illustrious Monsieur Hanaud, who very wisely speaks in riddles. For riddles are the shortcut to prestige and reputation and, besides, very intimidating to slow-witted provincials like ourselves.”
It was a declaration of war—no less than that. Mr. Ricardo, observing the little priest and the big detective, thought, in his obvious way, of David and Goliath. Hanaud had undoubtedly staged a little trap, but the Abbé was indisposed to tumble into it. Now that he had recovered himself, and stood quivering a little from head to foot, not with terror but with a concentration of his faculties, he looked a little man to be wary of. Mr. Ricardo wondered whether he concealed a sling about his person, fitted with a nice, big, fat stone.
“If I wrapped up my meaning, Monsieur l’Abbé, so that you only should understand it, as you evidently did,” said Hanaud, “you should be thankful for my consideration, rather than blame it. But since you won’t have my riddles, I ask you now in the plainest terms why you went into mademoiselle’s room just now with so many precautions against being seen?”
“I shall reply to you that I have my duties, as you have yours, Monsieur Hanaud. Mine, it is true, may be said to begin after yours have ended. But they are both sad and exacting and—secret. Should you, however, wish for a poor priest’s blessing upon yours, whatever they may be,” he added with a hint of humour, “I shall not be disposed to deny it you.”
He moved away with a little bow, but Hanaud pivoted upon his heels like a soldier, and fell in at his side with the neatness of a cog fitting into the ratchet of a wheel.
“No doubt,” he said imperturbably. “I catch the criminal first, and you save his soul afterwards. It is a roughly correct division of our duties. But we each have the same third duty, Monsieur l’Abbé.”
“Thousands of duties, Monsieur Hanaud. I have preached for thirty years, but I have not got to the end of them yet.”
“One, however, which is paramount.”
The little priest saw the stroke coming.
“I am aware of it, Monsieur Hanaud.”
“The duty of a good citizen.”
“You have said it.”
“And under the pressure of that third duty, one or two separate duties at times may overlap.”
The two men were pacing side by side away from the Commissaire and Mr. Ricardo. They were still, to Mr. Ricardo’s satisfaction, within earshot. But the Abbé, though he showed no sign of haste, was steadily edging in towards the door of the drawing-room.
“When and if that time comes, I trust that I shall not fail in mine,” the priest replied.
“That time has come, Monsieur l’Abbé.”
“I think not, Monsieur Hanaud, and I am the judge.”
“I shall invite your closer consideration upon that point, Monsieur l’Abbé.”
The dialogue was all very stiff and formal and polite, although now an angry quiver of the voice, now a bitter word caught quickly back, betrayed the fierce hostility between them. Now, however, disdain caused the Abbé Fauriel to trip.
“Any argument of yours, Monsieur Hanaud, must of course command every atom of consideration which I have to give,” he said with a curling lip; and Hanaud was under his guard in a flash.
“My argument is an instance, monsieur. For example, there is the little matter of your vestments which were stolen last night.”
The Abbé was shaken. He showed it only by stopping in his walk and by a second’s silence. Then he resumed in an accent of self-reproach:
“Monsieur Hanaud, I spoke too lightly in this house last night. I am ashamed, and I have appointed to myself certain penances in consequence. My vestments were hanging in my sacristy this morning and were worn by me as early as six o’clock, when to a deplorable congregation of two old women, I sought the blessing of St. Matthew upon our vineyards.”
Clearly Hanaud was astonished.
“They were brought back by six o’clock this morning?” he cried.
The Abbé smiled.
“We who are not of your profession, Monsieur Hanaud, may be permitted to cultivate a spirit kind enough to believe that they had never been taken away.”
“That won’t do,” said Hanaud bluntly. The two men were standing face to face, the priest sheltering what knowledge he had behind a stolid face, Hanaud towering over him, like an inquisitor. The fine courtesies of “Monsieur l’Abbé” and “Monsieur Hanaud” were discarded like the last year’s frills on a lady’s gown. “You did not find all your vestments in your sacristy this morning. For one of them is in the mortuary at Villeblanche, stained with the
