Two or three times Luc tried to speak, but could not.
"Lift me up," he said brokenly, at last.
Parpon and the Little Chemist raised him to his feet, and held him, his shaking hands resting on their shoulders, his lank body tottering above and between them.
Looking at the congregation, he said slowly: "I’ll suffer till I die for cursing my baptism, and God will twist my neck in purgatory for"
"Luc," the Curé interrupted, "say that you repent."
"I’m sorry, and I ask you all to forgive me, and I’ll confess to the Curé, and take my penance, and" he paused, for breathing hurt him.
At that moment the woman in black who had been in the gallery came quickly forward. Parpon saw her, frowned, and waved her back; but she came on. At the chancel steps she raised her veil, and a murmur of recognition and wonder ran through the church. Pomfrette’s face was pitiful to see—drawn, staring.
"Junie!" he said hoarsely.
Her eyes were red with weeping, her face was very pale.
"M’sieu’ le Curé" she said, "you must listen to me"—the Curé’s face had become forbidding—"sinner though I am. You want to be just, don’t you? Ah, listen! I was to be married to Luc Pomfrette, but I did not love him—then. He had loved me for years, and his father and my father wished it—as you know, M’sieu’ le Curé. So after a while I said I would; but I begged him that he wouldn’t say anything about it till he come back from his next journey on the river. I did not love him enough—then. He left all his money with me: some to pay for Masses for his father’s
