The Judge’s words sounded almost blasphemous to M. Fille. A vow not keep the world right! Then why the vows of the Church at baptism, at confirmation, at marriage? Why the vows of the priests, of the nuns, of those who had given themselves to eternal service? Monsieur had spoken terrible things. And yet he had said at the last: “It is not vows that keep the world right, but the prayer of a man’s soul from day to day.” That was not heretical, or atheistic, or blasphemous. It sounded logical and true and good.
He was about to say that, to some people, vows were the only way of keeping them to their duty—and especially women—but the Judge added gently: “I would not for the world hurt your sensibilities, my little Clerk, and we are not nearly so far apart as you think at the minute. Thank God, I keep the faith that is behind all faith—the speech of a man’s soul with God. … But there, if you can, let us hear what man it is who disturbs the home of the philosopher. It is not my Fille, that’s sure.”
He could not resist teasing, this judge who had a mind of the most rare uprightness; and he was not always sorry when his teasing hurt; for, to his mind, men should be lashed into strength, when they drooped over the tasks of life; and what so sharp a lash as ridicule or satire!
“Proceed, my friend,” he urged brusquely, not waiting for the gasp of pained surprise of the little Clerk to end. He was glad to see the figure beside him presently straighten itself, as though to be braced for a task of difficulty. Indignation and resentment were good things to stiffen a man’s back.
“It was three days ago,” said M. Fille. “I saw it with my own eyes. I had come to the Manor Cartier by the road, down the hill—Mont Violet—behind the house. I could see into the windows of the house. There was no reason why I should not see—there never has been a reason,” he added, as though to justify himself.
“Of course, of course, my friend. One’s eyes are open, and one sees what one sees, without looking for it. Proceed.”
“As I looked down I saw Madame with a man’s arms round her, and his lips to hers. It was not Jean Jacques.”
“Of course, of course. Proceed. What did you do?”
“I stopped. I fell back—”
“Of course. Behind a tree?”
“Behind some elderberry bushes.”
“Of course. Elderberry bushes—that’s better than a tree. I am very fond of elderberry wine when it is new. Proceed.”
The Clerk of the Court shrank. What did it matter whether or no the Judge liked elderberry wine, when the world was falling down for Jean Jacques and his Zoe—and his wife. But with a sigh he continued: “There is nothing more. I stayed there for awhile, and then crept up the hill again, and came back to my home and locked myself in.”
“What had you done that you should lock yourself in?”
“Ah, monsieur, how can I explain such things? Perhaps I was ashamed that I had seen things I should not have seen. I do not blush that I wept for the child, who is—but you saw her, monsieur le juge.”
“Yes, yes, the little Zoe, and the little philosopher. Proceed.”
“What more is there to tell!”
“A trifle perhaps, as you will think,” remarked the Judge ironically, but as one who, finding a crime, must needs find the criminal too. “I must ask you to inform the Court who was the too polite friend of Madame.”
“Monsieur, pardon me. I forgot. It is essential, of course. You must know that there is a flume, a great wooden channel—”
“Yes, yes. I comprehend. Once I had a case of a flume. It was fifteen feet deep and it let in the water of the river to the mill-wheels. A flume regulates, concentrates, and controls the water power. I comprehend perfectly. Well?”
“So. This flume for Jean Jacques’ mill was also fifteen feet deep or more. It was out of repair, and Jean Jacques called in a master-carpenter from Laplatte, Masson by name—George Masson—to put the flume right.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A month ago. But Masson was not here all the time. It was his workmen who did the repairs, but he came over to see—to superintend. At first he came twice in the week. Then he came every day.”
“Ah, then he came every day! How do you know that?”
“It was my custom to walk to the mill every day—to watch the work on the flume. It was only four miles away across the fields and through the woods, making a walk of much charm—especially in the autumn, when the colours of the foliage are so fine, and the air has a touch of pensiveness, so that one is induced to reflection.”
There was the slightest tinge of impatience in the Judge’s response. “Yes, yes, I understand. You walked to study life and to reflect and to enjoy your intimacy with nature, but also to see our friend Zoe and her home. And I do not wonder. She has a charm which makes me sad—for her.”
“So I have felt, so I have felt for her, monsieur. When she is gayest, and when, as it might seem, I am quite happy, talking to her, or picnicking, or idling on the river, or helping her with her lessons, I have sadness, I know not why.”
The Judge pressed his friend’s arm firmly. His voice grew more insistent. “Now, Maitre Fille, I think I understand the story, but there are lacunee which you must fill. You say the thing happened three days ago—now, when will the work be finished?”
“The work will be finished to-morrow, monsieur. Only one workman is left, and he will be quit of his task to-night.”
“So the thing—the comedy or tragedy will come to an end to-morrow?” remarked the Judge seriously. “How did you find out that the workmen go tomorrow, maitre?”
“Jean Jacques—he told me yesterday.”
“Then it all ends to-morrow,” responded the Judge.
The puzzled subordinate stood almost still, and looked at the Judge in wonder. Why should it all end to-morrow simply because the work was finished at the flume? At last he spoke.
“It is only twelve miles to Laplatte where George Masson lives, and he has, besides, another contract near here, but three miles from the Manor Cartier. Also besides, how can we know what she will do—Jean Jacques’ wife. How can we tell but that she will perhaps go and leave the beloved Zoe alone!”
“And leave our little philosopher—miller also alone?” remarked the Judge quizzically, yet with solemnity. M. Fille was agitated; he made a protesting gesture. “Jean Jacques can find comfort, but the child—ah, no, it is too terrible! Someone should speak. I tried to do it—to Madame Carmen, to Jean Jacques; but it was no use. How could I betray her to him, how could I tell her that I knew her shame!”
The Judge turned brusquely and caught his friend by the shoulders, fastening him with the eyes which had made many a witness forget to lie.
“If you were an avocat in practice I would ruin your reputation, Fille,” he said. “A fool would tell Jean Jacques, or speak to the woman, and spoil all; for women go mad when they are in danger, and they do the impossible things. But did
