im, and he waited till she had gone. When
he came into the room again he found Pomfrette in a sweet sleep, and
a jug of tincture, with a little tin cup, placed by the bed. Time and
again he had sent for Mme. Degardy, but she would not come. She had
answered that the dear Luc could go to the devil for all of her; he'd
find better company down below than in Pontiac.

But for a whim, perhaps, she had come at last without asking, and as a
consequence Luc returned to the world, a mere bundle of bones.

It was still while he was only a bundle of bones that one Sunday
morning, Parpon, without a word, lifted him up in his arms and carried
him out of the house. Pomfrette did not speak at first: it seemed
scarcely worth while; he was so weak he did not care.

"Where are you going?" he said at last, as they came well into the
village. The bell in St. Saviour's had stopped ringing for Mass, and the
streets were almost empty.

"I'm taking you to Mass," said Parpon, puffing under his load, for
Pomfrette made an ungainly burden. "Hand of a little devil, no!" cried
Pomfrette, startled. "I said I'd never go to Mass again, and I never
will.

"You said you'd never go to Mass till you were carried; so it's all
right."

Once or twice Pomfrette struggled, but Parpon held him tight, saying:

"It's no use; you must come; we've had enough. Besides--"

"Besides what?" asked Pomfrette faintly. "Never mind," answered Parpon.

At a word from Parpon the shrivelled old sexton cleared a way through
the aisle, making a stir, through which the silver bell at Pomfrette's
knee tinkled, in answer, as it were, to the tinkling of the acolyte's
bell in the sanctuary. People turned at the sound, women stopped telling
their beads, some of the choir forgot their chanting. A strange feeling
passed through the church, and reached and startled the Cure as he
recited the Mass. He turned round and saw Parpon laying Pomfrette down
at the chancel steps. His voice shook a little as he intoned the ritual,
and as he raised the sacred elements tears rolled down his cheeks.

From a distant corner of the gallery a deeply veiled woman also looked
down at Pomfrette, and her hand trembled on the desk before her.

At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. "What is it,
Parpon?" he asked gravely.

"It is Luc Pomfrette, M'sieu' le Cure." Pomfrette's eyes were closed.

"He swore that he would never come to Mass again," answered the good
priest.

"Till he w