a florist at Laval. Already the curate was on those terms of intimacy
which unite the robber with the robbed; for some months earlier he had
imposed a forced loan of sixty francs upon his victim. But on the 15th
of July 1893, he left Entrammes, resolved upon a serious measure. The
black valise was in his hand, as he set forth upon the arid, windy road.
Before he reached Laval he had made the accustomed transformation, and
it was no priest, but a layman, doucely dressed in grey, that awaited
Mme. Bourdais' return from the flower-market. He entered the shop with
the coolness of a friend, and retreated to the door of the parlour when
two girls came to make a purchase. No sooner had the widow joined him
than he cut her throat, and, with the ferocity of the beast who loves
blood as well as plunder, inflicted some forty wounds upon her withered
frame. His escape was simple and dignified; he called the cabman, who
knew him well, and who knew, moreover, what was required of him; and
the priest was snugly in bed, though perhaps exhausted with blood and
pleasure, when the news of the murder followed him to his village.

Next day the crime was common gossip, and the Abbe's friends took
counsel with him. One there was astonished that the culprit remained
undiscovered. 'But why should you marvel?' said Bruneau. 'I could kill
you and your wife at your own chimney-corner without a soul knowing. Had
I taken to evil courses instead of to good I should have been a terrible
assassin.' There is a touch of the pride which De Quincey attributes
to Williams in this boastfulness, and throughout the parallel is
irresistible. Williams, however, was the better dandy; he put on a
dress-coat and patent-leather pumps because the dignity of his work
demanded a fitting costume. And Bruneau wore the grey suit not without
a hope of disguise. Yet you like to think that the Abbe looked
complacently upon his valise, and had forethought for the cut of his
professional coat; and if he be not in the first flight of artistry,
remember his provincial upbringing, and furnish the proper excuse.

Meanwhile the scandal of the murdered widow passed into forgetfulness,
and the Abbe was still impoverished. Already he had robbed his vicar,
and the suspicion of the Abbe Fricot led on to the final and the
detected crime. Now Fricot had noted the loss of money and of bonds, and
though he refrained from exposure he had confessed to a knowledge of
the criminal. M. Bruneau w