The priest appeared not to hear the question. Turning for a moment toward
the boy who now was in a deep sleep, he looked at him intently. Presently
he spoke.

"Ever since I married you and Lucette Barbond, you have stood in the way
of her duty, Bagot. How well I remember that first day when you knelt
before me! Was ever so sweet and good a girl--with her golden eyes and
the look of summer in her face, and her heart all pure! Nothing had
spoiled her--you cannot spoil such women--God is in their hearts. But
you, what have you cared? One day you would fondle her, and the next you
were a savage--and she, so gentle, so gentle all the time. Then, for her
religion and the faith of her child--she has fought for it, prayed for
it, suffered for it. You thought you had no need, for you had so much
happiness, which you did not deserve--that was it. But she: with all a
woman suffers, how can she bear life--and man--without God? No, it is not
possible. And you thought you and your few superstitions were enough for
her.--Ah, poor fool! She should worship you! So selfish, so small, for a
man who knows in his heart how great God is.--You did not love her."

"By the Heaven above, yes!" said Bagot, half starting to his feet.

"Ah, 'by the Heaven above,' no! nor the child. For true love is unselfish
and patient, and where it is the stronger, it cares for the weaker; but
it was your wife who was unselfish, patient, and cared for you. Every
time she said an ave she thought of you, and her every thanks to the good
God had you therein. They know you well in heaven, Bagot--through your
wife. Did you ever pray--ever since I married you to her?"

"Yes."