urcy looked very stern and seemed about to speak in anger.
Then he shook his head and said, quietly: "No, I do not see that at
all. It remains to be seen whether it was by chance. But tell me more
about your sin. Did you let your wife, Josephine, know what you were
going to do? Did you tell her good-by, parting for Switzerland?"

"Why, no! I did not dare. She would never have forgiven me. So I
slipped down to the post-office at Bar-sur-Aube and stole a telegraph
blank. It was ten days before my furlough was out. I wrote a message to
myself calling me back to the colors at once. I showed it to her. Then
I said good-by. I wept. She did not cry one tear. Her eyes were stars.
She embraced me a dozen times. She lifted up each of the children to
hug me. Then she cried: 'Go now, my brave man. Fight well. Drive the
damned Boches out. It is for us and for France. God protect you. _Au
revoir!_' I went down the road silent. I felt like a dog. But I could
not help it."

"And you were a dog," said the priest, sternly. "That is what you were,
and what you remain unless you can learn to help it. You lied to your
wife. You forged; you tricked her who trusted you. You have done the
thing which you yourself say she would never forgive. If she loves you
and prays for you now, you have stolen that love and that prayer. You
are a thief. A true daughter of France could never love a coward
to-day."

"I know, I know," sobbed Pierre, burying his face in the weeds. "Yet I
did it partly for her, and I could not do otherwise."

"Very little for her and a hundred times for yourself," said the
priest, indignantly. "Be honest. If there was a little bit of love for
her, it was the kind of love she did not want. She would spit upon it.
If you are going to Switzerland now you are leaving her forever. You
can never go back to Josephine again. You are a deserter. She would
cast you out, coward!"

The broken soldier lay very still, almost as if he were dead. Then he
rose slowly to his feet, with a pale, set face. He put his hand behind
his back and drew out a revolver. "It is true," he said, slowly, "I am
a coward. But not altogether such a coward as you think, Father. It is
not merely death that I fear. I could face that, I think. Here, take
this pistol and shoot me now! No one will know. You can say that you
shot a deserter, or that I attacked you. Shoot me now, Father, and let
me out of this trouble."

Father Courcy looked at him with amazement.