The Abbe disappeared with a commendable
constancy, and with that just sense of secrecy which should compel even
an archiepiscopal admiration. He was not of those who would drag his
cloth through the mire. Not until the darkness he loved so fervently
covered the earth would he escape from the dull respectability of
Entrammes, nor did he ever thus escape unaccompanied by his famous
valise. The grey suit was an effectual disguise to his calling, and
so jealous was he of the Church's honour that he never--unless in his
cups--disclosed his tonsure. One of his innumerable loves confessed in
the witness-box that Bruneau always retained his hat in the glare of
the Cafe, protesting that a headache rendered him fatally susceptible
to draught; and such was his thoughtful punctilio that even in the
comparative solitude of a guilty bed-chamber he covered his shorn locks
with a nightcap.
And while his conduct at Laval was unimpeachable, he always proved a
nice susceptibility in his return. A cab carried him within a discreet
distance of his home, whence, having exchanged the grey for the more
sober black, he would tramp on foot, and thus creep in tranquil and
unobserved. But simple as it is to enjoy, enjoyment must still be
purchased, and the Abbe was never guilty of a meanness. The less guilty
scheme was speedily staled, and then it was that the Abbe bethought him
of murder.
His first victim was the widow Bourdais, who pursued the honest calling
of a florist at Laval.
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