"A thief, my fren'. I have said it. And it is not true that he has all the trade, for, mark you, I, Roquierre, say it—Pierre has taken from me no less than one mille of the three-cross brandy since two years."
"And who might Pierre be, madame?" Ben made the mistake of inquiring.
Madame's expression changed the slightest bit. A curtain of reserve slowly descended.
"You know not Pierre?" she asked, a little surprised.
"Never heard of him," admitted Ben. "A smuggler, is he?"
Madame rose to her feet, smiling enigmatically.
"A smuggler?" she said. "But what is that? Here we name not such things. If one wishes to take a bottle or two quietly, ma foi, is he then to be called a smuggler?"
"What else, madame?"
"It makes nothing," madame quietly answered. "We talk of other things, n'est-ce pas?"
"But this Pierre feller?" insisted Ben stupidly.