“He puts a thousand dollars into the saddler’s pocket: that’s a positive good. He may or may not take thereby ten dollars out of your pocket: that’s a negative injury. In this case there was no injury, for you had already cost Lacasse—how much had you cost him, Dauphin?” continued the Seigneur, with a half-malicious smile. “I’ve been out of Chaudiere for near a year; I don’t know the record—how much, eh, Dauphin?”
The Notary was too offended to answer. He shook his ringlets back angrily, and a scarlet spot showed on each straw-coloured cheek.
“Twenty dollars is what Lacasse paid our dear Dauphin,” said the Cure benignly, “and a very proper charge. Lacasse probably gave Monsieur there quite as much, and Monsieur will give it to the first poor man he meets, or send it to the first sick person of whom he hears.”
“My own opinion is, he’s playing some game here,” said the Notary.
“We all play games,” said the Seigneur. “His seems to give him hard work and little luxury. Will you bring him to see me at the Manor, my dear Cure?” he added. “He will not go. I have asked him.”
“Then I shall visit him at his tailor-shop,” said the Seigneur. “I need a new suit.”
“But you always had your clothes made in Quebec, Monsieur,” said the Notary, still carping.
“We never had such a tailor,” answered the Seigneur.
“We’ll hear more of him before we’re done with him,” obstinately urged the Notary.
“It would give Dauphin the greatest pleasure if our tailor proved to be a murderer or a robber. I suppose you believe that he stole our little cross here,” the Cure added, turning to the church door, where his eye lingered lovingly on the relic, hanging on a pillar just inside, whither he had had it removed.