Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!—the Seigneur’s gold-headed cane rattled on the front door of the tailor-shop. It was plain to be seen his business was urgent.
Madame Dauphin came hurrying from the postoffice, followed by Maximilian Cour and Filion Lacasse. “Ah, M’sieu’, the tailor will not answer. There’s no use knocking—not a bit, M’sieu’ Rossignol,” said Madame.
The Seigneur turned querulously upon the Notary’s wife, yet with a glint of hard humour in his eye. He had no love for Madame Dauphin. He thought she took unfair advantages of M. Dauphin, whom also he did not love, but whose temperament did him credit.
“How should Madame know whether or no the gentleman will answer? Does Madame share the gentleman’s confidence, perhaps?” he remarked.
Madame did not reply at once. She turned on the saddler and the baker. “I hope you’ll learn a lesson,” she cried triumphantly. “I’ve always said the tailor was quite the gentleman; and now you see how your betters call him. No, M’sieu’, the gentleman will not answer,” she added to the Seigneur.
“He is in bed yet, Madame?”
“His bed is empty there, M’sieu’,” she said, impressively, and pointing.
“I suppose I should trust you in this matter; I suppose you should know. But, Dauphin—what does Dauphin say?”
The saddler laughed outright. Maximilian Cour suddenly blushed in sympathy with Madame Dauphin, who now saw the drift of the Seigneur’s remarks, and was sensibly agitated, as the Seigneur had meant her to be. Had she not turned Dauphin’s human sympathies into a crime? Had not the Notary supported the Seigneur in his friendly offices to Paulette Dubois; and had not Madame troubled her husband’s life because of it? Madame bridled up now—with discretion, for it was not her cue to offend the Seigneur.
“All the village knows his bed’s empty there, M’sieu’,” she said, with tightening lips.