“Monsieur,” said the Cure, in a mollifying voice, “I have ventured to bring the Seigneur of Chaudiere”—the Seigneur stood up and bowed gravely—“and his brother, the Abbe Rossignol, who would speak with you on private business”—he ignored the presence of the constables.
Charley bowed to the Seigneur and the Abbe, then turned inquiringly towards the two constables. “Friends of my brother the Abbe,” said the Seigneur maliciously.
“Their names, Monsieur?” asked Charley.
“They have numbers,” answered the Seigneur whimsically—to the Cure’s pain, for levity seemed improper at such a time.
“Numbers of names are legally suspicious, numbers for names are suspiciously legal,” rejoined Charley. “You have pierced the disguise of discourtesy,” said the Seigneur, and, on the instant, he made up his mind that whatever the tailor might have been, he was deserving of respect.
“You have private business with me, Monsieur?” asked Charley of the Abbe.
The Abbe shook his head. “The business is not private, in one sense. These men have come to charge you with having broken into the cathedral at Quebec and stolen the gold vessels of the altar; also with having tried to blow up the Governor’s residence.”
One of the constables handed Charley the warrant. He looked at it with a curious smile. It was so natural, yet so unnatural, to be thus in touch with the habits of far-off times.
“On what information is this warrant issued?” he asked.
“That is for the law to show in due course,” said the priest.