“If the man was a Frenchman, why do you suspect the tailor of Chaudiere?” asked Charley softly. “Of course I understand the reason behind all: you have heard that the tailor is an infidel; you have protested to the good Cure here, and the Cure is a man who has a sense of justice, and will not drive a poor man from his parish by Christian persecution—without cause. Since certain dates coincide and impulses urge, you suspect the tailor. Again, according to your mind, a man who steals holy vessels must needs be an infidel; therefore a tailor in Chaudiere, suspected of being an infidel, stole the holy chalices. It might seem a fair case for a grand jury of clericals. But it breaks down in certain places. Your criminal is a Frenchman; the tailor of Chaudiere is an Englishman.”
The Abbe’s face was contracted with stubborn annoyance, though he held his tongue from violence. “Do you deny that you are French?” he asked tartly.
“I could almost endure the suspicion because of the compliment to my command of your charming language.”
“Prove that you are an Englishman. No one knows where you came from; no one knows what you are. You are a fair subject for suspicion, apart from the evidence shown,” said the Abbe, trying now to be as polite as the tailor.
“This is a free country. So long as the law is obeyed, one can go where one wills without question, I take it.”
“There is a law of vagrancy.”
“I am a householder, a tenant of the Church, not a vagrant.”
“Monsieur, you can have your choice of proving these things here or in Quebec,” said the Abbe, with angry impatience again.
“I may not be compelled to prove anything. It is the privilege of the law to prove the crime against me.”
“You are a very remarkable tailor,” said the Abbe sarcastically.