Rosalie was very pale.
The Seigneur was struck by this and by the strangeness of her look.
“Clear the room,” he said to Filion Lacasse, who was now a constable of the parish.
“Not yet!” said a voice at the doorway. “What is the trouble?” It was the Cure, who had already heard rumours of the scandal, and had come at once to Rosalie. M. Evanturel tried to speak, and could not. But Mary Flynn did, with a face like a piece of scarlet bunting. Having finished with a flourish, she could scarce keep her hands off the cowardly grocer.
The Cure turned to Rosalie. “It is absurd,” he said. “Forgive me,” he added to the Seigneur. “It is better that Rosalie should answer this charge. If she gives her word of honour, I will deny communion to whoever slanders her hereafter.”
“She did it,” said the grocer stubbornly. “She can’t deny it.”
“Answer, Rosalie,” said the Cure firmly.
“Excuse me; I will answer,” said a voice at the door. The tailor of Chaudiere made his way into the shop, through the fast-gathering crowd.