“For Monsieur to take his injury in silence, to keep it secret, was kind,” said the Seigneur. “It is what our Cure here might call bearing his cross manfully.”
“Seigneur,” said the Cure reproachfully, “Seigneur, it is no subject for jest.”
“Cure, our tailor here has treated it as a jest.”
“Let him show his breast, if it’s true,” said the grocer, who, beneath his smirking, was a malignant soul.
The Cure turned on him sharply. Seldom had any one seen the Cure roused.
“Who are you, Ba’tiste Maxime, that your base curiosity should be satisfied—you, whose shameless tongue clattered, whose foolish soul rejoiced over the scandal? Must we all wear the facts of our lives—our joys, our sorrows, and our sins—for such eyes as yours to read? Bethink you of the evil things that you would hide—aye, every one here!” he added loudly. “Know, all of you, what goodness of heart towards a wicked man lay behind the secret these two have kept, that old Margot carried to her grave. When you go to your homes, pray for as much human kindness in you as a man of no Church or faith can show. For this child”—he turned to Rosalie-“honour her! Go now—go in peace!”
“One moment,” said the Seigneur. “I fine Ba’tiste Maxime twenty dollars for defamation of character. The money to go for the poor.”
“You hear that, ould sand-in-the-sugar!” said Mrs. Flynn. “Will you let me kiss ye, darlin’?” she added to Rosalie, and, waddling over, reached out her hands.
Rosalie’s eyes were wet as she warmly kissed the old Irishwoman, and thereupon they entered into a friendship which was without end.
The Seigneur drove the crowd from the shop, and shut the door.