Though the parish had not quite made up its mind about him, there were a number of things in his favour. In the first place, the Cure seemed satisfied; secondly, he minded his own business. Also, he was working for Louis Trudel for nothing. These things Jo Portugais diligently impressed on the minds of all who would listen.
From above the frosted part of the windows of the post-office, in the corner where she sorted letters, Rosalie could look over at the tailor’s shop at an angle; could sometimes even see M’sieu’ standing at the long table with a piece of chalk, a pair of shears, or a measure. She watched the tailor-shop herself, but it annoyed her when she saw any one else do so. She resented—she was a woman and loved monopoly—all inquiry regarding M’sieu’, so frequently addressed to her.
One afternoon, as Charley came out, on his way to the house on Vadrome Mountain, she happened to be outside. He saw her, paused, lifted his fur cap, and crossed the street to her.
“Have you, perhaps, paper, pens, and ink for sale, Mademoiselle?”
“Yes, oh yes; come in, Monsieur Mallard.”
“Ah, it is nice of you to remember me,” he answered. “I see you every day—often,” she answered.
“Of course, we are neighbours,” he responded. “The man—the horse-trainer—is quite well again?”
“He has gone home almost well,” she answered. She placed pens, paper, and ink before him. “Will these do?”
“Perfectly,” he answered mechanically, and laid a few pens and a bottle of ink beside the paper.
“You were very brave that day,” he said—they had not talked together since, though seeing each other so often.