As it chanced, only one person in Chaudiere saw the act. That was Rosalie Evanturel across the way. She saw the iron raised, and looked for M’sieu’ to knock the tailor down; but, instead, she beheld the tailor go back and put the iron on the fire again. She saw also that M’sieu’ was speaking, though she could hear no words.
Charley’s words were simple enough. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur,” he said across the room to old Louis; “I meant no offence at all. I was trying to think it out in a human sort of way. I suppose I wanted a sign from Heaven—wanted too much, no doubt.”
The tailor’s lips twitched, and his hand convulsively clutched the shears at his side.
“It is no matter now,” he answered shortly. “I have had signs from Heaven; perhaps you will have one too!”
“It would be worth while,” rejoined Charley musingly. Charley wondered bitterly if he had made an irreparable error in saying those ill-chosen words. This might mean a breach between them, and so make his position in the parish untenable. He had no wish to go elsewhere—where could he go? It mattered little what he was, tinker or tailor. He had now only to work his way back to the mind of the peasant; to be an animal with intelligence; to get close to mother earth, and move down the declivity of life with what natural wisdom were possible. It was his duty to adapt himself to the mind of such as this tailor; to acquire what the tailor and his like had found—an intolerant belief and an inexpensive security, to be got through yielding his nature to the great religious dream. And what perfect tranquillity, what smooth travelling found therein.
Gazing across the street towards the little post-office, he saw Rosalie Evanturel at the window. He fell to thinking about her. Rosalie, on her part, kept wondering what old Louis’ violence meant.
Presently she saw a half-dozen men come quickly down the street, and, before they reached the tailorshop, stand in a group talking excitedly. Afterwards one came forward from the others quickly—Filion Lacasse the saddler. He stopped short at the tailor’s door. Looking at Charley, he exclaimed roughly:
“If you don’t hand out the cross you stole from the church door, we’ll tar and feather you, M’sieu’.” Charley looked up, surprised. It had never occurred to him that they could associate him with the theft. “I know nothing of the cross,” he said quietly. “You’re the only heretic in the place. You’ve done it. Who are you? What are you doing here in Chaudiere?”
“Working at my trade,” was Charley’s quiet answer. He looked towards Louis Trudel, as though to see how he took this ugly charge.
Old Louis responded at once. “Get away with you, Filion Lacasse,” he croaked. “Don’t come here with your twaddle. M’sieu’ hasn’t stole the cross. What does he want with a cross? He’s not a Catholic.”