ould I know?"

"You should know more than any one else in Chaudiere. The secrets of his
breast might well be bared to you."

She started and crimsoned. Before her eyes there came a mist obscuring
the Seigneur, and for an instant shutting out the world. The secrets of
his breast--what did he mean? Did he know that on Monsieur's breast was
the red scar which...

M. Rossignol's voice seemed coming from an infinite distance, and as it
came, the mist slowly passed from her eyes.

"You will know, Mademoiselle Rosalie," he was saying, "that while I
suggested that the secrets of his breast might well be bared to you, I
meant that as an honest lady and faithful postmistress they were not. It
was my awkward joke--a stupid gambolling by an old man who ought to know
better."

She did not answer, and he continued:

"You know that you are trusted. Pray accept my apologies."

She was herself again. "Monsieur," she said quietly; "I know nothing of
his past. I want to know nothing. It does not seem to me that it is my
business. The world is free for a man to come and go in, if he keeps the
law and does no ill--is it not? But, in any case, I know nothing. Since
you have said so much, I shall say this, and betray no 'secrets of his
breast'--that he has received no letter through this office since the
day he first came from Vadrome Mountain."

The Seigneur smiled. "A wonderful tailor! How does he carry on business
without writing letters?"

"There was a large stock of everything left by Louis Trudel, and not
long ago a commercial traveller was here with everything."

"You think he has nothing to hide, then?"

"Have not we all something to hide--with or without shame?" she asked
simply.

"You have more sense than any woman in Chaudiere, Mademoiselle."

She shook her head, yet she raised her eyes gratefully to him.

"I put faith in what you say," he continued. "Now listen. My brother,
the Abbe, chaplain to the Archbishop, is coming here. He has heard of
'the infidel' of our parish. He is narrow and intolerant--the Abbe. He
is going to stir up trouble against the tailor. We are a peaceful people
here, and like to be left alone. We are going on very well as we are. So
I wanted to talk to Monsieur to-day. I must make up my own mind how to
act. The tailor-shop is the property of the Church. An infidel occupies
it, so it is said; the Abbe does not like that. I believe there are
other curious suspicions about Monsieur: that he is