“I am not asking for a divorce, Monsieur.”
He pulled his nose again delightedly--so many people were pathetically in earnest in Chaudiere--even the Cure’s humour was too mediaeval and obvious. He had never before thought Rosalie so separate from them all. All at once he had a new interest in her. His cheek flushed a little, his eye kindled, humour relaxed his lips.
“No other husband would intrude so little,” he rejoined.
“True, there’s little love lost between us, Monsieur.” She felt exhilaration in talking with him, a kind of joy in measuring word against word; yet a year ago she would have done no more than smile respectfully and give a demure reply if the Seigneur had spoken to her like this.
The Seigneur noted the mixed emotions in her face and the delicate alertness of expression. As a man of the world, he was inclined to believe that only one kind of experience can bring such looks to a woman’s face. He saw in her the awakening of the deeper interests of life, the tremulous apprehension of nascent emotions and passions which, at some time or other, give beauty and importance to the nature of every human being. It did not occur to him that the tailor--the mysterious figure in the parish--might be responsible. He was observant, but not imaginative; he was moved by what he saw, in a quiet, unexplainable manner.
“The government is the best sort of husband. From the other sort you would get more kisses and less ha’pence,” he continued.
“That might be a satisfactory balance-sheet, Monsieur.”
“Take care, Mademoiselle Rosalie,” he rejoined, half seriously, “that you don’t miss the ha’pence before you get the kisses.”
She turned pale in very fear. What was he going to say? Was the post-office to be taken from them? She came straight to the point.
“What have I done wrong, Monsieur? I’ve never kept the mail-stage waiting; I’ve never left the mailbag unlocked; I’ve never been late in opening the wicket; I’ve never been careless, and no one’s ever complained of a lost letter.”
The Seigneur saw her agitation, and was sorry for her. He came to the point as she had done:
“We will have you made postmistress--you alone, Rosalie Evanturel. I’ve made up my mind to that. But you’ll promise not to get married--eh? Anyhow, there’s no one in the parish for you to marry. You’re too well-born and you’ve been too well educated for a habitant’s wife--and the Cure or I can’t marry you.”