Part 39 (2/2)
The pun was new to the Seigneur, and he turned to the Cure chuckling.
”Think of that, Cure! He knows the cla.s.sics.” He laughed till the tears came into his eyes.
The next few moments Charley was busy measuring the two potentates for greatcoats. As it was his first work for them, it was necessary for the Cure to write down the Seigneur's measurements, as the tailor called them off, while the Seigneur did the same when the Cure was being measured. So intent were the three it might have been a conference of war. The Seigneur ventured a distant but self-conscious smile when the measurement of his waist was called, for he had by two inches the advantage of the Cure, though they were the same age, while he was one inch better in the chest. The Seigneur was proud of his figure, and, unheeding the pa.s.sing of fas.h.i.+ons, held to the knee-breeches and silk stockings long after they had disappeared from the province. To the Cure he had often said that the only time he ever felt heretical was when in the presence of the gaitered calves of a Protestant dean. He wore his sleeves tight and his stock high, as in the days when William the Sailor was king in England, and his long gold-topped Prince Regent cane was the very acme of dignity.
The measurement done, the three studied the fas.h.i.+on plates--mostly five years old--as Von Moltke and Bismarck might have studied the field of Gravelotte. The Seigneur's remarks were highly critical, till, with a few hasty strokes on brown paper, Charley sketched in his figure with a long overcoat in style much the same as his undercoat, stately and flowing and confined at the waist.
”Admirable, most admirable!” said the Seigneur. ”The likeness is astonis.h.i.+ng”--he admired the carriage of his own head in Charley's swift lines--”the garment in perfect taste. Form--there is nothing like form and proportion in life. It is almost a religion.”
”My dear friend!” said the Cure, in amazement.
”I know when I am in the presence of an artist and his work. Louis Trudel had rule and measure, shears and a needle. Our friend here has eye and head, sense of form and creative gift. Ah, Cure, Cure, if I were twenty-five, with the a.s.sistance of Monsieur, I would show the bucks in Fabrique Street how to dress. What style is this called, Monsieur?” he suddenly asked, pointing to the drawing.
”Style a la Rossignol, Seigneur,” said the tailor.
The Seigneur was flattered out of all reason. He looked across at the post-office, where he could see Rosalie dimly moving in the shade of the shop.
”Ah, if I had but ordered this coat sooner!” he said regretfully. He was thinking that to-morrow was Michaelmas day, when he was to ask Rosalie for her answer again, and he fancied himself appearing before her in the gentle cool of the evening, in this coat, lightly thrown back, disclosing his embroidered waistcoat, seals, and snowy linen. ”Monsieur, I am highly complimented, believe me,” he said. ”Observe, Cure, that this coat is invented for me on the spot.”
The Cure nodded appreciatively. ”Wonderful! Wonderful! But do you not think,” he added, a little wistfully--for, was he not a Frenchman, susceptible like all his race to the appearance of things?--”do you not think it might be too fas.h.i.+onable for me?”
”Not a whit--not a whit,” replied the Seigneur generously. ”Should not a Cure look distinguished--be dignified? Consider the length, the line, the eloquence of design! Ah, Monsieur, once again, you are an artist!
The Cure shall wear it--indeed but he shall! Then I shall look like him, and perhaps get credit for some of his perfections.”
”And the Cure?” said Charley.
”The Cure?--the Cure? Tiens, a little of my worldliness will do him good. There are no contrasts in him. He must wear the coat.” He waved his walking-stick complacently, for he was thinking that the Cure's less perfect figure would set off his own well as they walked together. ”May I have the honour to keep this as a souvenir?” he added, picking up the sketch.
”With pleasure,” answered Charley. ”You do not need it?”
”Not at all.”
The Cure looked a little disappointed, and Charley, seeing, immediately sketched on brown paper the priestly figure in the new-created coat, a la Rossignol. On this drawing he was a little longer engaged, with the result that the Cure was reproduced with a singular fidelity--in face, figure, and expression a personality gentle yet important.
”On my soul, you shall not have it!” said the Seigneur. ”But you shall have me, and I shall have you, lest we both grow vain by looking at ourselves.” He thrust the sketch of himself into the Cure's hands, and carefully rolled up that of his friend.
The Cure was amazed at this gift of the tailor, and delighted with the picture of himself--his vanity was as that of a child, without guile or worldliness. He was better pleased, however, to have the drawing of his friend by him, that vanity might not be too companionable. He thanked Charley with a beaming face, and then the two friends bowed and moved towards the door. Suddenly the Cure stopped.
”My dear Maurice,” said he, ”we have forgotten the important thing.”
”Think of that--we two old babblers!” said the Seigneur. He nodded for the Cure to begin. ”Monsieur,” said the Cure to Charley, ”you maybe able to help us in a little difficulty. For a long time we have intended holding a great mission with a kind of religious drama like that performed at Ober-Ammergau, and called The Pa.s.sion Play. You know of it, Monsieur?”
”Very well through reading, Monsieur.”
”Next Easter we propose having a Pa.s.sion Play in pious imitation of the famous drama. We will hold it at the Indian reservation of Four Mountains, thus quickening our own souls and giving a good object-lesson of the great History to the Indians.”
The Cure paused rather anxiously, but Charley did not speak. His eyes were fixed inquiringly on the Cure, and he had a sudden suspicion that some devious means were forward to influence him. He dismissed the thought, however, for this Cure was simple as man ever was made, straightforward as the most heretical layman might demand.
<script>