At Charley's words upon the Abbe's figure, gaunt and precise as a swaddled ramrod, he pulled his nose with a grunt of satisfaction.
The Cure, the peace-maker, intervened.

The tailor's meaning was sufficiently clear: if they had come to see him personally, then it was natural for him to wish to know the names and stations of his guests, and their business.

The Seigneur was aware that the tailor did know, and he enjoyed the 'sang-froid' with which he was meeting the situation.
"Monsieur," said the Cure, in a mollifying voice, "I have ventured to bring the Seigneur of Chaudiere"-- the Seigneur stood up and bowed gravely--"and his brother, the Abbe Rossignol, who would speak with you on private business"-- he ignored the presence of the constables.
Charley bowed to the Seigneur and the Abbe, then turned inquiringly towards the two constables.

"Friends of my brother the Abbe," said the Seigneur maliciously.
"Their names, Monsieur ?" asked Charley.
"They have numbers," answered the Seigneur whimsically--to the Cure's pain, for levity seemed improper at such a time.
"Numbers of names are legally suspicious, numbers for names are suspiciously legal," rejoined Charley.

"You have pierced the disguise of discourtesy," said the Seigneur, and, on the instant, he made up his mind that whatever the tailor might have been, he was deserving of respect.
"You have private business with me, Monsieur ?" asked Charley of the Abbe.
The Abbe shook his head.