CHAPTER CVI.
THE GODFATHER.
There was great commotion at the post-house of the little town of Vitry. Two maids, in their Sunday best, were transforming the public parlor of the inn into a festive dining-room; wreathing the walls with garlands, decking the long dining-table with flowers, and converting the huge dresser into a buffet whereon they deposited the pretty gilt china, the large cakes, the pastries, jellies, and confections, that were designed for the entertainment of thirty invited guests. The landlord and postmaster, a slender little man with an excellent, good-humored face, was hurrying from buffet to table, from table to kitchen, superintending the servants. The cook was deep in the preparation of her roasts and warm dishes; and at the kitchen door sat a little maiden, who, with important mien, was selecting the whitest and crispest leaves from a mountain of lettuce which she laid into a large gilt salad-bowl beside her; throwing the others to a delighted pig, who, like Lazarus, stood by to pick up the leavings of his betters. In the yard, at the fountain, stood the man-of-all-work, who, as butler pro tem., was washing plates and glasses; while close by, on the flags, sat the clerk of the post-office polishing and uncorking the bottles which the host had just brought from the cellar in honor of his friends.
Monsieur Etienne surveyed his notes of preparation, and gave an approving nod. His face was radiant as he returned to the house; gave another glance of satisfaction around the dining-room, and passed into an adjoining apartment. This was the best-furnished room in the post-house; and on a soft lounge, near the window, reclined a pale young woman, beautifully dressed, whose vicinity to a cradle, where lay a very young infant, betokened her recent recovery from confinement.
"Athanasia, my goddess," said Monsieur Etienne, coming in on tiptoe, "how do you feel to-day?"
She reached out her pale hand and answered in a languid voice: "The doctor says that, so far, I am doing pretty well, and, by great precautions, I may be able, in a few weeks, to resume my household duties."
Monsieur Etienne raised his eyebrows, and looked thoughtful. "The doctor is over-anxious, my dear," said he: "he exaggerates your weakness. Our little angel there is already three weeks old, and will be standing on his legs before long."
"The doctor is more sympathizing than you, Monsieur Etienne," began the wife.
"My treasure," interrupted her husband, "no one can wish to spare you premature exertion more than I. But I do entreat of you, my angel, to do your best to remain with the company to-day as long as you can."
"I will do all in my power to oblige you," said Madame Etienne, condescendingly, "and if you require it. I will sit up from first to last."
"It will be a great festival for us, provided no passengers arrive to-day. Good Heaven! if they should come, what could I do with them? Even the best of those we receive here are scarcely fit to introduce among our respectable guests; and then, as for post-horses, I want every one of them for the company. Heaven defend us, then, from passengers, for—oh! oh! is it possible! Can it be!" said Etienne, interrupting himself. "Yes, it is the sound of a post-horn."
"Perhaps it is some of our guests," suggested Madame Etienne. "No no, for our postilions to-day play but one air, 'Je suis pere, un pere heureux,'" said Monsieur Etienne, listening with all his might to the approaching horn.
"It is a passenger," said he, despondingly, "Athanasia, my angel, we are lost!"
So saying, Monsieur Etienne darted out of the room, as if be were rushing off to look for himself; but he stopped as soon as he had reached his front door, for there was no necessity to go farther. A dark caleche, with three horses, dashed up to the door, while not far behind came another chaise, whose post-horn was sounding "Je suis pere, un pere heureux."
"Is it possible?" thought the discomfited postmaster. "Yes, here they come at the very moment when the guests are arriving."
Just then another horn was heard, and "Je suis peree, un pere heureux," made the welkin ring.
On every side they came, but the unlucky passenger caleche blocked up the passage. Monsieur Etienne, following the impulses of his heart, rushed past the strangers, and ran to greet the most important of his guests, the village curate and the pastor of the next market-place. But just then the bewildered little man remembered his duty, and darted back to the passengers.
There were two gentlemen in the carriage, and on the box, near the postilion, a third person, who had the air of a valet.
"The gentlemen wish to go on to the next stage?" said Etienne, without opening the door.
"No, sir," said one of the passengers, raising his dark-blue eyes to the post-house. "Your house looks inviting, and we would like a room and a cosy dinner."
Monsieur Etienne scarcely knew what reply to make to this untimely request. "You wish to dine here—here—you would—"
Down came another post-chaise, thundering on the stones, and louder than ever was the sound of "Je suis pere, un pere heureux."
Certainly, at that moment, the song was a mockery, for Monsieur Etienne was a most unhappy and distracted father.
"Gentlemen," said he, pathetically, "oblige me by going on to the next town. Indeed—"
"Why, will you not give us dinner?" asked the gentleman who had spoken before. "I see a number of people passing us and entering the house. How is that?"
"Sir, they are—that is—I am," stammered the landlord; then suddenly plunging into a desperate resolve, he said, "Are you a father?"
A shade passed over the stranger's face as he replied, "I have been a father. But why such a question?"
"Oh, if you have been a father," answered Etienne, "you will sympathize with me, when I tell you that to-day we christen our first-born child."
"Ah, indeed!" exclaimed the passenger, with a kind smile. "Then these persons are—"
"My guests," interrupted the landlord and postmaster, "and you will know how to excuse me if—"
"If you wish us to the devil," returned the blue-eyed stranger, laughing merrily. "But, indeed, I cannot oblige you my excellent friend, for I don't know where his infernal majesty is to be found; and if I may be allowed a preference, I would rather remain in the society of the two priests whom I see going into your house."
"You will not go farther, then—"
"Oh, no, we ask to be allowed to join your guests, and attend the christening. The baptism of a first-born child is a ceremony which touches my heart, and yours, also, does it not?" said the stranger to his companion.
"Certainly," replied the other, laughing, "above all, when it is joined to another interesting ceremony—that of a good dinner. "
"Oh, you shall have a good dinner!" cried Etienne, won over by the sympathy of the first speaker. "Come in, gentlemen, come in. As the guests of our little son, you are welcome."