It was, indeed, quite an elaborate meal which François provided for his guests, and Father Bisset warmed to the occasion, so that when François, with a flourish, proposed the health of the future Madame Dupont, the old man tossed off his wine gayly. “To the future Madame Dupont,” he repeated; “a good toast that. You do not drink, Alaine;” and he laughed.
Alaine looked coldly disapproving; then suddenly it dawned upon her that it was not she of whom Father Bisset thought, for she remembered that he intended to make it impossible that she should ever bear that name. She smiled faintly. He was so sly, so like a crafty old fox, that Father Bisset.
“Mademoiselle is too modest to drink her own health,” cried François. “Another bottle, Father. It is good wine, is it not? None too heady, and smooth and soft as silk.”
“Should you not like to try this other?” asked Father Bisset, drawing a bottle from under the table, removing the cork, and pouring out a glassful, which he handed to François. “Also good, is it not?”
“Also good; if anything, better than the other.”
Father Bisset laughed. “I bribed your man to get it for me; I fancied it was to be had here; it is an old favorite of mine.” He set the bottle by his side, and from time to time refilled François’s glass.
“A bit heady,” remarked François, after a time. “I think I have had enough.” He staggered slightly as he rose from his chair.
“We would best depart, Alaine and I; it is later than we realized,” said Father Bisset, “and a walk will do us good after this heavy meal. Will you order that we be set ashore?”
François looked at him with dimly seeing eyes. “I will order,” he mumbled.
Father Bisset led him by the arm on deck; the fresh air revived him somewhat. “What was it you wanted?” he asked.