The child’s mother had appeared beside her, holding her hand. She at least was not unaware that the American Mees had done something, though she wasn’t quite sure what, for her petite.
“Thank you,” she murmured in shy, halting English; then, that proving to be all she knew, she broke into fluid French which almost stumped Nancy to translate.
“She asks,” interpreted Miss Brewster, “if there is anything she can do for the pretty American ... make a bow, Cindy ... She says she is very grateful to you and that it was very naughty for her Leonie to go up on the stage like that, before all the village. I’ve told her that we will come tomorrow to pay our respects to Leonie’s household. We’ll bring Mother along, too. That all sounds sufficiently formal.”
They streamed out into the fan of light across the cobbled road. The white caps and dark dresses of the audience melted behind them into darkness. The night was sweet and warm and there was a sound of the sea on the rocks, far off.
“Good night,” called Cynthia. “Good night!” then slipped her hand into Nancy’s arm.
“There,” said Nancy, “is your Christmas cover, my dear, and in such a funny way.”
“Aitchoo!” sneezed Cynthia in eloquent reply.
CHAPTER 4
Mont St. Michel