"The better the wine the merrier shall be the giver. Eighteen bottles left! Eh bien! It was a lucky day when that monastery was forced to disband," he chuckled, alluding to the recent separation of the church from the state. "Vive la République!" He crossed the room to the sideboard and, having assured himself the Camembert was of the right age, went singing into Suzette's kitchen to glance at the salad.
"Bravo, my little one, for your romaine!" I heard him exclaim.
Then a moment's silence ensued, while he tasted the dressing. "Sacristi! My child, do you think we are rabbits. Hélas! Not a bit of astragon in your seasoning! A thousand thunders! A salad is not a salad without astragon. Come, be quick, the lantern! I know where the bed is in the garden."
"Ah, monsieur Tanrade! To think I should have forgotten it!" sighed the little maid. "If monsieur will only let me hold the lantern for him!"
"There, there! Never mind! See, you are forgiven. Attend to your lobster. Quick, your soup is boiling over!" And he went out into the garden in search of the seasoning.
Suzette adores him—who does not in the lost village? He had rewarded her with a two-franc piece and forgiven her with a kiss.
I had hardly time to open the big gates without and light the candles within under their red shades glowing over the mass of roses still wet from the garden, before I heard the devilish wail of a siren beyond the wall; then a sudden flash of white light from two search-lights illumined the courtyard, and with a wrenching growl Madame Alice de [Bréville's] automobile whined up to my door. The next instant the tip of a little patent-leather slipper, followed by the trimmest of silken ankles framed in a frou-frou of creamy lace, felt for the steel step of the limousine. At the same moment a small white-gloved hand was outstretched to mine for support.
"Bonsoir, dear friend," she greeted me in her delicious voice. "You see how punctual I am. L'heure militaire—like you Americans." And she laughed outright, disclosing two exquisite rows of pearls, her soft, dark eyes half closing mischievously as she entered my door—eyes as black as her hair, which she wore in a bandeau. The tonneau growled to its improvised garage under the wood-shed.
She was standing now in the hall at the foot of the narrow stone stairs, and as I slipped the long opera-cloak of dove-gray from her shoulders as white as ivory, she glided out of it, and into the living room—a room which serves as gun room, dining room and salon.