"Suzette! Suzette!" I called. "Come quick—Eh! Suzette!"
I heard her trim feet running to me from the garden. The next instant she opened the door of my den and stood before me, her blue eyes and pretty mouth both open in wonder at being so hurriedly summoned.
"What is the matter, monsieur?" she exclaimed panting, her fresh young cheeks all the rosier from her run.
"Monsieur Tanrade and Madame de Bréville are going to be married," I announced as calmly as I could.
"Hélas!" gasped Suzette.
"Et voilà—et voilà!" I cried, throwing the letter back on the table, while I squared my back to the blazing fire of my den and waited for the little maid's astonishment to subside.
Suzette did not speak.
"It is true, nevertheless," I added with enthusiasm, "they are to be married in Pont du Sable. We shall have a fête such as there never was. Ah! you will have plenty of cooking to do, mon enfant. Run and find Monsieur le Curé—he must know at once."
Suzette did not move—without a word she buried her face in her apron and burst into tears:
"Oh, monsieur!" she sobbed. "Oh, monsieur! It is true—that—I—I—have—no luck!"