The Arm-Chair at the Inn

by Francis Hopkinson Smith

“Leà, for instance,” chimed in Louis, winking at Herbert.

“Leà, for instance, my dear Monsieur Louis. I know of no better mate for a man—and it is a pity you are too young.”

The laugh was on Louis this time, but the old man kept straight on, his subtle irony growing more pointed as he continued: “And then, madame, when it is all over and the couple retire for the night—and of course we will give them the best room in our house, they being most distinguished personages—none other than Monsieur Gaston Duprè, Lord of the Lobster Pot, Duke of Buezval, and Grand Marshal of the Deep Sea, and Mademoiselle Mignon, Princess of——”

The marquise drew herself up to her full height. “Stop your nonsense, Lemois. I won’t let you say another word; you shan’t ridicule my young people. Stop it, I say!”

“Oh, but wait, madame—please hear me out—I have not finished. These pewter dishes must also come into service”—and he caught up the two bowls from the tops of the great andirons behind him—“these we will fill with spices steeped in mulled wine, which, as I tried to say, we will send to their Royal Highnesses’ bedroom—after they are tucked away in——”

“No!—no!—we will do nothing of the kind; everything shall be just the other way. There will be no horses, no cabriolet, no trumpeters, no garters except the ones the dear child will wear, and no mulled wine. We will all go on foot, and the only music will be the organ in the old church, and the breakfast will be here, in our beloved Marmouset, and the punch will be mixed by Monsieur Brierley in the Ming bowl I brought, and Monsieur Louis will serve it, and then they will both go to their own home and sleep in their own bed. So there! Not another word, for it is all settled and finished”—and one of her rippling, joyous laughs—a whole dove-cote mingled with any number of silver bells—quivered through the room.

Lemois joined in the merriment, shrugging his inscrutable shoulders, repeating that he, of course, was only a captive, and must therefore do as he was bid, a situation which, he added with another low bow, had its good side since so charming a woman as madame held his chain.

And yet despite his gayety there was under it all a certain reserve which, although lost on the others, convinced me that the old man had not, by any means, made up his mind as to what he would do. While Mignon was not his legal ward, his care of her all these years must count for something. Madame, of course, was a difficult person to make war upon once she had set her heart on a thing—and she certainly had on this marriage, amazing as it was to him—and yet there was still the girl’s future to be considered, and with it his own. All this was in his eyes as I watched him resuming his place by the fire after some of the excitement had begun to quiet down.

But none of this—even if she, too, had studied him as I had—would have made any impression on Mignon’s champion. She was accustomed to being obeyed—the gang of mechanics who had under her directions performed two days’ work in one had found that out. And then, again, her whole purpose in life was to befriend especially those girls who, having no one to stand by them, become broken down by opposition and so marry where their hearts seldom lead. How many had she taken under her wing—how many more would she protect as long as she lived!

Before she bade us good-night all the wedding details were sketched out, our landlord listening and nodding his head whenever appeal was made to him, but committing himself by no further speech. The ceremony, she declared gayly—and it must be the most beautiful and brilliant of ceremonies—would take place in the old twelfth-century church, at the end of the street, from which the great knights of old had sallied forth and where a new knight, one Monsieur Gaston, would follow in their footsteps—not for war, but for love—a much better career—this, with an additional toss of her head at the silent Lemois. There would be flowers and perhaps music—she would see about that—but no trumpeters—and again she looked at Lemois—and everybody from Buezval would be invited—all the fishermen, of course, and their white-capped mothers and sisters and aunts, and cousins for that matter—everybody who would come; and Pierre and her own chef from Rouen would prepare the wedding breakfast if dear Lemois would consent—and if he didn’t consent, it would be cooked anyhow, and brought in ready to be eaten—and in this very room with every one of us present.