As grown-ups often devote themselves to amusing children—playing blind-man’s-buff, puss-in-the-corner, and Santa Claus—so did Herbert and Louis, Le Blanc, Brierley, The Architect, madame, and the others lay themselves out to entertain these simple people. Leà and Mignon, knowing the ways of gentle-folk, soon forgot their shyness, as did Gaston, and entered into the spirit of the frolic without question—but the stiff old mother, and the lame uncle, and the aunts and cousins were sore distressed, refusing more than a mouthful of food, their furtive glances wandering over the queer figures and quaint objects of the Marmouset—more marvellous than anything their eyes had ever rested on. One by one, with this and that excuse, they stole away and stood outside, their wondering eyes taking in the now quiet and satisfied Coco and the appointments of the court-yard.
Soon only our own party and Leà and the bride and groom were left, Lemois still the gracious host; madame pitching the key of the merriment, Louis joining in—on his feet one minute, proposing the health of the newly married couple; his glass filled from the contents of the rare punch-bowl entwined with blossoms, which madame had given the coterie the autumn before; paying profound and florid compliments the while to madame la marquise; the next, poking fun at Herbert and Le Blanc; having a glass of wine with Lemois and another with Gaston, who stood up while he drank in his effort to play the double rôle of servant and guest, and finally, shouting out that as this was to be the last time any one would ever get a decent cup of coffee at the Inn, owing to the cutting off in the prime of life of the high priestess of the roaster—once known as the adorable Mademoiselle Mignon—that Madame Gaston Duprè should take Lemois’ place at the small table. “And may I have the distinguished pleasure, madame”—at which the bride blushed scarlet, and meekly did as she was bid, everybody clapping their hands, including Lemois.
And it was in truth a pretty sight, one never to be forgotten: Gaston devouring her with his eyes, and the fresh young girl spreading out her white muslin frock as she settled into the chair which Louis had drawn up for her, moving closer the silver coffee-pot with her small white hands—and they were really very small and very pretty—dropping the sugar she had cracked herself into each cup—“One for you, is it, madame?”—and “Monsieur Herbert, did you say two?”—and all with a gentle, unconscious grace and girlish modesty that won our hearts anew.
The snort and chug of Le Blanc’s car, pushed close to the door, broke up the picture and scattered the party. Le Blanc would drive the bridal pair home himself—Gaston’s mother and her relations having already been whisked away in madame’s motor, with Marc beside the chauffeur to see them safely stowed inside their respective cabins.
But it was when the bride stepped into the car at the gate—or rather before she stepped into it—that the real choke came in our throats. Lemois had followed her out, standing apart, while Leà hugged and kissed her and the others had shaken her hands and said their say; Louis standing ready to throw Brierley’s two big hunting-boots after the couple instead of the time-honored slipper; Herbert holding the blossoms and the others huge handfuls of rice burglarized openly from Pierre’s kitchen.
All this time Mignon had said nothing to Lemois, nor had she looked his way. Then at last she turned, gazing wistfully at him, but he made no move. Only when her slipper touched the foot-board did he stir, coming slowly forward and looking into her eyes.
“You have been a good girl, Mignon,” he said calmly.
She thanked him shyly and waited. Suddenly he bent down, took her cheeks between his hands, kissed her tenderly on the forehead, and with bowed head walked back into the Marmouset alone.
END.