The absorbing topic, of course, had been Lemois’ outbreak on Mignon and subsequent justification of his conduct. Louis was the most outspoken of all, and, despite Lemois’ defence, valiantly espoused the girl’s cause, the rest of us with one accord pledging ourselves to fight her battles and Gaston’s, no matter at what cost. Brierley even went so far as to offer to relieve Leà, during which blissful interim he would smuggle Mignon in for a brief word of sympathy, but this was frowned upon and abandoned when Herbert reminded us that we were in a sense Lemois’ guests and could not, therefore, breed treachery among his servants. To this was added his positive conviction that the girl’s sufferings would so tell upon the old man that before many days he would not only regret his attitude, but would abandon his ambitious plans and give her to the man she loved.
If Lemois had any such misgivings there was no evidence of it in his manner. But for an occasional wry face when he moved, due to the blow of the overturned sofa, he was in an exceptionally happy frame of mind. Nor did he show the slightest resentment toward any one of us for not agreeing with him. Even when the twilight hour arrived—a restful hour when the fellowship of the group came out strongest, and men voiced the thoughts that lay closest to their hearts—no word escaped him. Music, church architecture, the influence of Rodin and Rostand on the art and literature of our time, French politics—all were touched upon in turn, but not a word of the condition of Gaston’s broken head nor the state of Mignon’s bleeding heart—nothing so harrowing. Indeed, so gay was he, so full of quaint sayings and odd views of life and things, that when Brierley sat down at the spinet and ran his fingers over the keys, giving us snatches of melodies from the current music of the day, he begged for some mediæval anthems “as a slight apology to my suffering ears,” and when Brierley complied with what he claimed was an old Italian chant, having found the original in Padua, Lemois branched off into a homily on church music which evinced such a mastery of the subject that even Brierley, who is something of a musician himself, was filled with amazement. Indeed, the discussion was in danger of becoming so heated that the old man, with a twinkle in his eye, relieved the tension with:
“No, you are quite wrong, Monsieur Brierley, if you will forgive me for saying so. Your chant is not Italian; it is Spanish. I have a better way of knowing than by searching among musty libraries and sacristies. When your fingers were touching the keys I looked around my Marmouset to see who was listening beside you gentlemen. I soon discovered that the two heads on Monsieur Herbert’s chair were glum and solemn; they might have been asleep so dull were they. My old Virgin in the corner, which I found in Rouen, and which is unquestionably French, never raised her eyes; but the two carved saints over your head, the ones I got in Salamanca when I was last there, were overjoyed. One smiled so sweetly that I could not take my eyes from her, and the other kept such perfect time with his head that I was sorry when you stopped. So you see, your chant is unquestionably Spanish, and I am glad.”
Nor did his spirits flag when dinner was over and he took his place by the coffee-table, handing Mignon the tiny cups without even a look of reproach at the demure, sad-eyed girl who was keeping up so brave a heart.
The change was a delightful one to the coterie. As long as the embarrassing situation continued there was no telling what might happen. A question of cuisine could be settled by more or less cayenne, but the question of a marriage settlement was another affair. Press him too far and the old gentleman might have bundled us all into the street and thrown our trunks after us.
The wisest thing, therefore, was to meet his cordiality more than half way, an easy solution, really, since his amende honorable of the night before had put us all on our mettle. He should be made to realize and at once that all traces of ill feeling of every kind had been wiped out of our hearts.
Herbert, who, as usual when any patching up was to be done, was chief pacificator, opened the programme by becoming suddenly interested in the several rare specimens of furniture that enriched the room in which we sat, complimenting Lemois on his good taste in banishing from his collection the severe, uncomfortable chairs and sofas of Louis XIV and XV, and calling special attention to the noble Spanish and Italian specimens about us, with wide seats, backs, and arms, where, even in the old days, tired mortals could have lounged without splitting their stockings or disarranging their wigs, had the dons and contessas worn any such absurdities.
“Quite true, Monsieur Herbert, but you must remember that the aristocrats of that day never sat down—their mirrors were hung too high for them to see themselves should they recline. It was an era of high heels and polished floors, much low bowing, and overmuch ceremony. And yet it was a delightful period, and a most instructive one, for the antiquary, even if it did end with the guillotine. I have always thought that nothing so clearly defines the taste and intelligence of a nation as their furniture and house decoration. The frivolities of the Monarchs of the period is to be found in every twist and curve of their several styles, just as the virility and out-door life of the Greeks and Romans are expressed in their solid-marble benches and carved-stone sofas. Since I have no place in my gardens for ruins of this kind, I do not collect them—nor would I if I had. There should be, I think, a certain sane appropriateness in every collection, even in so slight a one as my own, and a Greek garden with a line of motor cars on one side and a Normandy church on the other would, I am afraid, be a little out of keeping,” and he laughed softly.
“But you haven’t kept close to that rule in this room,” said Herbert, gazing about him. “We have everything here from Philip the Second to Napoleon the Third.”
“I have kept much closer than you think, Monsieur Herbert. The panels, ceiling, furniture, and stained glass, as well as the fireplace, are more or less of one period. The fixtures, such as the andirons, candelabra, and curtains, might have been obtained in one of the antiquary shops of the day—if any such existed; and so could the china, silver, and glass. What I had in mind was, not a museum, but a room that would take you into its arms—a restful, warm, enticing room—one full of surprises, too”—and he pointed to his rarest possession, the Black Virgin, half hidden in the recess of the chimney breast. “You see, a very rare thing is always more effective when you come upon it suddenly than when you confront it in the blaze of a window or under a fixed light. Your curiosity is then aroused, and you must stoop to study it. I arrange these surprises for all my most precious things.