Herbert caught up his sketch-book and ... transferred her dear old head ... to paper
Such an expression of happiness had settled, too, on Leà’s face as she brought our coffee, that Herbert caught up his sketch-book and made her stand still until he had transferred her dear old head in its white cap to paper. Then, the portrait finished—and it was exactly like her—what a flash of joy suffused Mignon’s face when he called to her and whispered in her ear the wonderful tale of why he had drawn it and who was to be its proud possessor; and when it was all to take place, a bit of information that sent her out of the room and skipping across the court, her tiny black kitten at her heels.
It was, indeed, a joyous day, with every one in high good humor, culminating in the wildest enthusiasm when the sound of a siren, followed by the quick “chug-chug” of the stop brake of madame’s motor, announced the arrival of that distinguished woman an hour ahead of time.
“Ah!—gentlemen!” she shouted out, rising from her seat, both hands extended before any of us could reach her car, “I have come over to crown you with laurel! Oh, what a magnificent lot of heroes!—and to think you saved my poor, miserable little mouse-trap of a villa that has been trying all its life to slide down hill into the sea and get washed and scrubbed. No, I don’t want your help—I’m going to jump!” and out she came, man’s ulster, black-velvet jockey cap, short skirt, high boots, and all, Marc following.
“And now, Monsieur Marc, give me a little help—no, not here—down below the seat. Careful, now! And the teakwood stand is there too—I steadied them both with my feet. There, you dear men!”—here she lifted the priceless treasure above her head, her eyes dancing—“what do you think of your punch-bowl? This is for your choicest mixtures whenever you meet, and not one of you shall have a drop out of it unless you promise to make me honorary member of your coterie, with full permission to stay away or come just as I please. Isn’t it a beauty?—and not a crack or scar on it—Old Ming, they tell me, of the first dynasty. There, dear Lemois, put it among your things, but never out of reach.”
She had shaken every one’s hand now and was stamping her little feet in their big men’s boots to keep up her circulation, talking to us all the while.
“Ah, Monsieur Louis, it was you who carried out my beloved piano—Liszt played on it, and so did Paderewski and Livadi, and a whole lot of others, until it gave out and I sent it down here, more for its associations than anything else. And you too, Monsieur Herbert”—and she gave him a low curtsy, as befitted his rank—“you-were-a-real-major-general, and saved the life of that poor young fisherman; and you, Lemois, rescued my darling miniatures and my books. Yes—I have heard all about it. Oh!—it was so kind of you all—and you were so good—nothing I really loved is missing. I have been all the morning feasting my eyes on them. And now let us all go in and stir up the fire—and, please, one of you bring me a thimbleful of brandy. I have rummaged over my precious things until I have worked myself into a perspiration, and then I must drive like Jehu until I get chilled to the bone. Catch cold!—my dear Monsieur Brierley—I never catch cold! I should be quite ashamed of myself if I did.”
We were inside the Marmouset now, Marc unbuttoning her outer garments, revealing her plump, penguin-shaped body clothed in a blouse of mouse-colored corduroy with a short skirt to match, her customary red silk scarf about her throat; the silver watch with its leather strap, which hung from the pocket of her blouse, her only ornament.
“Take my cap, please,” and she handed it to the ever-obsequious Marc, who always seemed to have lost his wits and identity in her presence. This done, she ran her fingers through her fluff of gray hair, caught it in a twist with her hand, skewered it with a tortoise-shell pin, and, with a “So! that’s all over,” drew up a chair to the blaze and settled herself in it, talking all the time, the men crowding about her to catch her every word.