“Well,” she said after a moment, “what do you think of me?”
Jacques was confused. “Madame is beautiful.”
“The eyes?” she urged.
“I have been to Gaspe, and west to Esquimault, and in England, but I have never seen such as those,” he said. Race and primitive man spoke there.
She laughed. “Come closer, little man.”
He did so. She suddenly rose, dropped her hands on his shoulders, and kissed his cheek.
“Now bring the horse, and I will kiss him too.”
Did she think she could rouse Gaston by kissing his servant? Yet it did not disgust him. He knew it was a bit of acting, and it was well done. Besides, Jacques Brillon was not a mere servant, and he, too, had done well. She sat back and laughed lightly when Jacques was gone. Then she said: “The honest fellow!” and hummed an air:
“‘The pretty coquette
Well she needs to be wise,
Though she strike to the heart
By a glance of her eyes.
“‘For the daintiest bird
Is the sport of the storm,
And the rose fadeth most
When the bosom is warm.’”
In twenty minutes the gate of the garden opened, and Jacques appeared with Saracen. The horse’s black skin glistened in the lights, and he tossed his head and champed his bit. Gaston rose. Mademoiselle Cerise sprang to her feet and ran forward. Jacques put out his hand to stop her, and Gaston caught her shoulder. “He’s wicked with strangers,” Gaston said. “Chat!” she rejoined, stepped quickly to the horse’s head and, laughing, put out her hand to stroke him. Jacques caught the beast’s nose, and stopped a lunge of the great white teeth.