Mademoiselle Viefville had been told that this was the great American fête; the festival of the nation; and she appeared that morning in gay ribands, and with her bright, animated face, covered with smiles for the occasion. To her surprise, however, no one seemed to respond to her feelings; and as the party rose from the breakfast-table, she took an opportunity to ask an explanation of Eve, in a little 'aside.'
"Est-ce que je me suis trompée, ma chere?" demanded the lively Frenchwoman. "Is not this la célébration de votre indépendance?"
"You are not mistaken, my dear Mademoiselle Viefville, and great preparations are made to do it honour. I understand there is to be a military parade, an oration, a dinner, and fire-works."
"Monsieur votre père----?"
"Monsieur mon père is not much given to rejoicings, and he takes this annual joy, much as a valetudinarian takes his morning draught."
"Et Monsieur Jean Effingham----?"
"Is always a philosopher; you are to expect no antics from him."
"Mais ces jeunes gens, Monsieur Bragg, Monsieur Dodge, et Monsieur Powis, même!"
"Se réjouissent en Américains. I presume you are aware that Mr. Powis has declared himself to be an American?"
Mademoiselle Viefville looked towards the streets, along which divers tall, sombre-looking countrymen, with faces more lugubrious than those of the mutes of a funeral, were sauntering, with a desperate air of enjoyment; and she shrugged her shoulders, as she muttered to herself, "que ces Americains sont drôles!"