Jacqueline de la Tour de Provence sat next Vivette, all in white. It was the gala costume of her House, she whispered to Honor. The La Tour de Provences never rejoiced in colors. She spoke gravely, conveying the impression that the wearing of white had originated in, and was confined to, the House of which she spoke. A smile trembled on Honor’s lips, but she suppressed it, and gave a glance of appreciation instead. This too was kindly meant.
Among all the bright faces glowing with pleasure and affection was one which startled Honor as she glanced round the table. Maria Patterson sat in her accustomed place between Rose Marie and little Loulou, both of whom were bubbling with joyous talk; she paid no attention to them, nor, it seemed, they to her. Her eyes were bent on her plate; her face was dark and gloomy. Never an attractive girl, there was, it struck Honor, something tragic in Maria’s face now. What could be the matter? Had she had bad news from home, or was she ill? Honor’s sympathy was ready to flow in any direction; sad at heart herself, she felt strangely out of place in this gay party. Was poor Maria sad too? Honor tried to catch her eye, but without success; the girl never looked up from her plate, but ate her supper in sullen silence.
The dessert appeared; a wonderful Charlotte Russe, Honor’s favorite dish; orange jelly with whipped cream; little cakes in profusion, white, pink, brown.
“Ah! Moriole,” sighed the descendant of good Queen Bertha; “would you might return to us every day, cherished one!”
Now appeared pretty, smiling Sophie, trimmest and most correct of maids, bearing a great jug of crystal and gold, the glory of the Pension. It had been given to Madame by the Countess of Lablache-Tournay, “her affectionate and ever-grateful pupil,” as the inscription read. It was filled with “nectar,” Madame’s own special compound of orgeat, raspberry syrup and lemon, which must be tasted to be appreciated. The tall glasses were filled; Madame Madeleine rose, and in a few simple words welcomed “their beloved young friend, pupil, compagne”, whose absence had darkened the horizon of their family life, whose return once more brought light and joy to their little circle. As was well known, Madame had little knowledge of the majestic language which was the native speech of their dear Honor, and of several other of her young friends. She would ask her sister to express for them both, in English, the sentiments which at the present auspicious moment filled their bosoms.
With an affectionate glance and a wave of her kind hand, Madame sat down, and Soeur Séraphine rose to her feet. There was a flush on the clear rose-white of the little Sister’s cheek; her voice trembled as she began.
“My dear Honor, and young ladies; eet ees wiz grand plaisir—pardon! eet ees wiz ’eart-felt plaisure zat I bid you vonce more vell come to Pension Madeleine. We ’ave meessed you treestfulli. Ze ’ouse vas not ze semm wizout La Moriole, ze birrd of plumage d’or, of golden fezzaires I should to say. And zou, petite, hast also been long for ze pension, n’est-ce pas? As says ze poète Jonovard Payne,
“Be eet evair so ombel,
Zere’s no place like ’ome!”
And ze immortel Shakspire, ’e say also—n’importe! zat escape from my mind. We ozzaires, in Pension Madeleine, ve are not poète, ve ’ave not ze génie, but our ’earts zey seeng wiz joy, and yet von time ve bid vell-come back our dear Honor!”