“Il y avait une fe—une espèce de dame,” replied the old man doubtfully, “—who named herself Fifi la Tzigane. I permitted myself to observe to her,” added the butler with dignity, “that she had the liberty of writing to you what she thought necessary to communicate.”
He had arranged the tea-table. Now he retired, but returned almost immediately to decorate the table with Cloth of Gold roses.
Fussing and pottering about until the mass of lovely blossoms suited him, he finally presented himself to Neeland for further orders, and, learning that there were none, started to retire with a self-respecting dignity that was not at all impaired by the tears which kept welling up in his aged eyes, and which he always winked away with a demi-tour and a discreet cough correctly stifled by his dry and wrinkled hand.
As he passed out the door Neeland said:
“Are you in trouble, Marotte?” 414
The old man straightened up, and a fierce pride blazed for a moment from his faded eyes:
“Not trouble, monsieur; but—when one has three sons departing for the front—dame!—that makes one reflect a little––”
He bowed with the unconscious dignity of a wider liberty, a subtler equality which, for a moment, left such as he indifferent to circumstances of station.
Neeland stepped forward extending his hand:
“Bonne chance! God be with France—and with us all who love our liberty. Luck to your three sons!”