A Madeira Party

by S. Weir Mitchell

"Very," said I, as I rang. The door was opened at once, and we were in a hall some twenty feet square, beautifully lit with wax candles in the most charming of silver sconces. There were a few arms on the walls, and a portrait of a girl in a red gown and hoops. The servant who admitted us was in black from head to foot—a very tall man with an immense—an unusual nose, very red cheeks, and enormous ears.

I said, "M. Des Illes is at home?" and he, "Monsieur would oblige with the names, and this way, please." We gave him our cards and went after him. He warned us of a step, and of another, and we came into a little antechamber, where we were pleasantly bid to be seated. He came back at once, followed by the strangest little old gentleman imaginable. I said, "M. Des Illes, I believe?"

"Ah," he cried. "It cannot be that I am deceived. It is Monsieur, my preserver. What a happiness to see you here!" and upon this, to my great embarrassment, he kissed me upon both cheeks, while Pierce grinned at me maliciously over his shoulders.

"It was a small matter," I said.

"To you, no doubt; but not to me. Life is never a small possession to him that owns it. I have friends with me to-night who will feel it to be more than an honor to welcome you. M. Michel and M. Pierce, you said, I think. This is a most fortunate hour."

I said all the effusively pleasant things I could think of, while his servant relieved me of my overcoat. As Pierce was being aided in like manner I had a good look at my host, and made up my mind that he was probably dressed for a fancy ball. He was clearly a quite old man, curiously slight in person, and having almost the delicacy of features of a woman. Also he was clean shaven, wore his hair in a cue tied with black ribbon, and was clad in black silk or satin, with jet buttons, a long waistcoat, a full lace jabot, knee-breeches, black silk stockings, court shoes, and black jet buckles. With some puzzle of mind I concluded it to be a mourning suit of the last century, queer to see at this time and in this place.

As we crossed the antechamber M. Des Illes fluttered about us, gesticulating and talking with vehemence of his great debt to me, who thought it small and embarrassingly made too much of. I have laid away somewhere among my mental negatives a picture of the room into which we went, following our host. There were many candles in sconces, tables and chairs of Louis XV.'s time, and one cabinet of wonderful inlaid work filled with silver.

Two persons rose as we entered. To my surprise, I saw that they also were dressed in black of the same fashion as that worn by my host. All had cues, and, like M. Des Illes, wore swords with black sheaths. One of these gentlemen might have been forty years old, but the other, like my host, was a man far on in life and certainly not much under seventy years. As I stood a moment in the doorway, the two, who were playing piquet, rose, and M. Des Illes, going in before us, turned and said as we entered:

"I have great pleasure to present to you M. Michel, my preserver, of whom I have already told. It is he who has with heroism dragged me from before a swift-coming horse. He with modesty refused me his address. His name I shall forever cherish. Permit me, Duke, to present M. Michel."

I named my friend, who was introduced. Then we were let to know that the older man, who was stout and well built, and who seemed of M. Des Illes's years, was the Duke de St. Maur. He in turn presented to us the youngest of these quaintly clad people, his son, M. de St. Maur. When these gentlemen bowed, for neither did more, they took up much of the room, and in the space left to us—such courtesy being contagious—Pierce and I achieved quite as remarkable salutes.