Which proved that Antoinette was human, after all, and happy once more.
“Hang it,” said Nick, “she paid more attention to that gown than to me. Good-by, Davy. Obey the—the Colonel.”
“Is—is not the Vicomtesse going with you?” I asked.
“No, I'm sorry for you,” he called back from the gallery.
He had need to be, for I fell into as great a fright as ever I had had in my life. Monsieur de St. Gré knocked at the door and startled me out of my wits. Hearing that I was awake, he had come in person to make his excuses for leaving me that morning.
“Bon Dieu!” he said, looking at me, “the country has done you good already. Behold a marvel! Au revoir, David.”
I heard the horses being brought around, and laughter and voices. How easily I distinguished hers! Then I heard the hoof-beats on the soft dirt of the drive. Then silence,—the silence of a summer morning which is all myriad sweet sounds. Then Lindy appeared, starched and turbaned.
“Marse Dave, how you feel dis mawnin'? Yo' 'pears mighty peart, sholy. Marse Dave, yo' chair is sot on de gallery. Is you ready? I'll fotch dat yaller nigger, André.”
“You needn't fetch André,” I said; “I can walk.”
“Lan sakes, Marse Dave, but you is bumptious.”