In the arbour, Brigit knew, were already assembled the bridal couple,
Victor and Felicite, Antoine and Guillaume, and the wife of Guillaume,
Madame Chalumeau, the ancient cure and M. Thibaut, the Mayor. She and
Theo were to complete the dozen. For some reason the girl dreaded the
feast. She had been unable to speak to Victor as yet, and since their
eyes had met in the church she had been unable to shake off a haunting
feeling of fear that had come to her at that moment. Something was
impending.
And the sultry heat seemed to make matters worse. Down in the garden the
guests were now all seated, and scraps of their conversation reached her
as she leaned in the window.
"A magnificent dinner, I am told," M. Perret, the apothecary, was saying
in his high voice like that of a grass-hopper chirping in the heat.
"Thildette Chalumeau told me: Pot au feu, veal cooked in a casserole in
its own juice, rabbits stewed in wine, gigot roti, patisserie--and many
other things. Yvonne Gaude is cooking it, but Thildette prepared most of
the things with her own hands----"
"--And what is a poor man to think when a cow dies like that, from no
reason whatever," murmured one of the humblest of the country cousins.
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