"M. le cure can say what he likes about there being no witches!"
"Have you seen the _future_ of _le petit de_ Victor? They call her
beautiful, I am told, in England, but----"
"Victor is growing old, Maitre Leboeuf. He looked quite old in church----"
"No, _ma chere_, positively only eighteen fifty, and as good as new! I
always liked plush, too----"
Brigit listened absently. What could be the matter with Victor? And why
had he not come to her for only one minute before the long ordeal of the
dinner began?
Then the door opened and Theo, beaming with a sense of duty artistically
fulfilled, came in. "They are all as happy as possible," he laughed;
"the pot au feu is a thing of the past, and they are beginning on the
veal. Come, my Brigit, you must be hungry."
Without answering, she accompanied him downstairs, and they threaded
their way to the arbour.
"You are to sit here, Brigit, between grandfather and me," explained
Theo, stopping opposite his father, who was listening to something
Madame Guillaume was telling him.
Grandfather Joyselle, whose impish spirit had subsided, was busy with
some minced veal, and shot a rather grudging look at his new neighbour.
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