"
"Hush, father! you _know_ you can't eat with your teeth. You are to have
_minced_ rabbit, with plenty of gravy." Madame Chalumeau, whose bright
blue dress was very tight and warm, wiped her face on her handkerchief.
Brigit looked round in despair. It was horrible; the heat, the smell of
food, the clatter of knives and forks.
For a long time she heard nothing, and then found that M. Thibaut the
Mayor was trying to persuade Victor to play. "It would be very
pleasant," urged the good man, with evident pride in his own tact, "and
the young people might dance."
Joyselle burst out laughing. "Yes, I will play--for the young people to
dance. That is what fiddlers are for," he answered.
M. Thibaut bowed. "It will be very pleasant," he repeated.
Felicite rose quietly and went to the kitchen for a moment, coming back
with a plate of minced rabbit for her father-in-law. "_Voila_, papa,"
she said gently, and the old man stopped poking at the flies in his
cider with his fork and began to eat.
Suddenly, in his evident agony, Joyselle again looked at Brigit, and all
her misery of suspense and curiosity flew to her eyes. "What is it?"
they asked him. "Why are you tortured, and why are you torturing me who
love you?"
He looked long at her, and then seeing her sympathetic suffering and her
passion of wounded love, his face cleared, and for the first time that
day he looked like himself.
Pages:
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299