can recall but faint reminiscences of the bright talk of that memorable
supper.
The younger St. Maur told us a pretty story of a vineyard wooing; a
thing so delicate and idyllic that I shall not dare to take it out of
its social frame for you. Later, Des Illes stood up and in a queer,
creaky tenor sang (and by no means ill) the song the girls sing when
they trample out the juice of the grapes in the great vats. Upon this
Pierce quoted:
Pink feet that bruise
The gold-green grapes of Andalouse.
I rashly tried to put it into French, and was much complimented upon
what I knew to be a sorry failure.
I have a misty recollection of what came after, of old-time jests, of
levities as to the Corsican, and, too, a pretty story the Duke told us
of the fairy vineyards near to Dijon, which only a woman who loves has
ever seen. I seem now, as I write of this delightful night, to see it
all again: the little old gentleman; the clear-cut face of the Duke; his
son, cynical and handsome; the sheen of jet; the somber, picturesque
dresses; thief Francois behind Des Illes's chair, ruddy, gaunt, not less
than ninety, with a smile of the same age. As I try to recall it, I
remember--do I remember?--the flavor of that Clos Vougeot, and hear
again the courteous voice of the Duke: "A little more Burgundy,
Monsieur?"