The garden in the Rue Victor Hugo was full of long narrow tables covered
with snowy cloths and as white china. In the pitiless noonday sun the
display dazzled the eyes. In the middle of every table was a high vase
of yellow flowers, and at intervals down each stood china bowls heaped
with apples and grapes.
A carafe of cider stood at every plate, for Normans are thirsty and
their heads strong.
Brigit stood in an upper window looking down as the crowd assorted
itself and settled down on the benches by the tables. In a few moments
Théo would fetch her and conduct her to the arbour where twelve people
were to be seated; at present he was bustling about making himself
agreeable to everybody, laughing with those few children who, being over
twelve, were present, helping the old or unwieldly to dispose of
themselves comfortably, darting to and fro, looking strangely out of
place among the good people with whom he felt so thoroughly at home.
In the arbour, Brigit knew, were already assembled the bridal couple,
Victor and Félicité, Antoine and Guillaume, and the wife of Guillaume,
Madame Chalumeau, the ancient curé and M. Thibaut, the Mayor. She and
Théo 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 rôti, pâtisserie--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.
"M. le curé 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, Maître Leboeuf. He looked quite old in church----"
"No, _ma chère_, 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 Théo, 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
Théo, 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.
"Don't touch my glass, will you?" he said, "It's got flies in it, and I
love to see 'em drown."