"He doesn't mind it," broke in Tanrade, "he has a skin like a bear--driving night and day all over the country as he does. What energy, _mon Dieu_!"

"Oh!" cried Madame de Breville, "Blondel shall sing for us 'L'Histoire de Madame X.' You shall cry with laughter."

"And 'Le Brigadier de Tours,'" added Tanrade.

The sound of hoofs and the rattle of a dog-cart beyond the wall sent us hurrying to the courtyard.

"_Eh, voila!_" shouted Tanrade. "There he is, that good Blondel!"

"Suzette!" I cried as I pa.s.sed the kitchen. "The vermouth!"

"_Bien_, monsieur."

"Eh, Blondel, there is nothing to eat, you late vagabond!"

A black mare steaming from her hot pace of twelve miles, drawing a red-wheeled dog-cart, entered the courtyard.

"A thousand pardons," came a voice out of a bearskin coat, "my editorial had to go to press early, or I should have been here half an hour ago."

Then such a greeting and a general rush to unharness the tired mare, the marquis tugging at one trace and I at the other, while Tanrade backed the cart under the shed next to the cider-press, Alice de Breville and the marquise holding the mare's head. All this, despite the pleadings of Blondel, who has a horror of giving trouble--the only man servant to the abandoned house being Pierre, who was occupied at that hour in patrolling the coast in the employ of the French Republique, looking out for possible smugglers, and in whose spare hours served me as gardener.

And so the mare was led into the stable with its stone manger, where every one helped with halter, blanket, a warm bed, and a good supper; Alice de Breville holding the lantern while the marquise bound on the mare's blanket with a girdle of straw.

"Monsieur, dinner is served," announced Suzette gently as she entered the stable.

"Vive Suzette!" shouted the company. "_Allons manger, mes enfants!_"

They found their places at the table by themselves. In the abandoned house there is neither host nor formality, but in their stead comrades.h.i.+p, understanding, and good cheer.

Blondel is delightful. You can always count on him for the current events with the soup, the latest scandal with the roast, and a song of his own making with the cheese. What more can one ask? It all rolls from him as easily as the ink from his clever pen; it is as natural with him as his smile or the merriment in his eyes.

During the entire dinner the Essence of Selfishness was busy visiting from one friendly lap to another, frequently crossing the table to do so, and as she refuses to dine from a saucer, though it be of the finest porcelain of Rouen, she was fed piecemeal. It was easily seen Tanrade was envious of this charity from one shapely little hand.

What a contrast are these dinners in the lost village to some I have known elsewhere! What refres.h.i.+ng vivacity! How genuine and merry they are from the arrival of the first guest to the going of the last! When at last the coffee and liqueurs were reached and six thin spirals of blue smoke were curling lazily up among the rafters of the low ceiling, the small upright piano talked under Tanrade's vibrant touch. He sang heartily whatever came into his head; now a quaint peasant song, again the latest success of the cafe concert.

Alice de Breville, stretched out in the long chair before the fire, was listening intently.

And so with song and story the hands of the tall clock slipped by the hours. It was midnight before we knew it. Again Tanrade played--this time it was the second act of his new operetta. When he had finished he took his seat beside the woman in the long chair.

"Bravo!" she murmured in his ear. Then she listened as he talked to her earnestly.

"Good!" I overheard her say to him with conviction, her eyes gleaming.

"And you are satisfied at last with the second act?"

"Yes, after a month's struggle with it."

"Ah, I am so glad--so glad!" she sighed, and pressed his hand.

"I must go to Paris next week for the rehearsals."

"For long?" she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "For weeks, perhaps. Come," he said, "let us go out to the wall--the moon is up. The marsh is so beautiful in the moonlight."

She rose, slipped on the dove-gray cloak he brought her, and together they disappeared in the courtyard. The marquise raised her eyes to mine and smiled.

"_Bonne promenade_, dear children," she called after them, but they did not hear.

An hour later Alice de Breville was speeding back to her chateau; Blondel and his mare were also clattering homeward, for he had still an article to finish before daylight. I had just bid the marquis and the marquise good night when Tanrade, who was about to follow, suddenly turned and called me aside in the shadow of the gateway. What he said to me made my heart leap. His eyes were s.h.i.+ning with a strange light; his hands, gripping me by both shoulders, trembled.

"It is true," he repeated. "Don't tell me I am dreaming, old friend.

Yes, it is true. Alice--yes, it is Alice. Come, a gla.s.s of wine! I feel faint--and happy!"

We went back to the dying fire, and I believe he heard all my congratulations, though I am not sure. He seemed in a dream.

When he had gone Suzette lighted my candle.

"Suzette," I said, "your dinner was a success."

"Ah, but I am content, monsieur. _Mon Dieu_, but I do love to cook!"

"Come, Miquette! It's past your bedtime, you adorable egoist."

"_Bonsoir_, Suzette."

"_Bonsoir_, monsieur."

Village of Vagabonds! In which the hours are never dull! Lost village by the Normand sea! In which lies a paradise of good-fellows.h.i.+p, romance, love, and sound red wine!

[Ill.u.s.tration: train]

[Ill.u.s.tration: the little stone church]

CHAPTER TWO

MONSIEUR LE CURe

The sun had just risen, and the bell of the little stone church chattered and jangled, flinging its impatient call over the sleeping village of Pont du Sable. In the clear morning air its voice could be heard to the tops of the green hills, and across the wide salt marsh that stretched its feathery fingers to the open sea.

A lone, wrinkled fisherman, rolling lazily on the mighty heave of the incoming tide, turned his head landward.

"_Sapristi!_" he grinned, as he slipped a slimy thumb from the meshes of a mackerel-net and crossed himself. "She has a hoa.r.s.e throat, that little one."