United States or British Indian Ocean Territory ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
There was a long pause, a pause in which the drone of Piqueur's voice, still singing Maitre Guedron's old song, floated through the open casement. "Not living?" questioned Felicia, her eyes widening with frightened comprehension "Oh! Oh!" her voice rose tempestuously, angrily, "You shall not say such dreadful things! They are not true!
She would kiss the top of his forehead audaciously and dance before him with a deep curtsy. "Let's pretend, Grandy! Let's pretend I'm not Felice! Let's pretend I'm a blanchisseuse that's a washerlady. This is a thing that Piqueur's mother learned in France when she was young whenever Margot and I spread our linen on the grass to bleach we whistle this "
It had been a fearful week for Margot, this week since the Major's curt message to make the house ready had come. For all that she was forty-five and sturdy and skilful at the myriad tasks that her uncle Piqueur's rheumatism and age had gradually let fall upon her shoulders during the slow passing years, this had been a job that put her on her mettle.
"Maman," she muttered drowsily as the Major paused outside her door on his way to his room, "In the garden " and the Major listened and sighed. She awoke to the diddling drone of Piqueur's quavering voice. In the clear sweetness of the May morning above the twittering of the birds it raised itself, the quaint measures delighting her ears.
"Babiche," she chattered, "When I was young, like the girls in Piqueur's song I found my fun in spring forests; but now " she was looking out across the river at the gleaming towers of Manhattan, glimpsing the jewel-like line of trolleys crawling slowly over the lighted bridges, watching the busy shipping that scurried over the harbor in the violet and bronze evening, "Now I find it in spring cities "
Indeed, this idea of appealing to her grandfather had come the instant before when she heard his voice outside interrupting Piqueur's song. She limped swiftly across the space toward the window, she leaned far out and called to her grandfather, who stood in the courtyard below, gravely inspecting the lame mare that the boy had brought from the stable.
Even in Piqueur's thin falsetto the old melody sang itself tender, graceful, spirited, never lagging he was dropping pea seeds into the trench that Margot had prepared in the kitchen dooryard, he was always content when he was planting. Felicia limped to the window across the moth-eaten carpet with its faded doves and roses. She flung the casement out and listened eagerly.