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Updated: May 21, 2025
Tanrade's defence, which I had so carefully thought out and rehearsed in my garden, seemed doomed to remain unheard, for her cleverness in evading the subject, her sudden change to the merriest of moods, and her quick wit left me helpless.
It was nice of the Baron to think of me, for I had made his acquaintance but recently at one of Tanrade's dinners, during which, I recall, the Baron declared to me as he lifted his left eyebrow over his cognac, that the hunt la chasse "was always amusing, and a great blessing to men, since it created the appetite of the wolf and was an excuse to get rid of the ladies."
And she pinched my arm. I glanced within the table with its lace and silver under the glow of the red candle-shades was laid for two. "It was nice of you," I said. "We shall dine alone, you and I," she murmured. "I am so tired of company." I was on the point of impulsively mentioning poor Tanrade's absence, but the subtle look in her eyes checked me.
She stopped, the dancing light from the flames playing over her lithe, exquisite figure, moulded in a gown of scintillating scales of black jet. Then, seeing I had finished my mental note of line and composition, she half turned her pretty head and caught sight of the ruby, cobwebbed row of old Burgundy. "Ah! Tanrade's Burgundy!" she exclaimed with a little cry of delight. "How did you guess?"
"You shall have enough partridges to fill your larder for a month," I heard him tell Suzette, and he did not forget to pat her rosy cheek in passing. Suzette laughed and struggled by him, her firm young arms hugging my gun and shell-case. Before I could stop him, the curé, in his black soutane, had clambered nimbly to the roof of the big car and was lashing my traps next to Tanrade's and his own.
Never had I seen her look lovelier, gowned, as she was, in simple black, her dark hair framing her exquisite features, pale as ivory, her sensitive mouth tense as she pressed Tanrade's hand nervously, and took her seat beside us. For an instant, I saw her dark eyes flash as she met the steady gaze of the curé's. "In the name of the République Française," began the mayor in measured tones.
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 café concert.
Frequently, too, when the maker of ballets was locked in his domain and his servant had strict orders to admit no one neither Monsieur le Curé nor the mayor, nor so intimate a comrade as myself during such hours as these the little boy was generally beside the composer, his chubby toes scarcely reaching to the rungs of the chair beside Tanrade's working desk.
Again the garçon entered, this time with smiling assurance, for he brought me a telegram forwarded from my studio by my concierge. I opened the despatch: the next instant I jumped to my feet. "Read!" I cried, poking the blue slip under Tanrade's nose, "it's from the curé."
Ah, les rosses!" he repeated with a broad grin of delight as he eagerly read Tanrade's letter, telling him that the banns were published; that he was to marry them in the little gray church with the new bells and that but ten days remained before the wedding. He began pacing the floor, his hands clasped behind him a habit he had when he was very happy. "And Suzette?" I asked, "has she told you?"
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