There is a wish for solitude on all. One hides
himself in the arbour with a cigarette; another goes a walk in the
country with Cocardon; a third inspects the church. And it is not
till dinner is on the table, and the inn's best wine goes round from
glass to glass, that we begin to throw off the restraint and fuse
once more into a jolly fellowship.
Half the party are to return to-night with the wagonette; and some of
the others, loath to break up company, will go with them a bit of the
way and drink a stirrup-cup at Marlotte. It is dark in the
wagonette, and not so merry as it might have been. The coachman
loses the road. So-and-so tries to light fireworks with the most
indifferent success. Some sing, but the rest are too weary to
applaud; and it seems as if the festival were fairly at an end -
'Nous avons fait la noce,
Rentrons a nos foyers!'
And such is the burthen, even after we have come to Marlotte and
taken our places in the court at Mother Antonine's. There is punch
on the long table out in the open air, where the guests dine in
summer weather. The candles flare in the night wind, and the faces
round the punch are lit up, with shifting emphasis, against a
background of complete and solid darkness.
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