m once more to his wife,
and between two lines of buzzing admirers conducted her to the carriage,
followed by his famous son, the rest of the family crowding after.

"Pathetic, wasn't it?" asked Theo. "I was so afraid _grand-pere_ would
not behave, but he is rather in awe of father. Did you see my uncles,
Antoine and Guillaume? Come, _petite mere_, let's go on. Our carriage is
waiting at the inn, to save time."

Brigit followed obediently, but her mind was in a whirl. What could be
the matter with Victor?

CHAPTER SEVEN

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
Theo 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 Felicite, Antoine and Guillaume, and the wife of Guillaume,
Madame Chalumeau, the ancient cure and M. Thibaut, the Mayor. She and
Theo 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 roti, patisserie--and many
ot