Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it

could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps

were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room.

Someone had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these

fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches

stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped

the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious

will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf.

It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held

between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An

unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay

over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their families,

with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all been

removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows and

in clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchanged

its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparent

disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences and give a more

general tone to the conversation.

Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual

bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor

looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier

had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do

so, and making their authority felt.

Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments

furnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about

the programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation.

At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to

play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the Virgin's

colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed Virgin

at their baptism. They played a duet from "Zampa," and at the earnest

solicitation of every one present followed it with the overture to "The

Poet and the Peasant."

"Allez vous-en! Sapristi!" shrieked the parrot outside the door. He was

the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit that he

was not listening to these gracious performances for the first time that

summer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew indignant

over the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird removed and

consigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected; and his

decrees were as immutable as those of Fate. The parrot fortunately

offered no further interruption to the entertainment, the whole venom

of his nature apparently having been cherished up and hurled against the

twins in that one impetuous outburst.




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