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. It is all picturesque
enough; but the fact is, we are aweary. We yawn; we are out of the
vein; we have made the wedding, as the song says, and now, for
pleasure's sake, let's make an end on't. When here comes striding
into the court, booted to mid-thigh, spurred and splashed, in a
jacket of green cord, the great, famous, and redoubtable Blank; and
in a moment the fire kindles again, and the night is witness of our
laughter as he imitates Spaniards, Germans, Englishmen, picture-
dealers, all eccentric ways of speaking and thinking, with a
possession, a fury, a strain of mind and voice, that would rather
suggest a nervous crisis than a desire to please.
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