take care of Andy,” he said. “But you need someone to take care of you.”
For all his side whiskers, his paternal air sat oddly upon his young face. Deedee, however, was impressed. She submitted silently as he opened the door which led from the store room.
“Mme. Elmire!” he called. “Mme. Elmire!”
And so, on Mme. Elmire’s small and capable hand, Deedee went into M’sieu Page’s house.
Book 1-Chapter 4
IV
IN one end of her long kitchen, under the westerly windows, Mme. Elmire kept a narrow little sofa. It was a convenient little sofa where she could nap with an eye on the dogs, a nose for the soup kettle, and an ear to M’sieu Page’s summons. She kept a wool couvre-pied, knitted in rainbow stripes, folded in readiness over its back, and often dropped down without removing her cap.
It was on this sofa, tucked under the couvre-pied, that the glory of her situation dawned on Deedee. Andy was all right. M’sieu Page himself had gone to him. For her own part she was rested, she was warm. Lifting her head to investigate the warmness, she discovered a great open fire. She lifted herself further, on one arm. A wet snow had begun, and the many-paned windows did not frame familiarity but were blanks of white. The kitchen, with its glowing fire, its rag rugs, its burnished pewter utensils, and Mme. Elmire stirring something in a kettle, was like a scene from one of Fronchet’s stories, foreign and mysterious.
“Mme. Elmire!”
“Yes, my child.”
“Do you suppose,” asked Deedee in the politest French Fronachet had taught her, “that I might look into M’sieu Page’s parlor?”
“Perhaps. If you wait until I can leave the pilau.”
Mme. Elmire would not by too ready a consent lessen the value of the privilege. Deedee dropped back to stare at the ceiling in bliss.
“M’sieu Page,” said Mme. Elmire, stirring slowly, “said that you were to stay here to dinner.”
“Truly?” cried Deedee. She sat up again, throwing back the couvre-pied. “Truly?”
“Yes, truly,” said Mme. Elmire.
She was an awesome figure as she stirred. This was not the small, plump, garrulous one who drank crust coffee in the DuGay cabin. Perhaps the starched mob cap made the difference? Perhaps the snowy apron? Perhaps the important little movements that she made as she stirred and sniffed and ground up pepper?
“I will set a table for you and me here by the fire,” she said.
When she had set the table, she opened a wash stand and told Deedee to wash. Deedee marveled silently at the china bowl and pitcher, at the fine white towel. She scrubbed with a will, although she had learned that the brown never came off. She shook out her loosened braids of shining, straight brown hair and rebraided them tightly, tying the red rags at the ends.
Mme. Elmire approved her with a nod. She was fond of the DuGay daughter, so bright-eyed and long-legged, so quiet even now, when most children would have been squealing. She offered her hand, and Deedee took it in a tight warm clasp as they passed into the next room.
A carpet oozed up between bare toes. But one had no time to examine the sensation. Heavens, what was this? Hunters in red coats galloped over the walls, foxes died and horns blew. At least, horns ought to be blowing; one could see the puffed cheeks of the blowers. Of course, Deedee told herself in an effort to be calm, this was just the paper of which she had heard. But she had not known it would be like this—covered with pictures. “I wish the boys could see it,” she said in a strained voice.
The red of the hunters’ coats was repeated in damask curtains. Below the paper ran gray painted wood, and a cupboard of this color, built into a corner, was filled with brightly patterned dishes. There was a long polished table, of the mahogany, said Mme. Elmire, inlaid with satinwood. It matched the slender-legged chairs, with their seats of shining horsehair, and the sideboard, which bore a decanter full of wine and two cut glass water jugs.
“And where,” asked Deedee tremulously, “where is the harpsichord?”
“In the parlor, naturally.”
“But what is this, then?”
“The dining room. This is where he eats.”
A room just for eating!
But the dining room was as nothing to the parlor which lay beyond. Deedee’s ecstasy almost overwhelmed her as they passed into that. And when Mme. Elmire released her hand suddenly, murmuring that she would set the pilau off the fire, Deedee was of half a mind to follow. To be alone in such a parlor!
It stretched across the front of the house. At one end was an alcove with books in a fall-front desk. At the other an open door showed a hall with stately stairs climbing. There were three windows which should have disclosed the walls and towers of Snelling—Jasper Page had placed his house to look up at the fort, its only companion in polite society, but these windows to-day were veiled in snow, shutting Deedee into strangeness. A strangeness of papered walls with urns and wreaths of flowers strewn upon them. A strangeness of striped green damask festooning the windows and covering also the chairs, footstools and sofas. There were mirrors to reflect it all. Deedee’s eyes grew bigger and browner.
She tiptoed across to the harpsichord. It had been swathed in brown sacking when she had seen it at the landing. Now it stood revealed in glory, a mountain scene painted on its top. She tiptoed back to the mantel. The gilded clock was flanked by two small china men. With another passionate wish for her brothers, Deedee identified them: George Washington and Lafayette. She looked up to the ceiling. A shower of crystal drops concealed a circle of tall white candles. She had never seen such candles. She was staring up at them, entranced, when the outer door swung open and M’sieu Page came in with Mrs. Boles.
They were powdered with snow and both of them were laughing. M’sieu Page’s laugh made him momentarily lose majesty, brought him surprisingly to an age with Narcisse. Mrs. Boles’ cheeks were as pink as her pink velvet bonnet, overladen with plumes. A short fur cape was laid about her wide sleeves, and she carried a tiny muff. Her small silken slippers were wet with snow.
“Such slippers!” M’sieu Page was saying as they came in. “Mowrie ought to forbid them.”
Eva Boles looked down at her feet and her expression changed. “Does he even know I wear them?” she asked bitterly.
Deedee swiftly memorized the scrap of conversation. It wasn’t exactly clear, but she could ponder it later.
M’sieu Page caught sight of her and crossed the room quickly. “Andy is all right, my dear. Mrs. Boles was with him, and had the blood staunched when I arrived. I bandaged him a bit, and now he’s fit as a fiddle. I thought she’d better have a look at you, too.”
“I’m all right, thank you, sir,” answered Deedee, stiffening. In spite of the kindness in M’sieu Page’s
