Bigot sat at the foot of the table and at its
head was Madame Pean, a native of Canada, born Mademoiselle Desmeloizes,
young, handsome and uncommonly vivacious, dressed gorgeously in the
latest Parisian style, and, as Robert put it to himself, coruscating
with talk and smiles.
The dinner progressed amid a great loosening of tongues and much wit.
The perfume from the flowers on the table and the continuous playing of
the band made the air heavier and more intoxicating. It seemed to
Robert that if these people had any cares they had dismissed them all
for the time. Their capacity for pleasure, for snatching at the incense
of the fleeting moment, amazed him. War might be coming, but tonight
there was no thought of it.
Bigot toasted the two Bostonnais and the young Iroquois chief who were
his guests in a flowery speech and Robert responded. When he rose to his
feet he felt a moment of dizziness, because he was so young, and because
he felt so many eyes upon him. But the gift of speech came to his
aid--he was not the golden-mouthed for nothing.
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