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.