Nick's imitation of Xavier, and his description of Benjy's terrors after
the storm, were so perfect that I laughed quite as heartily; and Madame
de St. Gre wiped her eyes and repeated continually, "Quel drole monsieur!
it is thus he has entertained us since thou departed, Philippe."
As for Mademoiselle, I began to think that Nick was not far wrong in his
diagnosis. Training may have had something to do with it. She would not
laugh, not she, but once or twice she raised her napkin to her face and
coughed slightly. For the rest, she sat demurely, with her eyes on her
plate, a model of propriety. Nick's sufferings became more
comprehensible.
To give the devil his due, Nick had an innate tact which told him when to
stop, and perhaps at this time Mademoiselle's superciliousness made him
subside the more quickly. After Monsieur de St. Gre had explained to me
the horrors of the indigo pest and the futility of sugar raising, he
turned to his daughter.
"'Toinette, where is Madame Clive?" he asked. The girl looked up,
startled into life and interest at once.
"Oh, papa," she cried in French, "we are so worried about her, mamma and
I. It was the day you went away, the day these gentlemen came, that we
thought she would take an airing. And suddenly she became worse."
Monsieur de St. Gre turned with concern to his wife.
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