“Why?” I demanded, though feeling a little self-commiseration also.

“You will never know how to enjoy yourself,” said he, with conviction.

Madame Chouteau lived in a stone house, wide and low, surrounded by trees and gardens.  It was a pretty tribute of respect her children and grandchildren paid her that day, in accordance with the old French usage of honoring the parent.  I should like to linger on the scene, and tell how Nick made them all laugh over the story of Suzanne Lenoir and the yellow birds, and how the children pressed around him and made him imitate all the denizens of wood and field, amid deafening shrieks of delight.

“You have probably delayed Gaspard’s wooing another year, Mr. Temple.  Suzanne is a sad coquette,” said Colonel Auguste Chouteau, laughing, as we set out for the ball.

The sun was hanging low over the western hills as we approached the barracks, and out of the open windows came the merry, mad sounds of violin, guitar, and flageolet, the tinkle of a triangle now and then, the shouts of laughter, the shuffle of many feet over the puncheons.  Within the door, smiling and benignant, unmindful of the stifling atmosphere, sat the black-robed village priest talking volubly to an elderly man in a scarlet cap, and several stout ladies ranged along the wall:  beyond them, on a platform, Zeron, the baker, fiddled as though his life depended on it, the perspiration dripping from his brow, frowning, gesticulating at them with the flageolet and the triangle.  And in a dim, noisy, heated whirl the whole village went round and round and round under the low ceiling in the valse, young and old, rich and poor, high and low, the sound of their laughter and the scraping of their feet cut now and again by an agonized squeak from Zeron’s fiddle.  From time to time a staggering, panting couple would fling themselves out, help themselves liberally to pink sirop from the bowl on the side table, and then fling themselves in once more, until Zeron stopped from sheer exhaustion, to tune up for a pas de deux.

Across the room, by the sirop bowl, a pair of red ribbons flaunted, a pair of eyes sent a swift challenge, Zeron and his assistants struck up again, and there in a corner was Nick Temple, with characteristic effrontery attempting a pas de deux with Suzanne.  Though Nick was ignorant, he was not ungraceful, and the village laughed and admired.  And when Zeron drifted back into a valse he seized Suzanne’s plump figure in his arms and bore her, unresisting, like a prize among the dancers, avoiding alike the fat and unwieldy, the clumsy and the spiteful.  For a while the tune held its mad pace, and ended with a shriek and a snap on a high note, for Zeron had broken a string.  Amid a burst of laughter from the far end of the room I saw Nick stop before an open window in which a prying Indian was framed, swing Suzanne at arm’s length, and bow abruptly at the brave with a grunt that startled him into life.