A few months passed quickly away, and it became apparent to every eye in
or about the ancient mansion that the landlord's guess was not so bad;
in fact, that Mademoiselle was to be married.
On a certain rainy spring afternoon, a single hired hack drove up to the
main entrance of the old house, and after some little bustle and the
gathering of a crowd of damp children about the big doorway, 'Sieur
George, muffled in a newly-repaired overcoat, jumped out and went
up-stairs. A moment later he re-appeared, leading Mademoiselle, wreathed
and veiled, down the stairway. Very fair was Mademoiselle still. Her
beauty was mature,--fully ripe,--maybe a little too much so, but only a
little; and as she came down with the ravishing odor of bridal flowers
floating about her, she seemed the garlanded victim of a pagan
sacrifice. The mulattress in holiday gear followed behind.
The landlord owed a duty to the community. He arrested the maid on the
last step: "Your mistress, she goin' _pour marier_ 'Sieur George? It
make me glad, glad, glad!"
"Marry 'Sieur George? Non, Monsieur.
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