She drank in his flamboyant stream of words with a thirst which
nothing but experience could ever quench. He felt her silent
applause and the admiring involuntary absorption that possessed
his wife; the consciousness of his elementary magnetism augmented
the flow of his fine descriptions, and he went on and on, until
the arrival of Father Beret put an end to it all.
The priest, hearing of M. Roussillon's return, had come to inquire
about some friends living at Detroit. He took luncheon with the
family, enjoying the downright refreshing collation of broiled
birds, onions, meal-cakes and claret, ending with a dish of
blackberries and cream.
M. Roussillon seized the first opportunity to resume his
successful romancing, and presently in the midst of the meal began
to tell Father Beret about what he had seen in Quebec.
"By the way," he said, with expansive casualness in his voice, "I
called upon your old-time friend and co-adjutor, Father
Sebastien, while up there. A noble old man. He sent you a thousand
good messages. Was mightily delighted when I told him how happy
and hale you have always been here. Ah, you should have seen his
dear old eyes full of loving tears. He would walk a hundred miles
to see you, he said, but never expected to in this world.
Blessings, blessings upon dear Father Beret, was what he murmured
in my ear when we were parting.
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