The days that followed were equally fete days—­a dinner here, a dance there, and everywhere the most gracious reception.  At length came the day for us to meet at La Fontaine—­a real spring near St. Martinville, belonging to Neville Declouet’s uncle.  About five in the afternoon we gathered on the bank of the bayou.  We never saw Tonton twice in the same dress.  To-day she was all in blue.  Suddenly the sound of distant music, and an open flat—­not like our boat—­approached, arched over with green branches and flowers.  Benches stood about, and in the middle the orchestra played.  In the prow stood the captain [Neville Declouet], and during the moments of the journey the music was mingled with the laughter and songs of our joyous company.  About 7 o’clock all the trees about La Fontaine were illuminated, and Neville led us to a floored place encircled by magnolia trees in bloom and by garlands running from tree to tree and mingling their perfume with the languishing odor of the magnolias.  Only heaven can tell how Neville was praised and thanked.

I felt sure that Tonton’s good taste had directed the details.  There was something singular in this young woman.  Without education save what she had taught herself, Tonton spoke with remarkable correctness, and found means to amuse every one.  Her letters were curious to see, not a single word correctly spelled; yet her style was charming, and I cannot express the pleasure they gave me, for during more than a year I received them by every opportunity that presented itself.

But to return to La Fontaine.  About seven the handsome Treville de St. Julien came on a horse as black as ebony, and I saw the color mount to Suzanne’s forehead.  For a wonder he paid Tonton only the attentions required by politeness, and the pretty widow, while still queen of all, belonged that evening entirely to Neville.

The following Saturday my father arrived.  The next day, after mass, our friends came in a body to say adieu.  And on the morrow, amid kisses, handshaking, regrets, tears, and waving handkerchiefs, we departed in the carriage that was to bear us far and forever from Little Paris, and the friends we shall never meet again.  Suzanne and I wept like children.  On the fourth day after, the carriage stopped before the door of M. Gerbeau’s house.  I must confess we were not over-polite to Mme. Gerbeau.  We embraced her hurriedly, and, leaving my father talking about lands, started on a run for Alix’s dwelling.

Oh, dear Alix!  How happy she seemed to see us again!  How proud to show us the innovations made in her neat little house!  With what touching care had she prepared our chamber!  She had wished for a sofa, and Joseph had made her one and covered it with one of the velvet robes of the Countess Aurelia de Morainville.  And when we went into Alix’s own room, Suzanne, whose eye nothing ever escaped, pointed out to me, half hidden behind the mosquito-net of the bed, the prettiest little cradle in the world.