A reef of raspberries, red as corals, gathered
on the tangled slopes of Cote a Bonhomme, formed the dessert, with
blue whortleberries from Cape Tourment, plums sweet as honey drops,
and small, gray-coated apples from Beaupre, delicious as those that
comforted the Rose of Sharon. A few carafes of choice wine from the
old manorial cellar, completed the entertainment.
The meal was not a protracted one, but to Pierre Philibert the most
blissful hour of his life. He sat by the side of Amelie, enjoying
every moment as if it were a pearl dropped into his bosom by word,
look, or gesture of the radiant girl who sat beside him.
He found Amelie, although somewhat timid at first to converse, a
willing, nay, an eager listener. She was attracted by the magnetism
of a noble, sympathetic nature, and by degrees ventured to cast a
glance at the handsome, manly countenance where feature after
feature revealed itself, like a landscape at dawn of day, and in
Colonel Philibert she recognized the very looks, speech, and manner
of Pierre Philibert of old.
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