“It isn’t eleven o’clock yet,” she said; “we have plenty of time; go and
read the newspaper.”
Read the newspaper! just at the moment that I was to be married! I, who
could not read one through when I had nothing to do! No, I preferred to
remain there, and each five minutes I knocked at the door of her
dressing-room to enquire if she were ready.
At a quarter-past eleven I carried my mother off, I almost dragged her
away, although she declared that her bonnet was on crooked and that she
wanted to have the ribbons changed. I refused to listen, we entered the
carriage, and I swore to my mother that her headgear was in perfect
order; she became calmer and consented to be amiable once more.
We arrived at Madame Dumeillan’s. Eugénie was ready; I was confident
that she would not keep me waiting, that she would have pity on my
impatience. Her dress was charming, according to all the people who were
there; for my part, I did not notice her dress, I saw only her, and I
should have thought her a thousand times lovelier if it had been
possible.
One of our witnesses kept us waiting. There are people who would not
hurry one iota to please others, and who know of nothing in the world
that is important enough for haste. I could not live with such people.
At last the tardy witness arrived and we started for the mayor’s office.
I was not allowed to escort Eugénie. On that day everything was
subordinate to ceremony; a man must be happier on the day after his
wedding than on his wedding day.
I have never cared much for ceremonial, and that of my marriage seemed
extremely long. To give me courage, I looked at my wife; she was more
impressed than I by the solemnity of the moment; she was deeply moved
and was weeping. Dear Eugénie! I thought of nothing but loving her
forever, and it was certainly not necessary for anyone to order me to do
it.
It came to an end at last. We returned to the carriages, still in
procession, and through a crowd of curious folk who devoured us with
their eyes. I felt more buoyant, happier. I was so glad that it was
over!
I spied Giraud and his wife at the church, in full array; they had
offered us congratulations which I had not listened to; but I had said
to them: “until this evening;” and they replied with a low bow.
We drove to Lointier’s, where a handsome breakfast awaited us. But a
wedding breakfast is generally a decidedly gloomy affair. The bride can
hardly be expected to laugh, and even when she is happiest, she is
thoughtful and talks little; the grandparents are always intent upon
preserving their dignity. For my part, I was engrossed, or rather
annoyed, by the reflection that it was still early in the day. There
were in the party some jokers, or persons who tried to joke; one stout
gentleman, a kinsman of my mother, regaled us with some of those
superannuated jests concerning the occasion and happiness that awaited
us; but his sallies met with no success; nobody laughed at them, and he
was forced to keep to himself the ample store of _bons mots_ with which
I am sure that he was provided. I was delighted, because I considered
such jests very bad form; they should be left for the weddings of
concierges or servants; the modesty of a young woman who has but one day
of innocence left should be respected; and we should assume innocence in
those who have none.
Eugénie and I were at a distance from each other; we could not talk, but
we glanced furtively at each other and our eyes mutually counselled
patience.
The clock struck five, and the ladies left to change their dresses. I
escorted my wife to the carriage which was to take her home with her
mother. I would have been glad to go with her, but Madame Dumeillan and
my mother persuaded me that it was my duty to remain with the guests who
were still at table. Eugénie leaned toward me and whispered in my ear:
“Oh! we shall be much happier to-morrow, my dear! we shall not be
separated then, I trust.”
Dear Eugénie, you were quite right. I had to return to the table,
because it pleased some of our guests to eat and drink through four
hours. If only I had been hungry!
We left the table at last, at six o’clock. Several of the gentlemen
began to play cards. As courtesy did not require me to watch them lose
their money, I left the restaurant and drove to my wife’s house.
The hairdresser had just arrived, and she had abandoned her lovely hair
to him. Really, those hairdressers are too fortunate, to be able to pass
their fingers through those lovely locks and to gaze constantly at the
pretty head which is entrusted to them. That one took at least
three-quarters of an hour to arrange Eugénie’s hair, as if it were
difficult to make her look charming! But women are wonderfully patient
with respect to everything that pertains to their toilet.
Her hair was arranged at last; but they took her away, for she was not
dressed. My wife was not yet mine; she was still in the grasp of the
conventionalities of that day. I was fain to be patient, until I once
had possession of her. But that night I would bolt all the doors, and no
one should see her the next morning until I chose.
I saw that Eugénie would not be dressed for at least an hour, so I went
out and tried to kill time. I jumped into one of the carriages which
were waiting at the door, and was driven to the Tuileries. I alighted on
Rue de Rivoli, and entered the garden. The day was drawing to a close;
the weather was gloomy and uncertain. There were very few people under
those superb chestnuts toward which I walked. I was delighted, for I do
not care for a promenade where there is a crowd; the people who stare at
you or jostle you every moment prevent you from dreaming, from thinking
at your leisure.
I rarely went to the Tuileries; to my mind that great garden was
melancholy and monotonous; but on that day it seemed pleasanter to me,
for I could think freely of my wife. My wife! those words still had a
strange sound to me. I was married, I who had so often laughed at
husbands! Had I been wrong to laugh at them, or should I prove an
exception to the rule?
I walked at random. Finally I found myself in front of the enclosure
where the statues of Hippomenes and Atalanta stand. That reminded me of
a certain assignation. It was three years before, in the middle of
winter. There had been a heavy fall of snow; the garden, the benches
were covered with it, and it was very cold. But I had an assignation,
and on such occasions one does not consult the thermometer. It was with
a certain Lucile, who, for decency’s sake, called herself Madame
Lejeune, and who mended cashmere shawls. She was very pretty, was
Lucile. About twenty-three years old at that time, with a pretty,
shapely figure, and an almost distinguished face which did not betray
the grisette. I had an idea that her portrait was among those that I had
preserved. She was accustomed to love madly for a fortnight; during the
third week she calmed down, and ordinarily she was unfaithful by the end
of the month. As I had been warned, I considered it more amusing to
anticipate her, and to take up with another before the fortnight had
expired. She did not forgive me; her self-esteem was wounded, for I have
no idea that she would have been more constant with me than with others;
but she tried to make me believe that she would have, and whenever I met
her I could always detect a flavor of bitterness in her speech and anger
in her glance.
It was in front of that enclosure, close by those statues, that we had
arranged to meet. I remembered that Lucile was there before me, despite
the extreme cold. We had not known each other four days, and we adored
each other. She did not reprove me for keeping her waiting, and yet her
nose and chin were purple with cold, and her fingers were stiff; but her
eyes burned. I put her into a cab and took her to dine at Pelletan’s, at
the Pavillon-Français. It was one of the red-letter days of my
bachelorhood.
Very good, but the whole business was not worth one smile from Eugénie.
I was about to turn away from Atalanta, when I saw within a few feet of
me a lady dressed with some elegance, who was looking at me with a smile
on her lips.
“You must admit,” she said, “that the snow is all that is needed to make
the resemblance complete.”
It was Lucile! What a strange chance! I walked toward her.
“You here, madame?”
“Yes, monsieur; and I beg you to believe that I have not come here in
search of memories.”
“I am here, madame, by the merest chance. But, as I passed these
statues, I remembered a certain assignation, one winter, and I confess
that I was thinking of you.”
“Really! Ah! that is most flattering on your part! You have to come to
the Tuileries to do that, do you not, monsieur?”
“If that were so, madame, you must admit that other men devote their
thoughts to you. One aspirant more or less--you can hardly detect the
difference.”
“Ah! your remarks are exceedingly polite! But I am not surprised: you
have never been anything but agreeable to me! You are the same as ever!”
“I do not see that I have said anything to you that----”
“Oh! mon Dieu! let us drop the subject. You might conclude that I attach
great value to memories of you, and you would be much mistaken. But how
fine you are! Are you going to a wedding?”
“Just so; I have been one of a wedding party since morning, and I came
here for a walk while the bride is dressing herself for the ball.”
“Oho! you are a wedding guest to-day! Is the bride pretty?”
“Lovely.”
“A widow or unmarried?”
“Unmarried.”
“How old?”
“Twenty years.”
“Has she--you know what?”
“I can tell you that better to-morrow, if I should happen to see you.”
“Are you the best man?”
“Better than that.”
“Better than that! What! Do you mean--Oh, no! that is impossible. You
are not going to be married?”
“Why is it impossible?”
“Because you don’t do such crazy things as that.”
“I don’t know whether marriage is always a crazy thing, but I can assure
you that I was married this morning, and that, far from regretting it, I
congratulate myself upon it.”
“Oh! if it was only this morning, that is easy to understand.--What! are
you really married, Henri? Ha! ha! how amusing it is!”
“What is there so amusing about it?”
“Ha! ha! ha! Poor Henri! You are married! Upon my word, I can’t get over
it. But I promise you that it gives me the very greatest pleasure! Ha!
ha! ha!”
Lucile’s sneering laughter had an ironical note that began to irritate
me. I bowed to her and turned away, but she detained me.
“By the way, one moment, monsieur; it is probable that I shall not have
the pleasure of talking with you again for a long time, for a married
man doesn’t go out without his wife. So yours is very pretty, is she?”
“Yes.”
“And are you very much in love with her?”
“More than I have ever been.”
“Oh! how frank!”
“Why shouldn’t I say what I think?”
“To be sure. Then you must try to make her love you more than you have
ever been loved. Ha! ha!”
“I think that that will not be difficult.”
“Do you think so? You may be mistaken.”
“Excuse me, madame, if I leave you; but my wife must have finished
dressing, and I must return for her.”
“If _your wife_ is waiting for you, why, go, monsieur; and see to it
that she never waits for anybody else. Ha! ha!”
I saw that Lucile had not forgiven me. I left her. I was unable to
conceal the vexation that that woman caused me to feel. I jumped into
the carriage which took me back to Eugénie. She was waiting for me; the
sight of her, a single word from her lips, speedily dissipated that
slight cloud. Eugénie was dazzling; her charms, her graces, her lovely
dress, everything combined to add fascination to her aspect. I took her
hand.
“It is time to go to the ball; let us start,” said Madame Dumeillan and
my mother. I held Eugénie’s hand, I was looking at my wife, and I had
forgotten everything else.
Our appearance in the salons was greeted with a flattering murmur. Words
of praise rang in my ears, and I admit that they flattered my heart too;
it was my wife who was the object of universal admiration. Eugénie
blushed and lowered her eyes; but it would have been difficult for her
to avoid hearing the compliments which were rained upon her as she
passed.
There were many people already there, and my acquaintances came forward
to greet me. Giraud took my hand and pressed it. I felt inclined to be
friendly with everyone, I was so happy! The men crowded about my wife to
obtain the favor of dancing with her; they took their numbers, and I
overheard one of them say that he was number twenty-six. Judging from
that, it was evident that I could not look forward to dancing with my
wife that night. But I made the best of it, and invited other ladies to
dance.
I spied a little man, pushing and jostling everybody to make a passage
for himself; it was Bélan, escorting a young lady who was at least a
head taller than he, and with whom he was about to dance. When they
passed me, they stopped, and he said to me:
“My friend, this is Mademoiselle Armide de Beausire, of whom I have
spoken to you so often.”
I bowed low before Mademoiselle Armide, who was neither beautiful nor
ugly, and whose eyes were almost as large as her mouth; but there was in
her face and in her whole person something stiff and prim which smelt of
the province a league away.
People crowded around Bélan and Mademoiselle Armide to see them dance.
The little man danced very well; and as he had a very good figure, he
had procured tight trousers, a tight coat and a tight waistcoat; there
was not a fold to be seen on his whole body; if his face had been black
you would have thought that he was a little negro _in puris
naturalibus_.
Between the contradances I struggled through the crowd, to try to
introduce to my wife a crowd of people whom I hardly knew, but who said
to me:
“Won’t you present me to madame?”
At midnight the crowd had become so great that it was difficult to move.
Did I know all those people? No; but I had told several of my
acquaintances to bring their acquaintances, and that sort of thing
extends very far sometimes. However, it was a brilliant affair. There
were lovely dresses and very pretty women; the men were well-dressed,
and I saw none of those expressionless, ignoble faces, none of those old
creased caps which one is surprised sometimes to see at a fashionable
party, where however they often have more right to be than most people;
for those unattractive, common faces which we see in corners at a
wedding party usually belong to some uncle or some cousin whom it was
impossible not to invite.
Three times I found Giraud eating ices or carrying them to his wife. He
had brought only two of his children; the two older ones; that was very
considerate of him. I was so happy that I asked Madame Giraud to dance,
and she seemed highly flattered by that courtesy. But what did it matter
to me with whom I danced when it was not Eugénie? I no longer thought of
paying court to ladies; other times, other ideas.
“Your ball is delightful,” said Bélan, leading me into a salon where
card playing was in progress, but where it was possible to move about.
“There are at least four hundred people here.”
“Faith! I should be hard put to it to say how many there are here. If
they are enjoying themselves, that is all that is necessary.”
“It will be like this at my wedding. What do you think of Armide?”
“She is very attractive.”
“And her eyes?”
“They are superb.”
“They are extraordinary, are they not? Well, my dear fellow, she has
everything like that,--wit, talents, and such an air of distinction! Did
you see us dancing together?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t we get along well?”
“It is a pity that you are a little short beside her.”
“Short! you are joking. She is a little tall! However, when a man is
built as I am, it is worth three inches of height. I certainly wouldn’t
change figures with that tall, lanky man in front of us. Those tall
fellows are always awkward. Have you seen Madame de Beausire?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come then, and let me present you to her. You will see a woman who
hasn’t a single touch of the plebeian; she is the type of true
distinction.”
I submitted to be led away; I did whatever anyone wanted that night. I
saw a tall, yellow woman who resembled a piece of old tapestry, and who
looked as if she had never laughed since she came into the world. I made
haste to bow and to run away. It seemed to me that one must necessarily
catch the _spleen_ in Madame de Beausire’s company.
The supper hour arrived; at last the ball was drawing to a close; and
although I was not exactly bored, still I should have been very glad to
be at home with my wife.
The ladies were conducted to their seats. I looked after the comfort of
everybody; I saw that the tables, large and small alike, were properly
waited upon.
“Pray rest a moment and eat something,” people said to me.
Much I thought about eating! I preferred to hurry the supper of that
multitude.
I found Giraud and his two children sitting at a small table with three
young men. Giraud had a currant cake on his knees, and he had slipped a
bowl of jelly under the table, not choosing to pass it, for fear it
would not come back to him. I called for fish, chickens, and pâté; I
covered his children’s plates with cakes. Giraud was in ecstasy; he
shook my hand, murmuring:
“This is one of the finest weddings I have ever seen, and God knows that
I have seen a tremendous number of them!”
Madame Giraud, who had been obliged to leave the large table when the
other ladies rose, walked behind her husband and children at that
moment, with an enormous reticule hanging on her arm. While pretending
to pass the gentlemen what they wanted, I saw that she kept opening the
bag and thrusting cakes, biscuit, and even pie crust into it. Giraud,
seeing that I had noticed his wife’s manœuvring, said to her angrily,
as she was trying to force some macaroons into her bag:
“What on earth are you doing, Madame Giraud? What sort of manners are
these? You are putting macaroons into your bag!”
“Just for Azor, my dear, the poor beast. He is so fond of macaroons, you
know. They would be wasted, so what harm does it do? I want poor Azor to
have a little of the pleasure of this party.”
“You know very well that I don’t like such things, Madame Giraud.”
I appeased Giraud, who pretended to be very angry; then I walked away,
in order to leave his wife at full liberty; and she ended by making a
perfect balloon of her bag.
Meanwhile, the tables were gradually deserted; many people returned to
the ballroom, but many others entered their carriages, and I considered
that the latter acted wisely.
The ball was more agreeable perhaps, because it was more comfortable to
dance. Eugénie continued to be invited, and I must needs content myself
with dancing opposite her; but there were figures in which we took each
other’s hands, and then how many things we said by a soft pressure! it
seems that the heart, that the very soul, passes into the beloved hand
which presses ours lovingly.
The ranks became thinner. My mother had gone, and Madame Dumeillan was
only awaiting our departure to follow her example. It was five o’clock.
The daylight was beginning to show through the windows, and to lessen
the brilliancy of the candles. The number of ladies diminished every
moment. I went to Eugénie’s side.
“I am tired of dancing,” she said, “and yet I am afraid to refuse.”
“Why, it seems to me that we might venture to go now.”
She lowered her eyes and made no answer. I concluded that I had done
enough for others and that I might think of myself at last. I took my
wife’s hand and led her from the room; Madame Dumeillan followed us; we
entered a carriage and drove away. We had to take Madame Dumeillan home
first. It was a short distance, but it seemed very long to me. The
nearer one’s happiness approaches, the more intense one’s impatience
becomes.
We spoke but little in the mother’s presence. At last we reached her
house, and I alighted. Madame Dumeillan embraced her daughter; it seemed
to me that their embrace was interminable. Selfish creatures that we
are! it did not occur to me that that was the last embrace in which a
mother would hold her daughter, still a virgin, in her arms, and that I
should have all the rest of my life to enjoy my privileges as a husband.
Madame Dumeillan entered her house. I returned to the carriage, and we
drove on. At last I was alone with Eugénie, with my wife. I believe that
that was the sweetest moment that I have ever known; it had seemed to me
that it would never arrive. I put my arms about Eugénie; she wept when
she embraced her mother; but I embraced her, and she ceased to weep,
for I overwhelmed her with caresses, and unfamiliar sensations made her
heart beat fast.
At last we reached my apartment, our apartment. The servant who was to
live with us, and who had been in her mother’s service, was waiting for
us in the concierge’s room, with a light; but it was broad day; we
needed no service. My wife and I entered our home. I led her by the
hand, I felt that she was trembling and I believe that I trembled too.
It is a strange effect of happiness that it suffocates one, that it
almost makes one ill.
I closed the doors and shot the bolts. I was alone with my wife! At last
there was no third person with us! We were at liberty to love each
other, to tell each other of our love, and to prove it!