I guessed what it would be, and blew angry clouds from my long wooden
pipe.
"Pierre--Pierre Crepin, has Cecile Debois been here to see you?"
"She has. She was here this morning."
"She is well off!" said one.
"She has to want for nothing!" said another.
And they shook their heads wisely, as those do who know more than they
say.
"What of Cecile?" I asked, with somewhat of anger in my tone.
"Do you not know?"
"Did she not tell you?"
"I know she is poor Marc's widow. She told me nothing."
"Ah, ah! She wanted the news of Marc's death! She will be married to
M. Andre, the merchant! There has this long while been a talk of them
in Benevent, and, for the matter of that, for miles round!"
"M. Andre!" I cried. "But he is elderly--old enough to be her
father!"
"`Old men--old fools,' as the saying is!" put in Father Lancrac. He was
old enough to know. I did not gainsay him. It is well to treat one's
elders with respect. And old M. Lancrac, my mother's good friend and
kinsman, was in his dotage. Besides, now others aimed their darts at
her, I felt inclined to excuse Cecile.
"It is well," I said. "Women many again in Benevent, I suppose, as
anywhere else in the world. Why not Cecile?"
Hearing me say this, and marking some sternness in my tone, they all
said, "Ay, ay! Why not? She is a fine woman, and is to make a good
match that we all ought to be proud of! Poor Marc is dead!" And so
forth.
We puffed our pipes some time in silence, those of us who smoked. The
others counted my mother's hams and flitches of bacon, and the strings
of onions throwing flickering shadows in the lamplight. But old age
will not be silent.
Father Lancrac said, for his part, he wished he was Merchant Andre. He
would marry again. Who would have him? He was better than most of the
young ones now.
And the women folk laughed.
Lawyers are adroit. After this, the notary, Gaspard, who had honoured
us with his company he had known my father--turned the conversation. He
asked me questions about my adventures in the island, my mode of life,
how I counted time, my subsistence, and such things. In this way our
evening passed away, and we parted, as good friends should part--merry.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
But it happened sooner than I had expected. Cecile and M. Andre were
married a fortnight after. That was a scene, indeed, which will not
soon be forgotten. The bride looked lovely, and M. Andre, worthy man,
wore an appearance ten years younger than his real age, he was so happy.
Madame Andre! I thought of her as the wife of my old comrade, Marc. I
recalled the humble nuptials of six years before. I seemed to see her
as she stood before us then--girlish, beautiful, graceful, in her
home-made bridal gown. Now her own friends were not grand enough to be
bidden to the feast. But M. Andre's well supplied their place. We,
however, were permitted to look on--to cheer, huzza, and wish them both
joy.
Her mother's house was too small for her to be married from. She was
taken to the Mairie by her second spouse from the house of one of his
relatives; and, in her white dress and veil, she looked more dazzlingly
lovely than any woman I had ever seen.
After the ceremonial at the church, there was a _dejeuner_, to which all
the best people of Benevent were invited. The newly married pair were
to spend their honeymoon at a chateau of M. Andre's, some three leagues
from Benevent, in the hills, overlooking the sea. A carriage and pair
of horses, with a postilion in a gay jacket, waited to take them there.
Bound the carriage, on the footway and in the road, was a crowd of
people, curious to see all that there was to be seen, and desirous of
giving bride and bridegroom "God-speed!" when they drove off.
I passed the place by accident, for I had not intended to be there. I
had taken my stout stick in my hand, meaning to try a walk up the hills,
by the coach road.
By chance I had passed the house where the bride and bridegroom were
breakfasting. By chance I had found myself one of the crowd. A crowd
impresses upon one its sympathies. I loitered among them--not long;--
long enough to see a man, with a beard and tanned face, hurriedly asking
some questions. I could not get near him for the people. Then, as
hurriedly, he strode away, with great, heavy strides.
The face I did not know--I had caught but a hurried glance of it; but
the broad shoulders, the strong limbs, the walk of the man, I did know.
A terrible feeling came over me.
My knees trembled under me.
My face was white as paper.