The church of St. Gervais was packed with the majority of a crowd that
extended well out down the broad steps and into the square, as the old
bells rang a carillon for the old couple who, as a young man and a young
woman, had been married under them fifty years ago.
In the carriage that was bringing the bridal pair to the church
_Grand-père_ Joyselle was behaving very badly indeed. Carefully dressed
by his daughter, Madame Chalumeau, gloves on his ancient hands, a new
top hat on his ancient head, his ancient brain was busily plotting and
executing all kinds of small pranks, and his unfortunate old bride had
nearly burst into tears at a strong nip he had given her arm with his
still muscular fingers.
"Now, father, please be good," pleaded Madame Chalumeau, to whom,
together with Victor, belonged the uncomfortable honour of conducting
the wayward groom to the altar. "You know you promised you would."
"How can you call me father, woman? Me a young lad on his way to be
married!" The old man laughed shrilly, and producing an apple from his
pocket began to eat it as best he could with his one tooth.
"And _where_ are your teeth?" cried the overwrought Madame Chalumeau.
"You promised to wear them. Mother, why don't you scold him."
"Because he likes being scolded, that's why," snapped the bride, jerking
her bonnet over one ear. "He's been as bad as a devil all the morning."
Joyselle, who had not been listening, caught this phrase.
"Mother," he said gently, taking her hand, "don't be cross, dear. He
is--forgetful, but try to remember the day you married him. You loved
him,"--he winced, as if hurt by his own words, but went on in the same
voice,--"and God has been good in--in allowing you to spend fifty years
together."
The old woman nodded. "I know, my son. I can remember. It--rained and
spoiled my cap, but I didn't care. We walked in a long procession and he
wore a green coat that the old M. le Comte gave him."
"Yes, mother dear," put in the mistaken Madame Chalumeau, "and you
promised to love him always--even when he was--cross."
Madame Joyselle sniffed. "People promise a lot, but fifty years is more
than any woman expects," she answered, with considerable venom.
Joyselle sighed. "Perhaps, my dear Bathilde; you would not mind not
interrupting me again? Yes--think of the green coat. And that you did
not mind about your cap. Your life has been very useful, _ma mère_, and
you have devoted children to love you and care for you."
"Look at the crowd," cried out the old man suddenly. "It must be a
funeral!"
"Father!" Madame Chalumeau crossed herself with fingers that fairly
trembled with haste. "How _can_ you? When it is your own wedding."
As the carriage stopped Victor leaned forward and laid his hand on his
father's.
"Father--this is a splendid and--and most happy day for all of us. There
are nearly fifty of us--your descendants and their wives and husbands,
and we are very _proud_ of you. Will you give my mother your arm and
follow Bathilde and me up the steps?"
Old Joyselle skipped with great agility from the carriage, and with a
grand imitation of his son's manner followed that son into the church.
Brigit, standing near Félicité near the altar, felt her eyes fill with
tears as the little group appeared. There was something infinitely
touching in the sight of the ancient couple coming back to the altar to
renew their vows after fifty years.
The priest's voice was very weak, but it carried well under the arched
roof, and when the rings--the one for the bride bought by her male, the
one for the groom by his female descendants--were blessed and exchanged,
many people were frankly weeping.
Joyselle had not joined his wife and son, but stood opposite them, in
front of a group of relations from the country, his fine figure in its
perfect clothes contrasting strongly with them.
He was paler than Brigit had ever seen him, and his eyes, bent to the
ground for the most part, even more deeply circled than they had been
at the _café_ a few hours before.
The priest droned on; a baby cried, causing the bridegroom to dart a
furious glance in its direction; one of the country cousins blew his
nose with simple-hearted zest; the old couple who had been kneeling were
assisted to their feet. "_In nomine Patris, et Filii_----"
Brigit bowed her head with the rest, and then as she raised it, met
Joyselle's miserable eyes; miserable, accusing, despairing eyes.
The ceremony was over. Old Joyselle gave his arm once more to his wife,
and between two lines of buzzing admirers conducted her to the carriage,
followed by his famous son, the rest of the family crowding after.
"Pathetic, wasn't it?" asked Théo. "I was so afraid _grand-père_ would
not behave, but he is rather in awe of father. Did you see my uncles,
Antoine and Guillaume? Come, _petite mère_, let's go on. Our carriage is
waiting at the inn, to save time."
Brigit followed obediently, but her mind was in a whirl. What could be
the matter with Victor?