Fortunately, lovers, when speaking of their passion, listen to the echoes of their words in their own hearts, and Jack, thus absorbed, heard none of the commonplace comments of his mother.
Jack had been living a week in this way when, one evening, Bélisaire came to meet him with a radiant face. “We are to be married at once! Madame Weber has found a ‘comrade.’”
Jack, who had been the unintentional cause of his friend’s disappointment, was equally well pleased. This pleasure, however, did not last; for, on seeing “the comrade,” he received a most unpleasant impression. The man was tall and powerfully built, but the expression of his face was far from agreeable.
The great day arrived at last. Among the middle classes, a day is generally given to the civil marriage, another to the wedding at the church; but the people to whom time is money cannot afford this. So they generally take Saturday for the two ceremonies.
Bélisaire’s wedding, therefore, occurred on that day, and was really one of the most imposing of the many processions they met on their way to the municipality. Although the white dress of the bride was missing, Madame Weber, in her quality of widow, wore a dress of brilliant blue of that bright indigo shade so dear to persons who like solid colors; a many-hued shawl was carefully folded on her arm, and a superb cap, ornamented with ribbons and flowers, displayed her beaming peasant face. She walked by the side of Bélisaire’s father, a little dried-up old man, with a hooked nose and abrupt movements, and a perpetual cough that his new daughter-in-law endeavored to soothe by rubbing his back with considerable violence. These repeated frictions somewhat disturbed the dignity of the wedding procession.
Bélisaire came next, giving his arm to his sister, whose nose was as hooked as her father’s. Bélisaire himself looked almost handsome; he led by one hand Madame Weber’s little child. Then came a crowd of relatives and friends, and finally Jack, Madame de Barancy being unwilling to do more than honor the wedding-dinner with her presence. This repast was to take place at Vincennes.
When the train that brought the party reached the restaurant, the room engaged by Bélisaire was still occupied. This gave them time to look at the lake and to amuse themselves with examining the crowd of merrymakers. They were dancing and singing, playing blind-man’s-buff and innumerable other games; under the trees a girl was mending the flounces of a bride’s dress. O, those white dresses! With what joy those girls let them drag over the lawn, imagining themselves for that one occasion women of fashion. It is precisely this illusion that the people seek in their hours of amusement: a pretence of riches, a momentary semblance of the envied and happy of this earth.
Bélisaire’s party were too hungry to be gay, and they hailed with joy the announcement that dinner was ready at last. The table was laid in one of those large rooms whose walls were frescoed in faded colors, and whose size was apparently increased by innumerable mirrors. At each end of the table was a huge bouquet of artificial orange blossoms, a centrepiece of pink and white sugar, and ornaments of the same, which had officiated at many a wedding-dinner in the previous six months. They took their seats in solemn silence, though Madame de Barancy had not yet arrived.
The guests were somewhat intimidated by the black-coated waiters, who disdainfully looked at these poor people who were dining at a dollar per head, a sum which each one of the guests thought of with respect, and envied Belisaire who could afford such an extravagant entertainment. The waiters were, however, filled with profound contempt, which they expressed by winks at each other, invisible however to the guests.
Belisaire had just at his side one of these gentlemen, who filled him with holy horror; another, opposite behind his wife’s chair, watched him so disagreeably that the good man scarcely dared lift his eyes from the carte,—on which, among familiar words like ducks, chickens, and beans, appeared the well-known names of generals, towns, and battles—Marengo, Richelieu, and so on. Bélisaire, like the others, was stupefied, the more so when two plates of soup were presented with the question, “Bisque, or Purée de Crécy?” Or two bottles: “Xeres, or Pacaset, sir?”