"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.