As we entered the parlour of the ‘Toison d’Or,’ we found the host in all the bravery of his Sunday suit, with a light-brown wig, and stockings blue as the heaven itself, standing waiting our arrival. The hostess, too, stood at the other side of the door, in the full splendour of a great quilted jupe, and a cap whose ears descended half-way to her waist. On the table, in the middle of the room, were two wax-candles, of that portentous size which we see in chapels. Between them there lay a great open volume, which at a glance I guessed to be the priest’s album. Not comprehending what the worthy host and hostess meant by their presence, I gave a look of interrogation to the père, who quickly whispered—
‘Oh, it is nothing; they are only the witnesses.’
I could not help laughing outright at the idea of this formality, nor could Laura refrain either when I explained to her what they came for. However, time passed; the jingle of the bells on the mules’ harness warned us that our equipage waited, and I dipped the pen in the ink and handed it to Laura.
‘I wish he would excuse me from performing this ceremony,’ said she, holding back; ‘I really am quite enough ashamed already.’
‘What says mademoiselle?’ inquired the père, as she spoke in English.
I translated her remark, when he broke in, ‘Oh, you must comply; it’s only a formality, but still every one does it.’
‘Come, come,’ said I, in English, ‘indulge the old man; he is evidently bent on this whim, and let us not leave him disappointed.’
‘Be it so, then,’ said she; ‘on your head, Mr. O’Leary, be the whole of this day’s indiscretion’; and so saying, she took the pen and wrote her name, ‘Laura Alicia Muddleton.’
‘Now, then, for my turn,’ said I, advancing; but the père took the pen from her fingers and proceeded carefully to dry the writing with a scrap of blotting-paper.
‘On this side, monsieur,’ said he, turning over the page; ‘we do the whole affair in orderly fashion, you see. Put your name there, with the date and the day of the week.’