“I beg your pardon,” cried Raynal, “there are two things to prevent it: a couple that wait for no man: Time and Bonaparte. Come, sir; marry us, and have done with it.”
The mayor assented. He invited Josephine to stand before him. She trembled and wept a little: Rose clung to her and wept, and the good mayor married the parties off hand.
“Is that all?” asked the baroness; “it is terribly soon done.”
“It is done effectively, madam,” said the mayor, with a smile. “Permit me to tell you that his Holiness the Pope cannot undo my work.”
Picard grinned slyly, and whispered something into Raynal’s ear.
“Oh! indeed,” said Raynal aloud and carelessly. “Come, Madame Raynal, to breakfast: follow us, the rest of you.”
They paired, and followed the bride and bridegroom into the breakfast-room.
The light words Picard whispered were five in number.
Now if the mayor had not snubbed Picard just before, he would have uttered those jocose but true words aloud. There was no particular reason why he should not. And if he had,—The threads of the web of life, how subtle they are! The finest cotton of Manchester, the finer meshes of the spider, seem three-inch cables by comparison with those moral gossamers which vulgar eyes cannot see at all, the “somethings, nothings,” on which great fates have hung.
It was a cheerful breakfast, thanks to Raynal, who would be in high spirits, and would not allow a word of regret from any one. Madame Raynal sat by his side, looking up at him every now and then with innocent admiration. A merry wedding breakfast.