Then, returning the letter to the husband, he said:
“I do not understand it, sir. The writing is not mine. See for yourself.”
And taking from his pocket a note-book in which he wrote down his expenses, like the careful fellow he was, he showed it to Théophile.
“What! not your writing!” stammered the latter. “You are making a fool of me; it must be your writing.”
The priest had to make the sign of the cross on Berthe’s left hand. His eyes elsewhere, he mistook the hand and made it on the right one.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
“Amen,” responded the boy chorister, also raising himself up to see.
In short, the scandal was prevented. Duveyrier proved to poor, bewildered Théophile that the letter could not have been written by Monsieur Mouret. It was almost a disappointment for the congregation. There were sighs, and a few hasty words exchanged. And when every one, still in a state of excitement, turned again toward the altar, Berthe and Auguste were man and wife, she without appearing to have been aware of what was going on, he not having missed a word the priest had uttered, giving his whole attention to the matter, only disturbed by his headache, which closed his left eye.
“The dear children!” said Monsieur Josserand, absorbed in mind and his voice trembling, to Monsieur Vabre, who ever since the commencement of the ceremony had been busy counting the lighted tapers, always making a mistake, and beginning his calculations over again.
“Admit nothing,” said Madame Josserand to Valérie, as the family moved toward the vestry after the mass.