And he went and kissed Berthe, then shook his new brother-inlaw’s hand, whilst Madame Dambreville turned pale with anguish, drawing herself up in her costume of the color of dead leaves, and smiling vaguely toward the persons who entered.
It was the procession of friends, of simple acquaintances, of all the guests gathered together in the church, which now passed through the vestry. The newly married couple, standing up, were continually distributing hand-shakes, and invariably with the same embarrassed and delighted air. The Josserands and the Duveyriers were not always able to go through the introductions. At times they looked at each other in surprise, for Bachelard had brought persons whom nobody knew, and who talked too loud. Little by little everything gave way to confusion; there was quite a crush, hands were held out over the heads, young girls squeezed between pot-bellied gentlemen, left pieces of their white skirts on the legs of these fathers, these brothers, these uncles, still sweating with some vice, enfranchised in a quiet neighborhood. Away from the crowd, Gueulin and Trublot were relating to Octave how Clarisse had almost been caught by Duveyrier the night before, and had now resigned herself to smothering him with caresses, so as to shut his eyes.
“Hallo!” murmured Gueulin, “he is kissing the bride; it must smell nice.”
Valérie, who kept Madame Juzeur near her to help her to keep her countenance, listened with emotion to the conciliatory words which the Abbé Mauduit also considered it his duty to address to her. Then, as they were at length leaving the church, she paused before the two fathers, to allow Berthe to pass on her husband’s arm.
“You ought to be satisfied,” said she to Monsieur Josserand, wishing to show how free her mind was. “I congratulate you.”
“Yes, yes,” declared Monsieur Vabre in his clammy voice, “it is a very great responsibility the less.”
And, whilst Trublot and Gueulin rushed about seeing all the ladies to the carriages, Madame Josserand, whose shawl attracted quite a crowd, obstinately insisted on remaining the last on the pavement, publicly to display her maternal triumph.
The repast that evening at the Hôtel du Louvre was likewise marred by Théophile’s unlucky affair. The latter was quite a plague, it had been the topic of conversation all the afternoon in the carriages during the drive in the Bois de Boulogne; and the ladies always came to this conclusion, that the husband ought at least to have waited until the morrow before finding the letter. None but the most intimate friends of both families sat down to table. The only lively episode was a speech from uncle Bachelard, whom the Josserands could not very well avoid inviting, in spite of their terror. He was drunk, indeed, as early as the roast: he raised his glass, and commenced with these words: “I am happy in the joy I feel,” which he kept repeating, unable to say anything further. The other guests smiled complacently. Auguste and Berthe, already worn out, looked at each other every now and then, with an air of surprise at seeing themselves opposite one another; and, when they remembered how this was, they gazed in their plates in a confused way.
Nearly two hundred invitations had been issued for the ball. The guests began to arrive as early as half-past nine. Three chandeliers lit up the large red drawing-room, in which only some seats along the wall had been left, whilst at one end, in front of the fireplace, the little orchestra was installed; moreover, a bar had been placed at the farthest end of an adjoining room, and the two families also had a small apartment into which they could retire.
As Madame Duveyrier and Madame Josserand were receiving the first arrivals, that poor Théophile, who had been watched ever since the morning, was guilty of a most regrettable piece of brutality. Campardon was asking Valérie to grant him the first waltz. She laughed, and the husband took it as a provocation.