“We must have a large wedding,” she said.
“No, indeed, no,” he replied.
Nevertheless she made out a list on the back of a mourning announcement, a sheet which she had economically torn from a letter of condolence. I recall that detail now, that omen: a black bordered sheet of paper for the list of our wedding guests.
M. Mairieux read the list, which assumed disturbing proportions. Hoping for allies, he turned to the corner of the room where Raymonde and I were sitting, paying indifferent attention to these preparations.
“What is your opinion, dear?” he inquired.
“Oh, I,” she said, “you know very well that all the others are indifferent to me. All that I want are here now.”
“One does not get married in secret,” protested her mother. “You, M. Cernay, who know so much of the world, must agree with me, do you not?”
Thus drawn into the discussion, I supported my fiancée with an energy which astonished myself. Unquestionably, like her, I preferred to be alone with my happiness. Perhaps too—I am ashamed to admit it, but have I not undertaken to confess?—even at this happy time my vanity may not have been so completely dead that it did not suggest the advantage of not seeking to advertise too loudly a marriage without distinction, a union which would astonish the world, which they would make fun of in Paris. I was marrying my superintendent’s daughter; there was nothing in that on which to pride myself. Such were some of the imaginary difficulties that I had not succeeded in dispelling. When our judgment has been warped in early life by excess of worldly advantages and success, how many years and how much suffering are necessary to bring the truth, the real meaning of life, back to us! And in the interval, irreparable harm can be done.
* * *
One night about this time we began to discuss the plans of our life after the wedding. My wife and I intended to spend the winter in Rome, the following summer at the Sleeping Woods, and to postpone until the next winter our residence in Paris. I adopted this plan partly to secure more leisure for Raymonde’s education, which I flattered myself I was to undertake. Curiously enough, she smiled at the thought of Rome, while Paris frightened her.