At the shop we encountered a lady with whom I had a slight acquaintance; one of the élégantes of Turin, of the same political opinions, but of a more mundane turn of mind than my companion. She was elaborately dressed in visiting costume, and coming towards us with both hands extended, told the comtesse she was selecting a souvenir for her niece. Not to embarrass her choice, after a few complimentary phrases, we removed to some distance, the aunt not very graciously commenting on the announcement.
“A souvenir indeed! How I detest the indiscriminate fashion of giving presents! It confounds friends of yesterday with one's closest and dearest connections, and at last is regarded as an odious tax. Just because Madame de —— was my sister's compagne de loge last winter, when they shared a box at the opera, she fancies this attention is expected of her, or rather calculates it will give her éclat, when all the gifts are shown, to be cited as one of the donors. Look at her now, what open sleeves, and how short! All to display her arms, she is so vain of them! You may be sure she has been exhibiting them before Fiorio's. I shall hear from my brother, who is generally there. Do you not think them too stout?”
The approach of their owner here cut short any more disparaging observations, and the house to which we were bound being close at hand, we all proceeded thither very lovingly together.
Just before we arrived I bethought myself that amidst all the rejoicing over the approaching marriage, I had not heard a single word with respect to the bridegroom's mental or personal attractions, and guardedly ventured on some inquiries concerning him.
“He is a very fine young man,” said the comtesse, seemingly indifferent to what might have been thought no inconsiderable adjunct to the favourable features of this match; “just twenty-five. Thérèse is nineteen.”
Upon hearing this I hazarded the supposition that, both being young and good-looking, they were in all probability attached.
“He is certainly very much taken with Thérèse, and she, as far of course as she can understand such feelings, is greatly pleased with him. I hope it may turn out well,” added the good lady dubiously, “but one always fears for these marriages of affection.” A sentiment to which the Marquise de ——, the fair one of the arms, adjusting her bracelets, uttered so fervent a response, that I at once concluded her to be a victim to this novel kind of misfortune.
The subject of these forebodings was waiting with her mother to receive us, all smiles and ecstasy, and without delay we were admitted to gaze on the glories of the trousseau and corbeille, before they were exposed to the general run of visitors. The trousseau, it is scarcely necessary to state, comprises the bride's outfit in wearing apparel, carried now-a-days in Piedmont to the most lavish profusion, twelve dozen of each description of underclothing not being considered anything out of the common way: the corbeille is a general term for all the bridegroom's presents, formerly enclosed in a basket of elegant workmanship and decoration. In these days of change, however, the genuine corbeille is replaced by an inlaid coffer, or any other sort of expensive receptacle. An elaborately-ornamented work-table had in this instance been chosen by the bridegroom to contain his offerings.
Mademoiselle Thérèse stands by, radiant with joy and pride, while her mother turns the key; and there, amid satin and lace, repose two Cashmere shawls. One from India; four thousand francs could scarcely have procured it, the gay marquise hastily calculates. The other French, but so beautiful a production that the most practised eye could scarcely detect the difference. Ah, how lovely, how enchanting! But see here, that garniture of Brussels lace; flounces, the bridal veil, trimming for berthe! What, a similar set in black Chantilly! Never, never has she seen their equal. There are, besides, dozens and dozens of gloves from Jouvin's, fans, and embroidered handkerchiefs, some with the coronet of a marquise surmounting the name of Thérèse, each letter a perfect study of delicate flowery needle-craft; others with her family arms united with those of the bridegroom on the same escutcheon. What precision in the work, what exquisite cambric! Who would not be married to gain such treasures?
“And the diamonds?” Even the comtesse grows excited now, as the mamma calmly touches a spring, and the casket flies open. It is the crowning stroke; few brides in Turin can boast its equal. The diadem, the sprays for the hair, the pendants, the necklace. Oh, how entrancingly beautiful they are! The marquise devours them with greedy eyes; the aunt, stifling a sigh at the thought that she has no daughter to marry, mingled perhaps with a momentary pang at the contrast to her own modest corbeille fifteen years before, looks proud and gratified,—not the less so because she has detected the emotion of the compagne de loge, on whom, since the intimacy with her sister, she bestows her intense aversion.