When the first edge of the appetite was dulled, some of the uncles and cousins were pleased to indulge in various significant phrases, dwelling upon every word they uttered, as if they considered that necessary in order that we should understand them. Bélan put in a word here and there, but it was not noticed. I discovered that he was trying to lead the conversation around to the subject of poetry. I felt certain that he had written some, or had had some written, and that he did not know how to set to work to recite it. Whenever he reached the subject, an uncle or an aunt would cut him short by speaking of something else. I felt sorry for him and said:
“My dear Bélan, has anyone written any poetry for your wedding?”
“Yes, just so; I myself have dashed off something in honor of this day, and with your permission, I will——”
“What! do you mean to say that you are going to sing, Monsieur de Bélan?” cried Madame de Beausire, with an almost threatening glance at her son-in-law. “For shame, monsieur! what sort of people have you lived with, where it was customary to sing at the table?”
“I never had any idea of singing, mother-in-law; nor have I any desire to. I meant simply to recite some verses,—verses which do not in the least degree resemble a song.”
“Verses at a wedding! You should leave that to the Almanach des Muses,” said the tall cousin, who sat beside me, and who still bore the groom a grudge on account of his fall on the stairs. At the same instant Madame de Beausire shrieked aloud:
“You are pale, Armide! Don’t you feel well, my child?”
I had not noticed that the bride had changed color; but as her mother told her that she had, Armide probably thought it best not to feel well. She passed her hand over her eyes and said in a faltering tone:
“No, I feel——”
Her mother did not allow her to finish. She sprang to her feet, crying: