“It isn’t eleven o’clock yet,” she said; “we have plenty of time; go and read the newspaper.”
Read the newspaper! just at the moment that I was to be married! I, who could not read one through when I had nothing to do! No, I preferred to remain there, and each five minutes I knocked at the door of her dressing-room to enquire if she were ready.
At a quarter-past eleven I carried my mother off, I almost dragged her away, although she declared that her bonnet was on crooked and that she wanted to have the ribbons changed. I refused to listen, we entered the carriage, and I swore to my mother that her headgear was in perfect order; she became calmer and consented to be amiable once more.
We arrived at Madame Dumeillan’s. Eugénie was ready; I was confident that she would not keep me waiting, that she would have pity on my impatience. Her dress was charming, according to all the people who were there; for my part, I did not notice her dress, I saw only her, and I should have thought her a thousand times lovelier if it had been possible.
One of our witnesses kept us waiting. There are people who would not hurry one iota to please others, and who know of nothing in the world that is important enough for haste. I could not live with such people.
At last the tardy witness arrived and we started for the mayor’s office. I was not allowed to escort Eugénie. On that day everything was subordinate to ceremony; a man must be happier on the day after his wedding than on his wedding day.
I have never cared much for ceremonial, and that of my marriage seemed extremely long. To give me courage, I looked at my wife; she was more impressed than I by the solemnity of the moment; she was deeply moved and was weeping. Dear Eugénie! I thought of nothing but loving her forever, and it was certainly not necessary for anyone to order me to do it.
It came to an end at last. We returned to the carriages, still in procession, and through a crowd of curious folk who devoured us with their eyes. I felt more buoyant, happier. I was so glad that it was over!
I spied Giraud and his wife at the church, in full array; they had offered us congratulations which I had not listened to; but I had said to them: “until this evening;” and they replied with a low bow.
We drove to Lointier’s, where a handsome breakfast awaited us. But a wedding breakfast is generally a decidedly gloomy affair. The bride can hardly be expected to laugh, and even when she is happiest, she is thoughtful and talks little; the grandparents are always intent upon preserving their dignity. For my part, I was engrossed, or rather annoyed, by the reflection that it was still early in the day. There were in the party some jokers, or persons who tried to joke; one stout gentleman, a kinsman of my mother, regaled us with some of those superannuated jests concerning the occasion and happiness that awaited us; but his sallies met with no success; nobody laughed at them, and he was forced to keep to himself the ample store of bons mots with which I am sure that he was provided. I was delighted, because I considered such jests very bad form; they should be left for the weddings of concierges or servants; the modesty of a young woman who has but one day of innocence left should be respected; and we should assume innocence in those who have none.