At last Pélagie appeared, escorted by her aunt and my sister. Her dress was magnificent, and her face even prettier than usual. The compliments began anew. I listened to them now with more pleasure; the presence of a pretty woman always suggests compliments to me, and I was not displeased by the admiration my bride aroused.
I hastened forward to take her hand; she kept her eyes fixed on the floor and seemed to have resolved not to raise them during the day. I led her toward the door and to the carriage, heedless of the remonstrances of her aunt and my sister, who called after us:
“That isn’t right! wait! wait! It isn’t your place to take her hand! You’re disarranging the programme!”
I cared not a whit for the programme. Madame de Pontchartrain almost lost her temper; my sister calmed her by attributing my heedlessness to my excessive love. We entered the carriages, which process took nearly ten minutes, because, in the first place, no one would get in first, and then no one would take the rear seat. I had to hold myself hard to refrain from pushing them all into the carriages—the ceremonious idiots, who stood an hour on the steps! Poor lovers, who marry in the provinces, how your tempers are tried! At last we were all seated. Déneterre was compelled to walk with the children, who had already torn the trimming of three dresses and stained several white satin shoes with mud. Really, the little rascals were most amusing!
We arrived at the mayor’s office. As there is seldom a line of people waiting to be married in provincial towns, we were not obliged to wait an hour for our turn. The ceremony was performed quickly enough, and I was married according to law; there was no drawing back.
To reach the church we had to repeat the same nonsense with respect to the carriages; it took even longer to arrange the order of march, for several people had joined us at the mayor’s office, and the procession was swelled by three sedan chairs and two Bath chairs. My wedding had stirred the town to its centre; the church was filled with people, and we could scarcely force our way through the crowd. Those who were not of the wedding party had come to criticise, those who were, to admire; and the idlers, loiterers, working girls, matrons, and old women, to say their say concerning the bride and groom.
Everybody knows what a marriage is, for it is easy to procure the pleasures of marriage in Paris. I will not therefore go into the details of mine; it resembled others as to form, and several times I heard some such words as:
“That’s a pretty couple; they are both very good-looking.”
A body always likes to hear such remarks.
At last the fatal yes was pronounced. Pélagie said it so low that nobody could have heard her; for my part, I showed much firmness. We had a sermon preached to us—a little long, perhaps, but very touching and moving. How can one fail to be moved when one is pledging one’s self for life?—I glanced at Pélagie; she did not weep; her eyes were cast down, her manner was as reserved, her demeanor as modest as usual, and she showed no more than her ordinary emotion. That vexed me; it seemed to me that she should have wept.