We started at last, however, and on the road we all exerted ourselves to the utmost to divert the bride and make her laugh; but it was all to no purpose.
At Ille supper awaited us, and such a supper! If the vulgar hilarity of the morning had disgusted me, I was fairly sickened by the equivocal remarks and jests which were aimed at the groom, and especially at the bride. M. Alphonse, who had disappeared a moment before taking his place at the table, was as pale as death and as solemn as an iceberg. He kept drinking old Collioure wine, almost as strong as brandy. I was by his side and felt in duty bound to warn him.
“Take care! they say that this wine——”
I have no idea what foolish remark I made, to put myself in unison with the other guests.
He pressed my knee with his and said in a very low tone:
“When we leave the table, let me have a word with you.”
His solemn tone surprised me. I looked at him more closely and noticed the extraordinary change in his expression.
“Are you feeling ill?” I asked him.
“No.”
And he returned to his drinking.