“What is this, my friends! Has the wine which I have drunk made me see double! There are two Venuses here....”
The bridegroom suddenly looked round with an air of alarm which made everybody laugh.
“Yes,” pursued M. de Peyrehorade, “there are two Venuses under my roof. The one, I found in the earth, like a truffle; the other, descended from the skies, has just divided her girdle among us.”
He meant her garter.
“My son, choose which you prefer, the Roman Venus or the Catalan Venus. The rascal takes the Catalan, and his choice is the best. The Roman is black, the Catalan is white. The Roman is cold, the Catalan sets every one who approaches her on fire.”
This conclusion excited such a roar, such noisy applause and such resounding laughter, that I thought the ceiling was going to fall on our heads. Round the table there were only three solemn faces, the young couple’s and my own. I had a bad headache; and besides, for some reason or other, a marriage always depresses me. This one, besides, rather disgusted me.
The last couplets having been sung by the depute mayor—and very free they were, I ought to mention—we went into the drawing-room to witness the retiral of the bride, who was soon to be conducted to her chamber, for it was near midnight. M. Alphonse drew me into a window recess, and said, with averted eyes:
“You will laugh at me.... But I don’t know what is wrong with me.... I am bewitched! Devil take me!”
The first thought which came into my head was that he imagined himself threatened with some misfortune similar to those mentioned by Montaigne and Madame de Sévigné:
“The whole Empire of Love is replete with tragic histories, etc.”