The great event at the Maison Darblay came not long ago, when M. Darblay's two charming daughters had a double wedding, each with a comfortable dot, for M. Darblay had grown quite rich out of his restaurant, owning several new houses. The girls were married twice,—once at the Mairie on the Rue Gassendi, and again at the Eglise St. Pierre, on the Avenue du Maine. Then came the great wedding-dinner at the Maison Darblay, to which all the boarders were invited. The tables were all connected, so as to make two long rows. The bridal-party were seated at the end next the kitchen, and the front door was locked to exclude strangers. M. Darblay was elegant in a new dress suit and white shirt, but his tailor, in trying to give him a trim figure, made the situation embarrassing, as M. Darblay's girth steadily increased during the progress of the banquet. He made a very fine speech, which was uproariously cheered.
Madame Darblay was remarkably handsome in a red satin gown, and bore so distinguished an air, and looked so transformed from her usual kitchen appearance, that we could only marvel and admire. Then came the kissing of the brides, a duty that was performed most heartily. Madame Darblay was very happy and proud, and her dinner was a triumph to have lived for.
Bishop sat opposite the wicked Mademoiselle Brunerye, and he and she made violent love, and behaved with conspicuous lack of dignity. M. Fontaine, the great, had one of the chic milliners for partner. Old M. Decamp told some racy stories of the old régime. When the coffee and liqueurs came on, the big artist brought out a guitar and the poet a mandolin, and we had music. Then the poet read a poem that he had written for the occasion. The actresses sang their sprightliest songs. Mademoiselle Brunerye sang "Ça fait toujours plaisir" to Bishop. M. Fontaine gave in a dramatic manner a scene from "Les Deux Gosses," the heavy villain assisting, the cook's aprons and towels serving to make the costumes. Bishop sang "Down on the Farm." In short, it was a splendid evening in Bohemia, of a kind that Bohemians enjoy and know how to make the most of.
There was one silent guest, the strange young Hungarian artist. He ate with a ravenous appetite, openly and unashamed. After he had had his fill (and Madame Darblay saw to it that he found his plate always replenished), he smiled occasionally at the bright sallies of the other guests, but for the most part he sat constrained, and would speak only when addressed,—he protested that his French was too imperfect. It was so evident that he wished to escape notice entirely that no serious effort was made to draw him out.