Over the man and woman kneeling at the steps the priest outstretched his hands, and pronounced the benediction.
When he had concluded a gabbled exhortation and premonishment, they rose. The weary-eyed man regained his feet quickly, gazing a trifle sadly at his companion, while the latter, with a scarcely perceptible sigh, got up slowly, and affectionately embraced her newly-wedded husband.
As the bride placed her arms about her husband’s neck, he bent, and, lifting her black veil slightly, gave her a fond, passionate caress.
Turning from the altar, the priest grasped their hands, wishing them health and happiness. What bitter irony! what a canting pretence of humanity! As if either could be obtained in New Caledonia, the malarial island to which the French transport their criminals. The ill-timed sarcasm caused the statuesque warders to grin, but a tear stood in the eye of more than one of the bridegroom’s comrades in adversity, even though they were desperate characters, hardened by crime.
“We thank you heartily for your kind wishes,” he replied, “and trust that your blessing will render our lot less wearisome.”
The convict’s bride remained silent, gazing about her unconcernedly.
“Come,” exclaimed the officer, rising abruptly, “we must not linger; already we have lost too much time.”
After the register had been signed, the husband again kissed his wife. As she raised her lips to his, he whispered a few words, as if to reassure her, then said aloud—
“Farewell, dearest. In seven years I shall be free. Till then, au revoir, sans adieu!”
“Sans adieu!” she echoed in a low voice, apparently unmoved.