Chapter 20. The Wedding-Party

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_ CHAPTER XX. THE WEDDING-PARTY

It was a summer morning. The pedler and his comrade were up before daybreak. One was sweeping and dusting, with as little noise as possible, careful not to disturb his companion, who was established at the open window. The sky was the cloudless one of June, pale blue with a faint tinge of rose still lingering in the east, that could be seen between the chimneys. In front of Jack was a zinc roof, which, when the sun was in mid-heaven, became a terrible mirror. At this moment it reflected faintly the tints of the sky, so that the tall chimneys looked like the masts of a vessel floating on a glittering sea. Below was heard the noise from the poultry owned by the various inhabitants of the Faubourg. Suddenly a cry was heard: "Madame Jacob! Madame Mathieu! Here is your bread."

It was four o'clock. The labors of the day had begun. The woman whose daily business it was to supply that quarter with bread from the baker's had begun her rounds. Her basket was filled with loaves of all sizes, sweet-smelling and warm. She carries them all through the corridors, placing them at the corners of the various doors; her shrill voice aroused the sleepers; doors opened and shut; childish voices uttered cries of joy, and little bare feet pattered to meet the good woman, and returned hugging a loaf as big as themselves, with that peculiar gesture that you see in the poor people who come out of the bake-shops, and which shows the thoughtful observer what that hard-earned bread signifies to them.

All the world is now astir; windows are thrown open, even those where the lamps have burned the greater part of the night. At one sits a sad-faced woman, at a sewing-machine, aided by a little girl, who hands her the several pieces of her work. At another a young girl, with hair already neatly braided, is carefully cutting a slice of bread for her slender breakfast, watching that no crumb shall fall on the floor she swept at daybreak. Further on is a window shaded by a large red curtain to keep off the reflection from the zinc roof. All these rooms open on the other side into a dark and ugly house of enormous size. But the student heeds nothing but his work. One sound only depresses him at times, and that is the voice of an old woman, who says every morning, before the noises of the street have begun, "How happy people ought to be who can go to the country on a day like this!" To whom does the poor woman utter these words, day after day? To the whole world, to herself, or only to the canary, whose cage, covered with fresh leaves, she hangs on the shutters? Perhaps she is talking to her flowers. Jack never knew, but he is much of her opinion, and would gladly echo her words; for his first waking thoughts turn toward a tranquil village street, toward a little green door, Jack has just reached this point in his reverie when a rustle of silk is heard, and the handle of his door rattles.

"Turn to the right," said Belisaire, who was making the coffee.

The handle is still aimlessly rattled. Belisaire, with the coffee-pot in his hand, impatiently throws it open, and Charlotte rushes in. Belisaire, stupefied at this inundation of flounces, feathers, and laces, bows again and again, while Jack's mother, who does not recognize him, excuses herself, and retreats toward the door.

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said; "I made a mistake."

At the sound of her voice Jack rises from his chair in astonishment

"Mother!" he cried.

She ran to him and took refuge in his arms.

"Save me, my child, save me! That man, for whom I have sacrificed everything,--my life and that of my child,--has beaten me cruelly. This morning, when he came in after two days' absence, I ventured to make some observation; I thought I had a right to speak. He flew into a frightful passion, and--"

The end of her sentence was lost in a torrent of tears and in convulsive sobs. Belisaire had retired at her first words, and discreetly closed the door after him. Jack looks at his mother, full of terror and pity. How pale and how changed she is! In the clear light of the young day the marks of time are clearly visible on her face, and the gray hairs, that she has not taken the trouble to conceal, shine like silver on her blue-veined temples. Without any attempt at controlling her emotion, she speaks without restraint, pouring forth all her wrongs.

"How I have suffered, Jack! He passes his life now at the cafes and in dissipation. Did you know that, when he went to Indret with that money, I was there in the village, and crazy to see you? He reproaches me with the bread you ate under his roof, and yet--yes, I will tell you what I never meant you to know--I had ten thousand francs of yours that were given to me for you exclusively. Well, D'Argenton put them into his Review; I know that he meant to pay you large interest, but the ten thousand francs have been swallowed up with all the others, and when I asked him if he did not intend to account to you for them, do you know what he did? He drew up a long bill of all that he has paid for you. Your board at Etiolles, that amounts to fifteen thousand francs. But he does not ask you to pay the difference; is not that very generous?" and Charlotte laughed sarcastically. "I tell you I have borne everything," she continued,--"the rages he has fallen into on your account, and the mean way in which he has talked with his friends of the affair at Indret; as if your innocence had never been fully established!

"And then to leave me in ignorance of his where-abouts, to spend his time with some countess in the Faubourg St. Germaine,--for those women are all crazy about him,--and then to receive my reproaches with such disdain, and finally to strike me! Me, Ida de Barancy! This was too much. I dressed, and put on my hat, and then I went to him. I said, 'Look at me, M. d'Argenton; look at me well; it is the last time that you will see me; I am going to my child.' And then I came away."

Jack had listened in silence to these revelations, growing paler and paler, and so filled with shame for the woman who narrated them that he could not look at her. When she had finished, he took her hand gently, and with much sweetness, but also with much solemnity, he said,--

"I thank you for having come to me, dear mother. Only one thing was lacking to complete my happiness, and that was your presence. Now take care! I shall never allow you to leave me."

"Leave you! No, Jack; we will always live together--we two. You know I told you that the day would come when I should need you. It has come now."

Under her son's caresses she became tranquillized. There came an occasional sob, like a child who has wept for a long time.

"You see," she said, "how happy we may be. I owe you much care and tenderness. I feel now that I can breathe freely. Your room is bare and small, but it seems to me like Paradise itself."

This brief summary of the apartment regarded by Belisaire as so magnificent, disturbed Jack somewhat as to the future; but he had no time now for discussions; he had but half an hour before he must leave, and he must decide at once on something definite. He must consult Belisaire, whom he heard patiently pacing the corridor, and who would have waited until nightfall without once knocking to see if the interview was over.

"Belisaire, my mother has come to live with me; how shall we manage?"

Belisaire started as he thought, "And now the marriage must be postponed, for Jack will not be one of our little menage!"

But he concealed his disappointment, and exerted himself to suggest some plan that would relieve his friend of present embarrassment. It was decided finally that he should relinquish the room to Jack and his mother and find for himself a closet to sleep in, depositing his stock of hats and his furniture with Madame Weber.

Jack presented his friend to Belisaire, who remembered very well the fair lady at Aulnettes, and at once placed himself for the day at the service of Ida de Barancy; for "Charlotte" was no more heard of. A bed must be purchased, a couple of chairs, and a dressing-bureau. Jack took from the drawer where he kept his savings three or four gold pieces which he gave his mother.

"You know," he said, "that if marketing is disagreeable to you, good Madame Weber will attend to the dinners."

"Not at all; Belisaire will simply tell me where to go. I intend to do everything for you; you will see the nice little dinner I shall have ready for you when you come back to-night."

She had laid aside her shawl, rolled up her sleeves, and was all ready to begin her work. Jack, delighted to see her so energetic, embraced her with his whole heart, and left his room in a very joyous frame of mind. With what courage he toiled all day! The present unfortunate career and hopeless future of his mother had troubled him for some time, and marred his joys and his hopes. To what depth of degradation would D'Argenton compel her to sink! To what end was she destined! Now all was changed. Ida, tenderly protected by his filial love, would become worthy of her whom she would some day call "my daughter."

It seemed to Jack, moreover, that this event in some way diminished the distance between Cecile and himself, and he smiled to himself as he thought of it. But after his work, as he drew near his home, he was seized by a panic. Should he find his mother there? He knew with what promptitude Ida gave wings to her fancies and caprices, and he feared lest she had felt the temptation to re-tie the knot so hastily broken. But on the staircase this dread vanished. Above all the noises of the house he heard a fresh, clear voice singing like a lark. Jack stood on the threshold in mute amazement. Thoroughly freshened and cleaned, with Belisaire's goods gone, and with the addition of a pretty bed and dainty dressing-bureau, the room looked like a different place. There were flowers on the chimney, and the table was spread with a white cloth, on which stood a tempting-looking pie and a bottle of wine. Ida, in an embroidered skirt and loose sack, a little cap mounted on the top of her puffs, hardly looked like herself.

"Well!" she said, running to meet him; "and what do you think of it!"

"It is altogether charming. And how quick you have been!"

"Yes; Belisaire helped me, and his nice widow also. I have invited them to dine with us."

"But what will you do for dishes?"

"You will see. I have bought a few, and our neighbors on the other side have lent me some. They are very obliging also."

Jack, who had never thought these people particularly complaisant, opened his eyes wide.

"But this is not all. I went to buy this pie at a place where they sell them fifteen cents less than anywhere else. It was so far, however, that I had to take a carriage to return."

This was thoroughly characteristic. A carriage at two francs to save fifteen cents! She evidently knew where the best things were to be found.

The bread came from the Vienna bakery, and the coffee and dessert from the _Palais Royale_. Jack listened with a sinking heart. She saw that something was wrong.

"Have I spent too much?" she asked.

"No, I think not,--for one occasion," he answered, with same hesitation.

"But I have not been extravagant. Look here," she said, and she showed him a long green book; "in this I mean to keep my accounts. I will show my entries to you after dinner."

Belisaire and Madame Weber with her child now entered the room. It was truly delicious to see the airs of condescension with which Ida received them; but her manner was withal so kind that they were soon entirely at their ease.

Belisaire was somewhat out of spirits, for he saw that his marriage must be indefinitely postponed, as he had lost his "comrade." Ah, one may well compare the events of this world to the see-saws arranged by children, which lifts one of the players, while the other at the same time feels all the hardness of the earth below. Jack mounted toward the light, while his companion descended toward the implacable reality. To begin with, the person called Belisaire--who should in reality have been named Resignation, Devotion, or Patience--was now obliged to relinquish his pleasant room and sleep in a closet, the only place on that floor; not for worlds would he have gone farther from Madame Weber.

Their guests gone, and Jack and his mother alone, she was astonished to see him bring out a pile of books.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I am going to study." And he then told her of the double life he led; of his hopes, and the reward that was held out to him at the end. Until then he had never confided them to her, fearing that she would inform D'Argenton, whom he utterly distrusted, and he feared that in some way his happiness would be compromised. But now that his mother belonged to him alone, he could speak to her of Cecile and of his supreme joy. Jack talked with enthusiasm of his love, but soon saw that his mother did not understand him. She had a certain amount of sentiment, but love had not the same signification for her that it had for him. She listened to him with the same interest that she would have felt in the third act at the _Gymnase_, when the _Ingenue_ in a white dress, with rose-colored ribbons, listened to the declaration of a lover with frizzed hair. She was pleased with the spectacle as presented by her son, and said two or three times, "How nice! how very nice! It makes me think of Paul and Virginia!"

Fortunately, lovers, when speaking of their passion, listen to the echoes of their words in their own hearts, and Jack, thus absorbed, heard none of the commonplace comments of his mother.

Jack had been living a week in this way when, one evening, Belisaire came to meet him with a radiant face. "We are to be married at once! Madame Weber has found a 'comrade.'"

Jack, who had been the unintentional cause of his friend's disappointment, was equally well pleased. This pleasure, however, did not last; for, on seeing "the comrade," he received a most unpleasant impression. The man was tall and powerfully built, but the expression of his face was far from agreeable.

The great day arrived at last. Among the middle classes, a day is generally given to the civil marriage, another to the wedding at the church; but the people to whom time is money cannot afford this. So they generally take Saturday for the two ceremonies.

Belisaire's wedding, therefore, occurred on that day, and was really one of the most imposing of the many processions they met on their way to the municipality. Although the white dress of the bride was missing, Madame Weber, in her quality of widow, wore a dress of brilliant blue of that bright indigo shade so dear to persons who like solid colors; a many-hued shawl was carefully folded on her arm, and a superb cap, ornamented with ribbons and flowers, displayed her beaming peasant face. She walked by the side of Belisaire's father, a little dried-up old man, with a hooked nose and abrupt movements, and a perpetual cough that his new daughter-in-law endeavored to soothe by rubbing his back with considerable violence. These repeated frictions somewhat disturbed the dignity of the wedding procession.

Belisaire came next, giving his arm to his sister, whose nose was as hooked as her father's. Belisaire himself looked almost handsome; he led by one hand Madame Weber's little child. Then came a crowd of relatives and friends, and finally Jack, Madame de Barancy being unwilling to do more than honor the wedding-dinner with her presence. This repast was to take place at Vincennes.

When the train that brought the party reached the restaurant, the room engaged by Belisaire was still occupied. This gave them time to look at the lake and to amuse themselves with examining the crowd of merrymakers. They were dancing and singing, playing blind-man's-buff and innumerable other games; under the trees a girl was mending the flounces of a bride's dress. O, those white dresses! With what joy those girls let them drag over the lawn, imagining themselves for that one occasion women of fashion. It is precisely this illusion that the people seek in their hours of amusement: a pretence of riches, a momentary semblance of the envied and happy of this earth.

Belisaire's party were too hungry to be gay, and they hailed with joy the announcement that dinner was ready at last. The table was laid in one of those large rooms whose walls were frescoed in faded colors, and whose size was apparently increased by innumerable mirrors. At each end of the table was a huge bouquet of artificial orange blossoms, a centrepiece of pink and white sugar, and ornaments of the same, which had officiated at many a wedding-dinner in the previous six months. They took their seats in solemn silence, though Madame do Barancy had not yet arrived.

The guests were somewhat intimidated by the black-coated waiters, who disdainfully looked at these poor people who were dining at a dollar per head, a sum which each one of the guests thought of with respect, and envied Belisaire who could afford such an extravagant entertainment. The waiters were, however, filled with profound contempt, which they expressed by winks at each other, invisible however to the guests.

Belisaire had just at his side one of these gentlemen, who filled him with holy horror; another, opposite behind his wife's chair, watched him so disagreeably that the good man scarcely dared lift his eyes from the _carte_,--on which, among familiar words like ducks, chickens, and beans, appeared the well-known names of generals, towns, and battles--Marengo, Richelieu, and so on. Belisaire, like the others, was stupefied, the more so when two plates of soup were presented with the question, "Bisque, or Puree de Crecy?" Or two bottles: "Xeres, or Pacaset, sir?"

They answered at hazard as one does in some of those society games where you are requested to select one of two flowers. In fact, the answer was of little consequence since both plates contained the same tasteless mixture. There was so much ceremony that the dinner threatened to be very dull, and interminable as well, from the indecision of the guests as to the dishes they should accept. It was Madame Weber's clear head and decided hand that cut this Gordian knot. She turned to her child. "Eat everything," she said, "it costs us enough."

These words of wisdom had their effect on the whole assembly, and after a little the table was gay enough. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Ida de Barancy entered, smiling and charming.

"A thousand pardons, my friends, but I had a carriage that crept."

She wore her most beautiful dress, for she rarely had an opportunity nowadays of making a toilette, and produced a most extraordinary effect. The way in which she took her seat by Belisaire, and put her gloves in a wineglass, the manner in which she signed to one of the waiters to bring her the carte, overwhelmed the assembly with admiration. It was delightful to see her order about those imposing waiters. One of them she had recognized, the one who terrified Belisaire so much. "You are here then, now!" she said carelessly; and shook her bracelets, and kissed her hand to her son, asked for a footstool, some ice, and eau-de-Seltz, and soon knew the resources of the establishment.

"But, good heavens, you are not very gay here!" she cried suddenly. She rose, took her plate in one hand, her glass in the other. "I ask permission to change places with Madame Belisaire; I am quite sure that her husband will not complain."

This was done with much grace and consideration. The little Weber uttered a shout of indignation on seeing his mother rise from her chair, and all this noise and confusion soon changed the previous stiffness and restraint into laughs and gayety. The waiters went round and round the table executing marvellous feats, serving twenty persons from one duck so adroitly carved and served that each one had as much as he wanted. And the peas fell like hail on the plates; and the beans--prepared at one end of the table with salt, pepper, and butter; and such butter!--were mixed by a waiter who smiled maliciously as he stirred the fell combination.

At last the champagne came. With the exception of Ida, not one person there knew anything more of this wine than the name; and champagne signified to them riches, gay dinners, and gorgeous festivals. They talked about it in a low voice, waited and watched for it. Finally, at dessert, a waiter appeared with a silver-capped bottle that he proceeded to open. Ida, who never lost an opportunity of making a sensation and assuming an attitude, put her pretty hands over her ears, but the cork came out like any other cork; the waiter, holding the bottle high, went around the table very quickly. The bottle was inexhaustible; each person had some froth and a few drops at the bottom of the glass, which he drank with respect, and even believed that there was still more in the bottle. It did not matter: the magic of the word champagne had produced its effect, and there is so much French gayety in the least particle of its froth that an astonishing animation at once pervaded the assembly. A dance was proposed; but music costs so much!

"Ah! if we only had a piano," said Ida de Barancy, with a sigh, at the same time moving her fingers on the table as if she knew how to play. Belisaire disappeared for a few moments, but soon returned with a village musician, who was ready to play until morning. Jack and his mother at first felt out of their element in the noisy romp that ensued, but Ida finally organized a cotillon, and the rustling of her silk skirts and the jangling of her bracelets filled the souls of the younger women with admiration and jealousy. Meanwhile the night wore on, the little Weber was asleep wrapped in a shawl on a sofa in the corner. Jack had made many signs to Ida, who pretended not to understand, carried away as she was by the pleasure and happiness about her. Jack was like an old father who is anxious to take his daughter home from a ball.

"It is late," he said.

"Wait, dear," was her answer. At length, however, he seized her cloak, and wrapping it around her, drew her away. There was no train at that hour, and indeed no omnibus; fortunately a fiacre was passing, which they hailed. But the newly married pair decided to return on foot through the Bois de Vincennes. The fresh morning air was delicious after the heat of the restaurant; the child slept sweetly on Belisaire's shoulder, and did not even awake when he was placed in his bed. Madame Belisaire threw aside her wedding-dress, assumed a plainer one, and at once entered on the duties of the day. _

Read next: Chapter 21. Effects Of Poetry

Read previous: Chapter 19. The Convalescent

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