And smiling at the thought, Savin went on his way. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII. THE WEDDING. The day of Suzanne’s wedding came, bringing with it no change for the better in the home of the Barraus. Hostility still existed. Savin was as usual sad at heart, and Catherine was visibly indifferent and disdainful. She always dressed in excellent taste and in attire that, however simple, accentuated her extraordinary beauty. Formerly the D’Angerolles had known luxury and affluence, and Catherine had inherited a becoming air of stateliness. Her dignity and grace made her the acknowledged belle of the province. As Savin gazed upon her he could not conceal his admiration, and gently laying his hand on her shoulder he said: “Naughty little woman, you have no equal if you would but consent to listen to reason.” But Catherine remained mute and indifferent to his caress. Savin courteously opened the door for her to pass out, and soon they were on their way to the _fête_. Any one seeing them as they walked together, he with his military air and remarkable physique, and she enveloped in a white mantle which set off her queenly figure to the best advantage, would have been tempted to exclaim: “What a fine couple!” as indeed they were. Before the blacksmith’s shop Fadard, with his hands in his pockets, was whistling a hunter’s song. An expression of malice dominated his features, but when the Barraus passed by he saluted them with a smile that succeeded in its attempt to be sarcastic. “Good-morning, Fadard,” returned Savin. “You seem in better spirits than when I last saw you.” Fadard said nothing, but he continued to smile in a supercilious manner. Catherine glanced at him. Their eyes met and the young woman read a sort of challenge in his look. He was ready to go to the wedding, but he was waiting for Andoche, who had not yet completed his toilet. “Bah! how I hate water,” muttered Andoche. “The bother of going to _fêtes_ is that one must souse in water. I never drink the stuff and I heartily dislike to handle it. Thank fortune, I am ready,” he said at length as he arranged his necktie. “Let’s be off.” In front of the conjugal cottage many of the guests had assembled, and a bevy of boys and girls merrily danced and frolicked on the green, while the old fogies, calmly seated under the trees, discussed the frivolity of the young and the wisdom of the old. Within the cottage all was confusion. Nothing seemed to be in place. The babel of voices and scampering of feet were fairly deafening. The merrymakers continued to arrive. Two or three ancient carry-alls, weighted down with village boys and girls who were shouting at the top of their voices, drove up and discharged their load at the cottage door. Greetings and embraces followed, and all gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the hour.