But I almost forgot something else; for since I had thought of nothing but Eugénie from morning until night, it was not surprising that I had not set all my affairs in order. I had once amused myself by painting miniatures of some of the ladies whose letters I had just burned. Those portraits were in the desk upon which I painted; there were eight of them. Should I sacrifice them as well? It would have been a pity; not because of the models, but because the miniatures were really not bad. Why destroy them? In the first place, Eugénie would never see them; and even if she should see them, they were fancy portraits. When one paints from life, one must necessarily paint portraits. So I had mercy upon those ladies, and replaced their pretty faces in the depths of the desk, whence I thought that they would never come forth. Now I had carefully scrutinized and examined everything; nothing was left which could possibly offend Eugénie’s eye. No, she could come there now and reign as mistress; thenceforth no other woman should enter those rooms than such as she should choose to receive. It was time to think about dressing. I thought it would do no harm if I were at my mother’s a little before the hour. If only the carriages did not keep me waiting. But someone entered my room; it was my concierge and his wife, with a big bouquet. Did they think I was going to put it in my buttonhole? The husband came forward with an affable expression and was about to speak, but his wife did not give him time. “Monsieur,” she said, “this is your wedding day; we are very glad to be able to congratulate you on such a happy day, by offering you this bouquet and our compliments; these immortelles are the symbol of your happiness, which will last forever.” While his wife glibly delivered this speech, the concierge tried to slip in a few words, but he did not succeed. I took the bouquet, gave them some money and dismissed them. A wedding day would have little charm if one must submit to many congratulations of that sort. At last a carriage arrived. I went downstairs and passed rapidly before a long line of cooks and some gossiping old women who lived in the house, who were stationed in the courtyard to see me, as if a man who was going to be married had his nose placed otherwise than usual on that day. I was driven to my mother’s, and found that she had just begun to dress. “It isn’t eleven o’clock yet,” she said; “we have plenty of time; go and read the newspaper.” Read the newspaper! just at the moment that I was to be married! I, who could not read one through when I had nothing to do! No, I preferred to remain there, and each five minutes I knocked at the door of her dressing-room to enquire if she were ready.