“I do not see that I have said anything to you that----” “Oh! mon Dieu! let us drop the subject. You might conclude that I attach great value to memories of you, and you would be much mistaken. But how fine you are! Are you going to a wedding?” “Just so; I have been one of a wedding party since morning, and I came here for a walk while the bride is dressing herself for the ball.” “Oho! you are a wedding guest to-day! Is the bride pretty?” “Lovely.” “A widow or unmarried?” “Unmarried.” “How old?” “Twenty years.” “Has she--you know what?” “I can tell you that better to-morrow, if I should happen to see you.” “Are you the best man?” “Better than that.” “Better than that! What! Do you mean--Oh, no! that is impossible. You are not going to be married?” “Why is it impossible?” “Because you don’t do such crazy things as that.” “I don’t know whether marriage is always a crazy thing, but I can assure you that I was married this morning, and that, far from regretting it, I congratulate myself upon it.” “Oh! if it was only this morning, that is easy to understand.--What! are you really married, Henri? Ha! ha! how amusing it is!” “What is there so amusing about it?” “Ha! ha! ha! Poor Henri! You are married! Upon my word, I can’t get over it. But I promise you that it gives me the very greatest pleasure! Ha! ha! ha!” Lucile’s sneering laughter had an ironical note that began to irritate me. I bowed to her and turned away, but she detained me. “By the way, one moment, monsieur; it is probable that I shall not have the pleasure of talking with you again for a long time, for a married man doesn’t go out without his wife. So yours is very pretty, is she?” “Yes.” “And are you very much in love with her?” “More than I have ever been.” “Oh! how frank!” “Why shouldn’t I say what I think?” “To be sure. Then you must try to make her love you more than you have ever been loved. Ha! ha!” “I think that that will not be difficult.” “Do you think so? You may be mistaken.” “Excuse me, madame, if I leave you; but my wife must have finished dressing, and I must return for her.” “If _your wife_ is waiting for you, why, go, monsieur; and see to it that she never waits for anybody else. Ha! ha!” I saw that Lucile had not forgiven me. I left her. I was unable to conceal the vexation that that woman caused me to feel. I jumped into the carriage which took me back to Eugénie. She was waiting for me; the sight of her, a single word from her lips, speedily dissipated that slight cloud. Eugénie was dazzling; her charms, her graces, her lovely dress, everything combined to add fascination to her aspect. I took her hand. “It is time to go to the ball; let us start,” said Madame Dumeillan and my mother. I held Eugénie’s hand, I was looking at my wife, and I had forgotten everything else.