Bélan’s great day arrived. A carriage came for us, the coachman, and the groom behind, both dressed in apricot livery. I was compelled to admit that that feature already excelled my wedding, and I expected to see some magnificent things. We were to meet at Madame de Beausire’s, where I had never been. It was an old house, on Rue de la Roquette. We passed an old concierge; we ascended an old staircase, upon which rose leaves had been scattered profusely. I was sure that that was an idea of Bélan, and I did not consider it a very happy one, for it nearly caused my wife to fall; but I caught her in time, and she said with a smile: “We were married without rose leaves, my dear.” “Yes, my dear love; it was less romantic, but there was no slipping.” We entered an apartment of extraordinary height, on the first floor. It was so high that I could hardly distinguish the mouldings of the ceiling. We were announced by an old servant, who seemed to have been weeping; perhaps that was a custom of the house. We were ushered into an immense salon, where Bélan, who was doing the honors, produced the impression of a dwarf amid a lot of Patagonians. We discovered a row of old faces, a sort of continuation of the tapestry of which Madame de Beausire had given me a specimen. The men were solemn, sententious and pretentious; the women stiff, affected and painted. There were a few people of our own set, but only a few. I concluded that Bélan had not obtained permission to invite many of his acquaintances. The poor fellow did not seem at his ease amid the Beausire family; he was afraid to be jovial, he dreaded to be dismal; he hovered about his new kindred, who did not talk for fear of compromising their dignity. The groom was delighted when we arrived; he felt more at ease with us. “You will see my wife presently,” he said to us; “just now she is with her mother, who is finishing her toilet, weeping.” “What! is your mother-in-law weeping still?” “Yes, my friend, that woman is a regular fountain.” “But what is she weeping for?” “Grief at separating from her daughter. And yet she does not propose to separate from her, for she declares that she will sleep in the same room with us.” “In the same room? Ha! ha! that is rather strong.” “I swear to you that that is what she says. Indeed, I believe that she hoped that I would not sleep with my wife; but on my word, despite all my respect for Madame de Beausire, I refused to give in on that point, and I think that Armide was glad of it. But here come the ladies.” The bride entered, escorted on one side by an old aunt with a nose like a snail’s shell, and on the other by her mother, who, with her tall, spare figure, her red eyes, and her leaden complexion, really looked like a ghost.