A long table was laid in the dining-room. We took our seats; I was between the old aunt with a nose like a snail’s shell and the tall cousin who had fallen so hard on the stairway; my wife was a mile away from me, between two old uncles with lace cuffs and curly wigs. How we were likely to enjoy ourselves! I expected to see Giraud and his wife at the breakfast, for Giraud had been declaring everywhere that it was he who had arranged Bélan’s marriage. But evidently the mother-in-law had not deemed them worthy of that honor, and we should not see them until evening. The bride kept her eyes on the floor and did not eat. The mother-in-law looked at her daughter, wiped her eyes, and seemed not to realize that there was anybody there. We sat at the table two minutes without touching anything, no one having been requested to serve. Bélan, uncertain whether he was expected to do the honors, glanced at his wife and his mother-in-law in turn, and faltered: “Who is to serve? Does Madame de Beausire desire me to serve?” But Madame de Beausire replied only by blowing her nose and sighing. I looked at my wife; I had such a mad desire to laugh that I dropped my knife and fork on the floor, so that I might indulge it a little while fumbling under the table. I chose to be considered awkward rather than discourteous. At last an old uncle, who had not come to the wedding simply to look at the dishes, although that would have been more dignified than to eat them, drew an enormous pie toward him and gave the signal for the attack. We decided to breakfast, notwithstanding Madame de Beausire’s sighs; but we did it with a decorum and gravity which were interrupted only by the noise of the plates and the forks. When the first edge of the appetite was dulled, some of the uncles and cousins were pleased to indulge in various significant phrases, dwelling upon every word they uttered, as if they considered that necessary in order that we should understand them. Bélan put in a word here and there, but it was not noticed. I discovered that he was trying to lead the conversation around to the subject of poetry. I felt certain that he had written some, or had had some written, and that he did not know how to set to work to recite it. Whenever he reached the subject, an uncle or an aunt would cut him short by speaking of something else. I felt sorry for him and said: “My dear Bélan, has anyone written any poetry for your wedding?” “Yes, just so; I myself have dashed off something in honor of this day, and with your permission, I will----” “What! do you mean to say that you are going to sing, Monsieur de Bélan?” cried Madame de Beausire, with an almost threatening glance at her son-in-law. “For shame, monsieur! what sort of people have you lived with, where it was customary to sing at the table?” “I never had any idea of singing, mother-in-law; nor have I any desire to. I meant simply to recite some verses,--verses which do not in the least degree resemble a song.”