Solange tossed the offending blossoms on the floor and walked out ahead of him. He followed at her side but a step behind, and she stalked with face turned forward out to the street and toward the _mairie_. Yet, in spite of all precautions some wind of her intentions must have got about, for more than one old woman or wounded soldier spoke to her and uttered a blessing and good wishes as she walked along. To all of them she returned greetings in kind, thanking them soberly, but with a lip that trembled. De Launay, rolling behind, was the recipient of curious and doubtful glances, as the man who was taking their Morgan _la fée_ from them. Yet here and there a soldier recognized him and came to a stiff salute, and when this was the case a murmur informing others ran about, and all doubt seemed to die, the greetings growing more cheerful and the blessings being addressed to both of them. This annoyed Solange more than the flowers had done. "Is it that I am honored by having this mercenary drunkard for a husband?" she said to herself. "_Mon Dieu!_ One would think so!" Yet she could find nothing really offensive in his attitude to the affair, unless that he was almost too respectful. She suspected that he had been drinking and that his air was due to the exaggeration induced by liquor--or else, and that was worse--he was deliberately, with drunken humor, making a burlesque of his very deference. The signing of the contract and the ceremony before the _maire_ were successfully completed and De Launay turned to her with a deep bow. The _maire_, puzzled at the utterly emotionless quality of this wedding, congratulated them formally, and Solange acknowledged it with stiff thanks and a smile as stiff and mirthless. But it was to De Launay that the official showed the deepest respect, and that angered her again. Her pride was restored somewhat after they had left the _mairie_ and were on their way back to her rooms. A squat, swarthy individual, in the dingy uniform of the French marines, doffed his cap and stepped up to them, speaking to Solange in French, tinged with a broad Breton accent. "And is it true, Morgan _la fée_," he asked, ducking his head, "that this man has been married to you?" "Why, yes, it is true, Brebon," she answered, kindly. The man looked searchingly into her face, observing the coldness of it. "If it is by your will, mademoiselle," he answered, "it is well. But," and he swung his lowering head on its bull neck toward De Launay, "if this man who has taken you should ever make you regret, you shall let me know, Morgan _la fée_! If he causes you a single tear, I shall make sausage meat out of him with a knife!" Solange shook her head in protest, but just behind her she heard a low laugh from De Launay. "But, _mon brave_," said he, "you would find this one a tough swine to carve!"