This deliverance caused such an uproar, such noisy applause and such roars of laughter, that I thought that the ceiling would fall on our heads. There were only three sober faces at the table--those of the bride and groom, and my own. I had a terrible headache; and then, for some unknown reason, a wedding always depresses me. This one, in addition, disgusted me more or less. The last couplets having been sung by the mayor’s deputy--and they were very free, I must say--we went to the salon to make merry over the retirement of the bride, who was soon to be escorted to her chamber, for it was near midnight. M. Alphonse led me into a window recess, and said to me, averting his eyes: “You will laugh at me, but I don’t know what the matter is with me; I am bewitched! the devil has got hold of me!” The first idea that came to my mind was that he believed himself to be threatened by some misfortune of the sort of which Montaigne and Madame de Sévigné speak: “The sway of love is always full of tragic episodes,” etc. “I supposed that accidents of that sort happened only to men of intellect,” I said to myself.--“You have drunk too much Collioure wine, my dear Monsieur Alphonse,” I said aloud. “I warned you.” “Yes, that may be. But there is something much more terrible than that.” He spoke in a halting voice. I concluded that he was downright tipsy. “You remember my ring?” he continued, after a pause. “Well! has it been stolen?” “No.” “Then you have it?” “No--I--I can’t take it off that infernal Venus’s finger!” “Nonsense! you didn’t pull hard enough.” “Yes, I did. But the Venus--she has bent her finger.” He looked me in the eye with a haggard expression, leaning against the window-frame to avoid falling. “What a fable!” I said. “You pushed the ring on too far. To-morrow you can recover it with a pair of pincers. But take care that you don’t injure the statue.” “No, I tell you. The Venus’s finger is drawn in, bent; she has closed her hand--do you understand? She is my wife, apparently, as I have given her my ring. She refuses to give it back.” I felt a sudden shiver, and for a moment I was all goose-flesh. Then, as he heaved a profound sigh, he sent a puff of alcoholic fumes into my face, and all my emotion vanished. “The wretch is completely drunk,” I thought. “You are an antiquary, monsieur,” continued the bridegroom in a piteous tone; “you know all about these statues; perhaps there is some spring, some devilish contrivance that I don’t know about. Suppose you were to go out and look?” “Willingly,” I said; “come with me.” “No, I prefer that you should go alone.” I left the salon.