Behind us, at some distance--in fact, as far off as we could manage--the gravel crackled beneath the equal tread of the two elders, and in a murmur we could catch occasional scraps of sentences: “A granddaughter like Jeanne, Monsieur Charnot....” “A grandson like Fabien, Monsieur Mouillard....” CHAPTER XX. A HAPPY FAMILY PARIS, September 18th. We are married. We are just back from the church. We have said good-by to all our friends, not without a quick touch or two of sadness, as quickly swallowed up in the joy which for the first time in the history of my heart is surging there at full tide, and widening to a limitless horizon. In the two hours I have to spare before starting for Italy, I am writing the last words in this brown diary, which I do not intend to take with me. Jeanne, my own Jeanne, is leaning upon me and reading over my shoulder, which distracts the flow of my recollections. There were crowds at the church. The papers had put us down among the fashionable marriages of the week. The Institute, the army, men of letters, public officials, had come out of respect for M. Charnot; lawyers of Bourges and Paris had come out of respect for my uncle. But the happiest, the most radiant, next to ourselves, were the people who came only for Jeanne’s sake and mine; Sylvestre Lampron, painter-in-ordinary to Mademoiselle Charnot, bringing his pretty sketch as a wedding-present; M. Flamaran and Sidonie; Jupille, who wept as he used to “thirty years ago;” and M. and Madame Plumet, who took it in turns to carry their white-robed infant. Jeanne and I certainly shook hands with a good many persons, but not with nearly as many as M. Mouillard. Clean-shaven, his cravat tied with exquisite care, he spun round in the crowd like a top, always dragging with him some one who was to introduce him to some one else. “One should make acquaintances immediately on arrival,” he kept saying. Yes, Uncle Mouillard has just arrived in Paris; he has settled down near us on the Quai Malaquais, in a pretty set of rooms which Jeanne chose for him. He thinks them perfect because she thought they would do. The tastes and interests of old student days have suddenly reawakened within him, and will not be put to sleep again. He already knows the omnibus and tramway lines better than I; he talks of Bourges as if it were twenty years since he left it: “When I used to live in the country, Fabien--” My father-in-law has found in him a whole-hearted admirer, perhaps even a future pupil in numismatics. Their friendship makes me think of that-- [“You don’t mind, Jeanne?” “Of course not, my dear; the brown diary is for our two selves alone.” J.] --of that of the town mouse and the country mouse. Just now, on their way back to the house, they had a conversation, by turns pathetic and jovial, in which their different temperaments met in the same feeling, but at opposite ends of the scale of its shades. I caught this fragment of their talk: