In the rural parts of France the company only rose from table to sit down again, or to dance under the elms. Deep drinking, love, quarrels, broad jests, strange customs, such, for instance, as the _jus primae noctis_, or the drinking-match traditional with the country lads—all this developed a boisterous gaiety. The bridegroom alone groaned under it, for among the middle and lower classes it was the correct thing to invite to one’s wedding as big a crowd as possible. The poor man spent his time running from fiddler to purveyor, ruining himself in presents for his friends and the bridesmaids; he was expected to show everyone a smiling face, to receive his guests, have a word for all, crack jokes, be at everybody’s beck and call, think of everyone but himself, lucky if at an odd moment he could snatch a morsel to eat. When night came he had not even the right of taking his rest; ordeals of every kind lay in wait for him; and in the morning he was bound to go on laughing, to receive more visits, and profess himself the happiest fellow in the world. And then comes the turn of the upholsterers and house-furnishers. “Happily,” he says, “one doesn’t get married every day.” Divorce will never number him among its supporters. Helysenne de Crenne,[33] the great romance-writer, sketches a somewhat analogous picture of the doings in the great world. On some fine sunny morning, when the birds are enlivening all things with song, the groomsmen set out in procession to fetch the bridegroom, and the bridesmaids to escort the bride. She arrives in a blue robe adorned with pearls, a diamond coronet on her head. The festivities, extraordinarily magnificent, last the whole day, concerts and dances forming part of them; the men hover solicitously about the ladies; some of them get up a tilting match, ironically inviting the bridegroom to enter the lists, and his refusal lets loose a flood of pleasantries. At nightfall the couple are solemnly bedded. At this moment, in France, the fun is only just beginning. The house seems verily bewitched: not a bolt catches, not a window but is under a spell; at the most unexpected moment an avalanche of troublesome visitors bursts into the nuptial chamber; the couple spring out of bed; the intruders wax hilarious on the slightest pretext. In her precipitation the bride has perhaps torn a little rent in her shift; a court is at once constituted to try the case, and we may imagine the full-flavoured jests that are bandied about, becoming indeed a little wearisome.