Pierre Ducal approached to greet her. As he bowed, I noticed an uneven pleat in her gown. He straightened up and looked at me. I thought that I read his meaning: “That gown is certainly not a Maulet creation.” I realise that I am laying too much stress on impressions that were almost imperceptible, which slipped and fled away almost as soon as they were born. They indicated nevertheless the existence of that invisible crack in our happiness which made it the most vulnerable, the easiest to break. The sky was of that delicate tint which it assumes in mountainous countries at the end of the season, changing from pale blue to a pearl grey, as though by its transparency it was announcing the coming of snow. Raymonde, in order that we might be together in thought each moment of this unique day, had asked me to read the marriage service. “You will see,” she said, “how beautiful the Liturgy is.” I read it then. Since her death I have many times reread the words of St. Paul: “Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church. He that loveth his wife loveth himself. For no man ever yet hated his own flesh; but nourisheth and cherisheth it, even as Christ also the church: because we are members of his body. They two shall become one flesh--” I understood, I realised for one moment at least, that miracle of immortal love, which dares to brave time and because of its injuries from the union of body and soul, arrives at unity, order and peace. Yes, I understood that in loving Raymonde and in Raymonde’s love, I loved my better self, the heart of my heart, that which lives on in us after our youth is fled, that which, in each one of us, is part of the living Spirit of God. I had closed my Book of Hours. The thoughts which came to me were as refreshing as the living waters. I felt a kind of ecstasy. We were on our knees, and my bride signed to me to rise with her. I embraced her with my look, as though she were an object of infinite value, of which the internal charm exceeds by a thousand times the visible beauty. She smiled at me with perfect confidence, and at this moment we exchanged the mystic promise which includes in anticipation the sacramental “Yes.” A slight movement brought Pierre Ducal within my range of vision. I knew well the subtle smile which hollowed his cheeks. He was amusing himself, collecting anecdotes, already preparing an interesting story in which I was to figure as a first communicant. I felt it intuitively. Seized suddenly by fear of becoming ridiculous, I studied my actions. The ecstasy did not return. I placed the wedding ring on my bride’s finger with the indifference of some trivial mechanical duty.