Pot Luck Page 20

  ‘Oh, your prayer-book!’ cried Madame Josserand suddenly, in a tone of despair.

  They had already got into the carriages. Angèle was obliged to go back and fetch the prayer-book bound in white velvet. At last they started. The whole household was there to see them off, including the maids and the concierges. Marie Pichon had come down with Lilitte, dressed as if about to go for a walk; the sight of the bride, looking so pretty in her wedding dress, touched her to tears. Monsieur Gourd remarked that the people on the second floor were the only ones who had not budged—a queer set of lodgers, who always behaved differently from other people!

  At Saint-Roch both big doors had been thrown open, and a red carpet extended as far as the pavement. It was raining, and the air was very chilly on this May morning.

  ‘Thirteen steps,’ whispered Madame Juzeur to Valérie, as they entered. ‘That’s a bad sign.’

  As soon as the procession moved up the aisle between the row of chairs towards the altar, on which the candles burned like stars, the organ overhead burst into a paean of joy. It was a comfortable, pleasant-looking church, with its large white windows edged with yellow and pale blue, its dadoes of red marble on the walls and the pillars, its gilded pulpit supported by the four Evangelists, and its side chapels glittering with gold plate. The roof was enlivened by paintings of operatic scenes; crystal chandeliers hung from it, suspended by long cords. As the ladies passed over the broad gratings of the heating apparatus a warm breath penetrated their skirts.

  ‘Are you sure you’ve got the ring?’ Madame Josserand asked Auguste, who was taking his seat with Berthe before the altar.

  He was most anxious, afraid that he had forgotten it, but then felt it in his waistcoat pocket. However, she had not waited for an answer. From the moment she had entered she had been standing on tiptoe, scrutinizing the congregation: Trublot and Gueulin, the best men; uncle Bachelard and Campardon, the bride’s witnesses; Duveyrier and Doctor Juillerat, witnesses for the bridegroom; and the great crowd of acquaintances of whom she felt so proud. She had just caught sight of Octave, who was doing his utmost to make room for Madame Hédouin to pass. She drew him aside behind a pillar, and hastily whispered something to him. The young man, a look of bewilderment on his face, did not appear to understand. He bowed, however, with an air of polite compliance.

  ‘It’s settled,’ whispered Madame Josserand in Valérie’s ear, and she returned and took a seat behind Berthe and Auguste in one of the chairs reserved for the family. Monsieur Josserand, the Vabres, and the Duveyriers were there too. The organ now showered forth pearly little notes, interrupted by a great deal of wheezing. The crush grew greater, as all the seats in the chancel were filled up and some of the men were obliged to stand in the aisles. Father Mauduit had reserved for himself the joy of pronouncing a blessing upon the nuptials of one of his fair penitents. When he appeared in his surplice, he exchanged a friendly smile with the congregation, whose every face he knew. The choir now struck up the Veni Creator, as the organ resumed its song of triumph; and it was just at this moment that Théophile spied Octave, to the left of the chancel, standing before the Chapel of Saint Joseph.

  Clotilde tried to restrain him.

  ‘No,’ he stammered. ‘I won’t put up with this!’ And he made Duveyrier follow him, as the family’s representative. The Veni Creator continued. A few people looked round.

  Théophile, who had talked about head-punching, became so agitated on going up to Octave that at first he could not say a word, vexed to feel that he was so short, and standing on tiptoe.

  ‘Sir,’ he said at last, ‘I saw you yesterday with my wife.’

  The Veni Creator was coming to an end, and the sound of his own voice alarmed him. Duveyrier, much annoyed at what was taking place, tried to make him understand that the church was hardly the best place for such a discussion. The ceremony had now begun before the altar. After a touching address to the happy couple, the priest took the wedding-ring and blessed it:

  ‘Benedic, Domine Deus noster, annulum nuptialem hunc, quem nos in tuo nomine benedicimus …’*

  Then Théophile plucked up courage, and repeated in a low voice:

  ‘Sir, you were in this church yesterday with my wife.’

  Octave, still bewildered by Madame Josserand’s injunctions, which he had not really understood, nevertheless told his story in a relaxed tone.

  ‘Yes, that’s quite true. I met Madame Vabre and we went and looked at the repairs of the Calvary, which my friend Campardon is supervising.’

  ‘You admit it!’ stammered Théophile, again overcome by fury. ‘You admit it!’

  Duveyrier felt obliged to tap him on the shoulder to calm him. A boy’s voice now rang out with a piercing Amen.

  ‘You no doubt recognize this letter!’ continued Théophile, showing Octave a piece of paper.

  ‘Come on, not here,’ whispered Duveyrier, completely scandalized. ‘You must be losing your mind, my dear fellow.’

  Octave unfolded the letter. This attracted more attention from the congregation. There were whisperings, nudgings, and glances over the tops of prayer-books. No one was paying the least attention to the ceremony. Only the bridal couple remained, grave and stiff, before the priest. Then even Berthe herself looked round, and saw Théophile, white with rage, talking to Octave. From that moment her attention was diverted from the ceremony, and she kept throwing piercing glances towards the Chapel of Saint Joseph.

  Meanwhile Octave, in an undertone, read the note:

  ‘“Darling, what a wonderful time we had yesterday. Next Tuesday, at the Chapel of the Holy Angels, in the confessional.”’

  Having obtained from the bridegroom the ‘I do’ of a serious man, who signs nothing until he has read it, the priest addressed the bride.

  ‘Do you promise and swear to be faithful to Monsieur Auguste Vabre in all things, as a dutiful wife, and in accordance with God’s holy commandment?’

  Berthe, having caught sight of the letter, was eagerly awaiting an exchange of blows, and paid no attention, as she kept glancing at the two men from under her veil. There was an embarrassing silence. At last, becoming aware that they were waiting for her, she hastily replied, ‘I do! I do!’ in an indifferent tone of voice.

  The priest, surprised, looked in the same direction, and guessed that something unusual was taking place in one of the side aisles; he, in his turn, became quite distracted. The story by this time had spread throughout the congregation; everybody knew about it. The ladies, pale and grave, never took their eyes off Octave. The men smiled in a discreetly rakish way. And as Madame Josserand, by slight shoulder-shrugs, sought to reassure Madame Duveyrier, Valérie alone seemed to take any interest in the ceremony, for which she was all eyes, as if overwhelmed by emotion.

  ‘“Darling, what a wonderful time we had yesterday.”’ Octave read the note again, affecting utter bewilderment.

  Then, handing the note back to Théophile, he said:

  ‘I don’t understand, sir. That’s not my handwriting. You can see for yourself.’

  And taking from his pocket a notebook, in which, like the careful fellow he was, he had always put down his expenses, he showed it to Théophile.

  ‘What! Not your writing!’ stammered the latter. ‘You’re fooling me; it must be your writing.’

  The priest was about to make the sign of the cross on Berthe’s left hand. As his eyes were elsewhere, he made it on her right one, by mistake.

  ‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.’

  ‘Amen!’ responded the choir-boy, who also stood up on tiptoe to see.

  At any rate, a scandal had been avoided, Duveyrier having convinced the bewildered Théophile that the letter could not have been written by Monsieur Mouret. It was almost a disappointment for the congregation. There were sighs, and hasty words were exchanged. Then, as everyone, still in a state of high excitement, turned round again towards the altar, it was to find that Auguste and Berthe had become man and wife, she apparently unaw
are of what was taking place, while he had not missed a single word uttered by the priest but had given his whole attention to the subject, distracted only by his migraine, which had closed his left eye.

  ‘Dear children!’ murmured Monsieur Josserand, in a trembling voice, to Monsieur Vabre, who ever since the beginning of the ceremony had been counting the lighted candles, always making a mistake and beginning all over again.

  The organ again pealed forth from the nave; Father Mauduit had reappeared in his chasuble; the choir had begun the mass, a choral one of a most grandiose kind. Uncle Bachelard was wandering from chapel to chapel reading the Latin epitaphs, which he did not understand. He was particularly interested in the Duc de Créquy’s. Trublot and Gueulin, eager for details, had joined Octave, and all three were laughing together behind the pulpit. There were sudden bursts of song, like gusts of wind in a storm; choirboys swung their censers; and then, when a bell tinkled, there were periods of silence, during which the priest could be heard mumbling at the altar. Théophile could not stay put; he kept following Duveyrier, whom he overwhelmed with his incoherent talk, completely at a loss to comprehend how the gentleman of the assignation was not the gentleman of the letter. The whole congregation continued to observe his every gesture; the entire church, with its procession of priests, its Latin, its music, its incense, excitedly discussed the incident. When, after the Pater, the priest came down to give the married couple his final blessing, he looked askance at this commotion among his faithful flock, noticing the women’s excited expressions and the sly merriment of the men, amid the bright light that streamed down upon them from the windows, gilding the rich appointments of the side chapels and the nave.

  ‘Don’t admit anything,’ whispered Madame Josserand to Valérie, as they moved towards the vestry after the mass.

  In the vestry the married couple and their witnesses had, first of all, to sign the register. They were kept waiting, however, by Campardon, who had taken some ladies to see the newly restored Calvary at the end of the choir, behind a wooden hoarding. At last he arrived, full of apologies, and signed his name in the register with a huge flourish. Father Mauduit wished to pay both families a compliment by handing round the pen himself and pointing with his finger to the place where each one had to sign; and he smiled with his air of worldly tolerance as he stood in the centre of the solemn room, the woodwork of which was impregnated with the odour of incense.

  ‘Well, mademoiselle,’ said Campardon to Hortense, ‘don’t you feel tempted too?’

  Then he regretted his lack of tact. Hortense, who was the elder sister, bit her lip. That evening, at the dance, she was expecting to have a definite answer from Verdier; she had been urging him to choose between herself and that creature. So she replied curtly:

  ‘There’s plenty of time … When it suits me.’

  And, turning her back on the architect, she flew at her brother Léon, who had only just arrived, late as usual.

  ‘How nice! Papa and mamma were very upset! You couldn’t even be here in time for your sister’s wedding! We thought you might at least have come with Madame Dambreville.’

  ‘Madame Dambreville does what she likes; I do what I can,’ replied Léon drily.

  Their relationship had cooled. Léon considered that she was keeping him too long for her own use, and was tired of a liaison the boredom of which he had consented to put up with in the sole hope of its leading to some desirable match; and for the last fortnight he had been importuning her to keep her promises. Madame Dambreville, passionately in love, had even complained to Madame Josserand about these fads on the part of her son. His mother was thus all too ready to scold him, reproaching him with his lack of family affection and regard, since he did not scruple to absent himself from the most solemn ceremonies. Then, in his supercilious voice, the young democrat offered various explanations—some unexpected work he had had to do for the deputy whose secretary he was, a lecture he had to prepare, and various other tasks, as well as some important visits he had had to pay.

  ‘It’s so easy to get married!’ observed Madame Dambreville, without thinking what she was saying, as she looked beggingly at him in order to soften him.

  ‘Not always,’ he coldly replied.

  Then he went up to kiss Berthe and shake hands with his new brother-in-law, while Madame Dambreville grew pale and, drawing herself up to her full height in her dead-leaf-coloured dress, she smiled vaguely at everybody coming in.

  It was one long procession of friends, of mere acquaintances, and guests who had thronged the church and now filed into the vestry. The newly married couple stood shaking hands continually, both looking delighted yet embarrassed. The Josserands and the Duveyriers found it impossible to introduce everyone. Now and again they exchanged glances of surprise, for Bachelard had brought along people whom nobody knew, and who talked much too loudly. The general confusion gradually increased. There was a crush of bodies, arms held up in the air, young girls squeezed between portly gentlemen with huge bellies, leaving the imprint of their white skirts on the legs of these respectable family men who all had some vice which they indulged regularly in some distant part of the city. Indeed Gueulin and Trublot, standing at a distance from the others, were recounting in front of Octave how, the day before, Clarisse had nearly been caught by Duveyrier and, to allay his suspicions, had been obliged to make love to him for hours.

  ‘Oh, look!’ whispered Gueulin, ‘he’s kissing the bride! How nice it must smell!’

  The crowd finally dispersed. Only the family and a few intimate friends remained. The story of Théophile’s misfortune had continued to spread during all the handshaking and congratulations; in fact nobody talked of anything else, while exchanging the usual stereotyped phrases. Madame Hédouin, who had just heard the story, looked at Valérie with the amazement of a woman for whom virtue is as natural as breathing. Doubtless Father Mauduit must have learned about the matter too, for his curiosity seemed satisfied, and his manner became even more unctuous than usual, amid the secret frailties of his flock. Here was another terrible sore which had suddenly begun to bleed, and over which he had to throw the mantle of religion! He took Théophile aside for a moment, and talked to him discreetly about the necessity of forgiving injuries and of God’s myterious ways, seeking above all to stifle the scandal, embracing everyone present in a single gesture of pity and despair, as if to hide their shame from Heaven itself.

  ‘He’s funny, that parson,’ murmured Théophile, quite dazed by the homily. ‘He doesn’t know what it’s like.’

  Valérie, clinging to Madame Juzeur for appearance’s sake, listened with emotion to the conciliatory words which Father Mauduit also deemed it his duty to address to her. Then, as they were leaving the church, she stopped in front of the two fathers, to let Berthe go by on her husband’s arm.

  ‘You must feel pleased,’ she said to Monsieur Josserand, to show how unconcerned she was. ‘My congratulations.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Monsieur Vabre in his guttural voice, ‘it’s a great responsibility off our minds.’

  And while Trublot and Gueulin rushed about, seeing all the ladies to their carriages, Madame Josserand, whose shawl almost caused a traffic jam, obstinately remained on the pavement to the last, as if to make a public display of her triumph as a mother.

  That evening the dinner which took place at the Grand Hôtel du Louvre was also marred by the unfortunate affair of Théophile and the letter. It became an obsession; people had talked about it the whole afternoon as they drove in the Bois de Boulogne, all the ladies being of the opinion that the husband ought certainly to have waited until the following day before finding the letter. At the dinner, however, only intimate friends were present. The one merry episode was a toast proposed by uncle Bachelard, whom the Josserands had not been able to avoid inviting, in spite of their terror. He was drunk by the time they got to the toast, and raising his glass, he embarked upon a sentence beginning ‘I am happy in the pleasure I feel’. This he repeated over and ov
er again, unable to get any further, while the other guests smiled indulgently. Auguste and Berthe, already quite worn out, exchanged occasional glances, surprised to find themselves sitting opposite each other; then, remembering the reason for this, they looked down, embarrassed, at their plates.

  Nearly two hundred invitations had been issued for the ball. The guests began to arrive as early as half-past nine. The large red drawing-room was lit by three chandeliers, chairs had been placed all along the walls, and a chamber orchestra had been installed at one end, in front of the fireplace. There was also a buffet in an adjoining room, another room having been reserved for the two families to retire to when they wished.

  Just as Madame Duveyrier and Madame Josserand were receiving the first guests, poor Théophile, whom they had been watching since the morning, once again lost control of himself. Campardon had asked Valérie for the pleasure of the first waltz. She laughed, and her husband saw this as a provocation.

  ‘You laugh! You laugh!’ he stammered. ‘Tell me who sent the letter! Somebody must have sent it!’

  It had taken him the whole afternoon to disengage that one idea from the state of confusion into which Octave’s reply had plunged him. Now, he was utterly insistent about it: if it was not from Monsieur Mouret it was from somebody else, and he must have that person’s name. As Valérie began to walk away without answering him, he caught hold of her arm and twisted it viciously, like an infuriated child, saying: