opted by them towards the public
accustomed to exhibit themselves thus at all such gatherings, of which
they were, it seemed to them, the indispensable ornaments.

Rival resumed: "Tell me, my dear fellow, you who go so often to the
governor's, is it true that Du Roy and Madame Walter no longer speak to
one another?"

"Never. She did not want to give him the girl. But he had a hold, it
seems, on the father through skeletons in the house--skeletons connected
with the Morocco business. He threatened the old man with frightful
revelations. Walter recollected the example he made of Laroche-Mathieu,
and gave in at once. But the mother, obstinate like all women, swore
that she would never again speak a word to her son-in-law. She looks
like a statue, a statue of Vengeance, and he is very uneasy at it,
although he puts a good face on the matter, for he knows how to control
himself, that fellow does."

Fellow-journalists came up and shook hands with them. Bits of political
conversation could be caught. Vague as the sound of a distant sea, the
noise of the crowd massed in front of the church entered the doorway
with the sunlight, and rose up beneath the roof, above the more discreet
murmur of the choicer public gathered within it.

All at once the beadle struck the pavement thrice with the butt of his
halberd. Every one turned round with a prolonged rustling of skirts and
a moving of chairs. The bride appeared on her father's arm in the
bright light of the doorway.

She had still the air of a doll, a charming white doll crowned with
orange flowers. She stood for a few moments on the threshold, then, when
she made her first step up the aisle, the organ gave forth a powerful
note, announcing the entrance of the bride in loud metallic tones. She
advanced with bent head, but not timidly; vaguely moved, pretty,
charming, a miniature bride. The women smiled and murmured as they
watched her pass. The men muttered: "Exquisite! Adorable!" Monsieur
Walter walked with exaggerated dignity, somewhat pale, and with his
spectacles straight on his nose. Behind them four bridesmaids, all four
dressed in pink, and all four pretty, formed the court of this gem of a
queen. The groomsmen, carefully chosen to match, stepped as though
trained by a ballet master. Madame Walter followed them, giving her arm
to the father of her other son-in-law, the Marquis de Latour-Yvelin,
aged seventy-two. She did not walk, she dragged herself along, ready to
fa