[Illustration: SQUARE OF THE HOTEL DE VILLE, BRUSSELS.]

In truth, Joliet's father had rightfully borne the title of baron de
Rouviere, but, ruined by '48, had abandoned the practice of signing
it. Joliet resumed it for this special occasion, having every warrant
for the act, but whispered to me that he should never so call himself
in future, greatly preferring the enumeration of his qualities on his
business-card.

Poor Francine meanwhile had looked so timid and blushed so that Frau
Kranich nodded to her permission of absence. She gave one glance at
Fortnoye, buried her face in her hands, laughed a sweet little gurgle,
and fled. When her presence was again necessary, she reappeared,
drowned in white. We went to the mayor's office, where she lost a
pretty little surname that had always seemed to fit her like a
glove; then to the church, an obscure one in the neighborhood of Frau
Kranich's house. But at the door of the sacred edifice the elder lady
said, with much conciliatory grace in her manner, "I claim exemption
from witnessing this part of the ceremony; and you, Mr. Flemming, must
resume or discover your Protestantism and enter the carriage with
me. I must show you a little of the city while these young birds are
pairing."

No objection was made to this rather strange proposal. The bride,
between her father and husband, forgot that she had no friend of her
own sex to stand near her. We arranged for a general meeting at the
dinner.

In the carriage she said, "I brought you away because I am devoured
with uneasiness. Mrs. Ashburleigh wrote me that she would certainly
be here for at least the principal part of the ceremony. I do not know
what to make of it. It may be of no use, but we will scour the city.
These throngs, this noise, make me uneasy. I fear some accident,
having," she added with a smile, "one lone woman's sympathy for
another lone woman."

[Illustration: DIVERS DIVERSIONS.]

I peered through the crowds at this, right and left, with
inexpressible emotion. Perhaps this accidental sort of quest was that
which destiny had arranged for the solution of my life-problem. To
light upon Mary Ashburleigh in these festal throngs, perhaps wanting
assistance, perhaps calling upon my name even now through her velvet
lips, was a chance the mere notion of which made my blood leap.

When Brussels gives herself over to holiday-making, she does it in
a whole-souled and self-consistent way that has plenty of
attr