eighteen years, fanned the fire, her eyes wide open with the novel
excitement of the occasion.

"_La guerre est finie, Mademoiselle Miss!_" cried Jeanne with spoon
dripping in mid air. "Today I have butter to cook with. Now you shall
taste a French dinner _comme il faut_!"

In the garage, Michel, all seriousness, polished the Ford that was to
carry away the bridal pair. Recently demobilized, he wore the bizarre
combination of military and civilian clothes that all over France
symbolized the transition from war to peace--black coat encroaching upon
stained blue trousers, khaki puttees, evidence of international intimacy
and--most brilliant emblem of freedom--a black and white checked cap,
put on backwards. His the ultimate responsibility at our wedding
ceremony and he looked to his tires and sparkplugs with passion.

The married sister, beautiful and charming in her Paris gown, was
superintending the _toilette_; and when all was ready, we were called
up to examine and admire. The bride was sweet and calm, smiling dreamily
at us in the foggy fragment of mirror. Below, somewhat portly and
constrained in his black coat and high collar, the bridegroom marched
with agitation back and forth in the corridor, clasping and unclasping
his hands in their gray suède gloves. The Paris train was due. Relatives
and friends began to arrive; and little nieces and nephews, all in their
best clothes. Noyon had not seen anything so gay in years. There was
bustle and business and running up and down stairs. The _poste_, usually
clamorous with the hoarse dialect of northern France, hummed and rippled
with polite conversation and courtly greetings. The bride appeared. The
bridegroom's face lost its perturbed expression in his unaffected
happiness at seeing her. Photographs were taken; she, gracious and