The ceremony took place next day. Quennebert conducted his interesting
bride to the altar, she hung with ornaments like the shrine of a saint,
and, beaming all over with smiles, looked so ridiculous that the handsome
bridegroom reddened to the roots of his hair with shame. Just as they
entered the church, a coffin, on which lay a sword, and which was
followed by a single mourner, who from his manners and dress seemed to
belong to the class of nobles, was carried in by the same door. The
wedding guests drew back to let the funeral pass on, the living giving
precedence to the dead. The solitary mourner glanced by chance at
Quennebert, and started as if the sight of him was painful.

"What an unlucky meeting!" murmured Madame Rapally; "it is sure to be a
bad omen."

"It's sure to be the exact opposite," said Quennebert smiling.

The two ceremonies took place simultaneously in two adjoining chapels;
the funeral dirges which fell on the widow's ear full of sinister
prediction seemed to have quite another meaning for Quennebert, for his
features lost their look of care, his wrinkles smoothed themselves out,
till the guests, among whom was Trumeau, who did not suspect the secret
of his relief from suspense, began to believe, despite their surprise,
that he was really rejoiced at obtaining legal possession of the charming
Madame Rapally.

As for her, she fleeted the daylight hours by anticipating the joyful
moment when she would have her husband all to herself. When night came,
hardly had she entered the nuptial chamber than she uttered a piercing
shriek. She had just found and read a paper left on the bed by Trumeau,