of his mother-in-law, Madame Chebe, who, being the petty Parisian
bourgeoise that she was, would not have deemed her daughter legally
married without a drive around the lake and a visit to the Cascade.
Then the return for dinner, as the lamps were being lighted along the
boulevard, where people turned to look after the wedding-party, a typical
well-to-do bourgeois wedding-party, as it drove up to the grand entrance
at Vefour's with all the style the livery horses could command.

Risler had reached that point in his dream.

And now the worthy man, dazed with fatigue and well-being, glanced
vaguely about that huge table of twenty-four covers, curved in the shape
of a horseshoe at the ends, and surrounded by smiling, familiar faces,
wherein he seemed to see his happiness reflected in every eye. The
dinner was drawing near its close. The wave of private conversation
flowed around the table. Faces were turned toward one another, black
sleeves stole behind waists adorned with bunches of asclepias, a childish
face laughed over a fruit ice, and the dessert at the level of the
guests' lips encompassed the cloth with animation, bright colors, and
light.

Ah, yes! Risler was very happy.

Except his brother Frantz, everybody he loved was there. First of all,
sitting opposite him, was Sidonie--yesterday little Sidonie, to-day his
wife. For the ceremony of dinner she had laid aside her veil; she had
emerged from her cloud. Now, above the smooth, white silk gown, appeared
a pretty face of a less lustrous and softer white, and the crown of hair-
beneath that other crown so carefully bestowed--would have told you of a
tendency to rebel against life, of little feathers fluttering for an