INtwomonthsmoreFranceshadfulfilledthetimeofmourningforheraunt.OneJanuarymorning—thefirstofthenewyearholidays—Iwentinafiacre,accompaniedonlybyM.Vandenhuten,totheRueNotreDameauxNeiges,andhavingalightedaloneandwalkedupstairs,IfoundFrancesapparentlywaitingforme,dressedinastylescarcelyappropriatetothatcold,bright,frostyday.NevertillnowhadIseenherattiredinanyotherthanblackorsad-colouredstuffandthereshestoodbythewindow,cladallinwhite,andwhiteofamostdiaphanoustextureherarraywasverysimple,tobesure,butitlookedimposingandfestalbecauseitwassoclear,full,andfloatingaveilshadowedherhead,andhungbelowherkneealittlewreathofpinkflowersfastenedittoherthicklytressedGrecianplait,andthenceitfellsoftlyoneachsideofherface.Singulartostate,shewas,orhadbeencryingwhenIaskedherifshewereready,shesaid“Yes,monsieur,”withsomethingverylikeacheckedsobandwhenItookashawl,whichlayonthetable,andfoldeditroundher,notonlydidtearaftertearcourseunbiddendownhercheek,butsheshooktomyministrationlikeareed.IsaidIwassorrytoseeherinsuchlowspirits,andrequestedtobeallowedaninsightintotheoriginthereof.Sheonlysaid,“Itwasimpossibletohelpit,”andthenvoluntarily,thoughhurriedly,puttingherhandintomine,accompaniedmeoutoftheroom,andrandownstairswithaquick,uncertainstep,likeonewhowaseagertogetsomeformidablepieceofbusinessover.Iputherintothefiacre.M.Vandenhutenreceivedher,andseatedherbesidehimselfwedrovealltogethertotheProtestantchapel,wentthroughacertainserviceintheCommonPrayerBook,andsheandIcameoutmarried.M.Vandenhutenhadgiventhebrideaway.
Wetooknobridaltripourmodesty,screenedbythepeacefulobscurityofourstation,andthepleasantisolationofourcircumstances,didnotexactthatadditionalprecaution.WerepairedatoncetoasmallhouseIhadtakeninthefaubourgnearesttothatpartofthecitywherethesceneofouravocationslay.
Threeorfourhoursaftertheweddingceremony,Frances,divestedofherbridalsnow,andattiredinaprettylilacgownofwarmermaterials,apiquantblacksilkapron,andalacecollarwithsomefinishingdecorationoflilacribbon,waskneelingonthecarpetofaneatlyfurnishedthoughnotspaciousparlour,arrangingontheshelvesofachiffonieresomebooks,whichIhandedtoherfromthetable.Itwassnowingfastoutofdoorstheafternoonhadturnedoutwildandcoldtheleadenskyseemedfullofdrifts,andthestreetwasalreadyankle-deepinthewhitedownfall.Ourfireburnedbright,ournewhabitationlookedbrilliantlycleanandfresh,thefurniturewasallarranged,andtherewerebutsomearticlesofglass,china,books,&c.,toputinorder.Francesfoundinthisbusinessoccupationtilltea-time,andthen,afterIhaddistinctlyinstructedherhowtomakeacupofteainrationalEnglishstyle,andaftershehadgotoverthedismayoccasionedbyseeingsuchanextravagantamountofmaterialputintothepot,sheadministeredtomeaproperBritishrepast,atwhichtherewantedneithercandlesnorurn,firelightnorcomfort.
Ourweek’sholidayglidedby,andwereaddressedourselvestolabour.BothmywifeandIbeganingoodearnestwiththenotionthatwewereworkingpeople,destinedtoearnourbreadbyexertion,andthatofthemostassiduouskind.Ourdayswerethoroughlyoccupiedweusedtoparteverymorningateighto’clock,andnotmeetagaintillfiveP.M.butintowhatsweetrestdidtheturmoilofeachbusydaydecline!Lookingdownthevistaofmemory,Iseetheeveningspassedinthatlittleparlourlikealongstringofrubiescirclingtheduskybrowofthepast.Unvariedweretheyaseachcutgem,andlikeeachgembrilliantandburning.
Ayearandahalfpassed.Onemorning(itwasaFETE,andwehadthedaytoourselves)Francessaidtome,withasuddennesspeculiartoherwhenshehadbeenthinkinglongonasubject,andatlast,havingcometoaconclusion,wishedtotestitssoundnessbythetouchstoneofmyjudgment:—
“Idon’tworkenough.”
“Whatnow?”demandedI,lookingupfrommycoffee,whichIhadbeendeliberatelystirringwhileenjoying,inanticipation,awalkIproposedtotakewithFrances,thatfinesummerday(itwasJune),toacertainfarmhouseinthecountry,whereweweretodine.“Whatnow?”andIsawatonce,intheseriousardourofherface,aprojectofv