IV
There was no earthquake, no omen in the sky, when that Tuesday dawned in September, and Jean had to be shaken out of a deep sleep. The flagstones in the hall were covered with box, laurel and magnolia, and the smell of the trampled leaves predominated. The bridesmaids stood about in whispering groups; they could not sit down for fear of rumpling their frocks. The reception room at the Cheval Rouge was festooned with paper chains, and the wedding breakfast was to come from B—— by the ten o’clock train. The streets were full of victorias bringing white-gloved guests to the feast; top hats gleamed in the sunlight, and swallow-tail coats filled the watching peasants with admiration.
M. Jêrome showed his true feelings by staying in bed; in this way he could face the weddings and funerals of his family, and when these momentous crises arrived, he swallowed a chloral cachet and drew his curtains. During his wife’s last illness, he retired to a room at the top of the house, lay with his nose to the wall, and consented to open one eye only when he was certain that the last bit of earth had been shovelled on to the coffin, and the train had carried off the last guest. On the day of the wedding, when Jean, green and shrivelled in his dress coat, came to get his father’s blessing, Cadette was not allowed to open the shutters.
It was a terrible day. All Jean’s humiliation and shame came flooding back. In spite of the tumult of bells, his quick sportsman’s ear missed none of the sympathetic undertones that were uttered in the crowded church, as the procession passed up the aisle. He heard a young man murmur: “What a pity!” Little girls, perched up on the backs of chairs, giggled when they saw him. When he faced the blazing altar, with the whispering crowd behind him, his legs weakened and he grasped the velvet praying-stool for support. He was conscious, without looking, of the trembling, mysterious body of a woman at his side,—the priest read on and on; if only he would never stop! But the sun that now sprinkled the old flagstones with golden confetti would set,—then, the night and its revelations.
The heat had spoiled the luncheon; one of the lobsters smelt horribly, and the bombe glacée had melted into a yellow cream. Instead of making their escape, flies allowed themselves to be crushed while feasting upon the cakes, and corpulent women suffered in their tight clothes, perspiring helplessly. Shouts of joy came from the children’s table, but from no other. In his misery Jean watched the faces of Fernand Cazenave and one of Noémi’s uncles; what were they whispering about? Like a deaf mute he guessed this phrase by the movement of their lips: “If they had only listened to us, this misfortune might have been avoided, but our position made it very difficult to interfere....”