ad decided not to take the conventional wedding trip,
but after a little dance for the younger cousins, which would not be
prolonged after eleven o'clock, in order that this day of lengthy
ceremonies might not be too tiresome, the young pair were to spend the
first night in the parental home and then, on the following morning, to
leave for the beach so dear to their hearts, where they had first known
and loved each other.

Night had come, and the dance was going on in the large parlor. 'The two
had retired into a little Japanese boudoir hung with bright silks and
dimly lighted by the soft rays of a large colored lantern hanging from
the ceiling like a gigantic egg. Through the open window the fresh air
from outside passed over their faces like a caress, for the night was
warm and calm, full of the odor of spring.

They were silent, holding each other's hands and from time to time
squeezing them with all their might. She sat there with a dreamy look,
feeling a little lost at this great change in her life, but smiling,
moved, ready to cry, often also almost ready to faint from joy, believing
the whole world to be changed by what had just happened to her, uneasy,
she knew not why, and feeling her whole body and soul filled with an
indefinable and delicious lassitude.

He was looking at her persistently with a fixed smile. He wished to
speak, but found nothing to say, and so sat there, expressing all his
ardor by pressures of the hand. From time to time he would murmur:
"Berthe!" And each time she would raise her eyes to him with a look of
tenderness; they would look at each other for a second and then her look,
pierced and fascinated by his, would fall.

They found no thoughts to exchange. They had been left alone, but
occasionally some of the dancers would cast a rapid glance at them, as
though they were the discreet and trusty witnesses of a mystery.

A door opened and a servant entered, holding on a tray a letter which a
messenger had just brought. Jacques, trembling, took this paper,
overwhelmed by a vague and sudden fear, the mysterious terror of swift
misfortune.

He looked for a longtime at the envelope, the writing on which he did not
know, not daring to open it, not wishing to read it, with a wild desire
to put it in his pocket and say to himself: "I'll leave that till
to-morrow, when I'm far away!" But on one corner two big words,
underlined, "Very urgent," filled him with terror. Saying, "Please excuse
me