"That need not delay us," said Gilliatt. And he presented a paper to the
Dean. The Dean took it, perused it by a glance, seemed to pass over some
lines as unimportant, and read aloud: "Go to the Dean for the licence.
I wish the marriage to take place as soon as possible. Immediately would
be better."

He placed the paper on the table, and proceeded:

"It is signed, Lethierry. It would have been more respectful to have
addressed himself to me. But since I am called on to serve a colleague,
I ask no more."

Caudray glanced again at Gilliatt. There are moments when mind and mind
comprehend each other. Caudray felt that there was some deception; he
had not the strength of purpose, perhaps he had not the idea of
revealing it. Whether in obedience to a latent heroism, of which he had
begun to obtain a glimpse; or whether from a deadening of the
conscience, arising from the suddenness of the happiness placed within
his reach, he uttered no word.

The Dean took the pen, and aided by the clerk, filled up the spaces in
the page of the register; then he rose, and by a gesture invited Caudray
and Deruchette to approach the table.

The ceremony commenced. It was a strange moment. Caudray and Deruchette
stood beside each other before the minister. He who has ever dreamed of
a marriage in which he himself was chief actor, may conceive something
of the feeling which they experienced.

Gilliatt stood at a little distance in the shadow of the pillars.

Deruchette, on rising in the morning, desperate, thinking only of death
and its associations, had dressed herself in white. Her attire, which
had been associated in her mind with mourning, was suited to her
nuptials. A white dress is all that is necessary for the bride.

A ray of happiness was visible upon her face. Never had she appeared
more beautiful. Her features were remarkable for prettiness rather than
what is called beauty. Their fault, if fault it be, lay in a certain
excess of grace. Deruchette in repose, that is, neither disturbed by
passion or grief, was graceful above all. The ideal virgin is the
transfiguration of a face like this. Deruchette, touched by her sorrow
and her love, seemed to have caught that higher and more holy
expression. It was the difference between the field daisy and the lily.

The tears had scarcely dried upon her cheeks; one perhaps still lingered
in the midst of her smiles. Traces of tears indistinctly visible form a
pleasing but sombre acc