ken, with a mass of grey hair, the
poor beautiful hair that she no longer took the trouble to dye. By her
side was Paul Astier, the Count, smiling, cold, and charming as before.
They all looked at one another, and nobody had a word to say except
the official who, after a good stare at the two old ladies, felt it
incumbent upon him to remark with a gracious bow:

'We are only waiting for the bride.'

'The bride is here,' replied the Duchess, stepping forward with head
erect and a bitter smile which spoilt and twisted her beautiful mouth.

From the Mayor's office, where the deputy on duty had the good taste to
spare them an oration, they adjourned to the Catholic Institute in the
Rue de Vaugirard, an aristocratic church, all over gilding and flowers
and a blaze of candles, but not a soul there, nobody but the wedding
party on a single row of chairs, to hear the Papal Nuncio, Monsignor
Adriani, mumble an interminable homily out of an illuminated book. A
fine thing it was, to hear the worldly prelate with large nose, thin
lips, and hollow shoulders under his violet cape, talking of the
'honourable traditions of the husband and the charms of the wife,' with
a sombre, cynical side-glance at the velvet cushions of the unhappy
couple. Then came the departure; cold good-byes were exchanged under the
arches of the little cloister, and a sigh of relief with 'Well, that's
over,' escaped the Duchess, said in the despairing, disenchanted accent
of a woman who has measured the abyss, and leaps in with her eyes open
only to keep her word.

'Ah, well,' Vedrine went on, 'I have seen gloomy and lamentable sights
enough in the course of my lite, but never anything so heart-breaking as
Paul Astier's wedding.'

'He's a fine rascal, though, is our young friend,' said Freydet, between
his closed teeth.

'Yes, a precious product of the "struggle for existence."'

The sculptor repeated the phrase with emphasis. A 'struggler for
existence' was his name for the novel tribe of young savages who cite
the necessity of 'nature's war' as an hypocritical excuse for every kind
of meanness. Freydet went on:

'Well, anyhow, he's rich now, which is what he wanted. His nose has not
led him astray this time.'

'Wait and see. The Duchess is not easy to get on with, and he looked
devilish wicked at the Mayor's. If the old lady bores him too much,
we may still see him some day at the Assize Court, son and grandson of
divinities as he is.'

'The witn