that an important ceremony was about to take place. The clerks on the way to their offices, the workgirls, the shopmen, paused, looked, and vaguely speculated about the rich folk who spent so much money over getting spliced. Towards ten o’clock idlers began to halt. They would remain for a few minutes, hoping that perhaps it would begin at once, and then moved away. At eleven squads of police arrived and set to work almost at once to make the crowd move on, groups forming every moment. The first guests soon made their appearance—those who wanted to be well placed for seeing everything. They took the chairs bordering the main aisles. By degrees came others, ladies in rustling silks, and serious-looking gentlemen, almost all bald, walking with well-bred air, and graver than usual in this locality.
The church slowly filled. A flood of sunlight entered by the huge doorway lit up the front row of guests. In the choir, which looked somewhat gloomy, the altar, laden with tapers, shed a yellow light, pale and humble in face of that of the main entrance. People recognized one another, beckoned to one another, and gathered in groups. The men of letters, less respectful than the men in society, chatted in low tones and looked at the ladies.
Norbert de Varenne, who was looking out for an acquaintance, perceived Jacques Rival near the center of the rows of chair, and joined him. “Well,” said he, “the race is for the cunning.”
The other, who was not envious, replied: “So much the better for him. His career is safe.” And they began to point out the people they recognized.
“Do you know what became of his wife?” asked Rival.
The poet smiled. “Yes, and no. She is living in a very retired style, I am told, in the Montmartre district. But—there is a but—I have noticed for some time past in the Plume some political articles terribly like those of