When the ceremony was concluded he rose up, and giving his wife his arm, he passed into the vestry. Then began the interminable defiling past of the visitors. George, with wild joy, believed himself a king whom a nation had come to acclaim. He shook hands, stammered unmeaning remarks, bowed, and replied: “You are very good to say so.”
All at once he caught sight of Madame de Marelle, and the recollection of all the kisses that he had given her, and that she had returned; the recollection of all their caresses, of her pretty ways, of the sound of her voice, of the taste of her lips, caused the desire to have her once more for his own to shoot through his veins. She was so pretty and elegant, with her boyish air and bright eyes. George thought to himself: “What a charming mistress, all the same.”
She drew near, somewhat timid, somewhat uneasy, and held out her hand. He took it in his, and retained it. Then he felt the discreet appeal of a woman’s fingers, the soft pressure that forgives and takes possession again. And for his own part, he squeezed it, that little hand, as though to say: “I still love you; I am yours.”
Their eyes met, smiling, bright, full of love. She murmured in her pleasant voice: “I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again soon, sir.”
He replied, gayly: “Soon, madame.”
She passed on. Other people were pushing forward. The crowd flowed by like a stream. At length it grew thinner. The last guests took leave.
George took Susan’s arm in his to pass through the church again. It was full of people, for everyone had regained their seats in order to see them pass together. They went by slowly, with calm steps and uplifted heads,