"People promise a lot, but fifty years is more
than any woman expects," she answered, with considerable venom.
Joyselle sighed. "Perhaps, my dear Bathilde; you would not mind not
interrupting me again? Yes--think of the green coat. And that you did
not mind about your cap. Your life has been very useful, _ma mere_, and
you have devoted children to love you and care for you."
"Look at the crowd," cried out the old man suddenly. "It must be a
funeral!"
"Father!" Madame Chalumeau crossed herself with fingers that fairly
trembled with haste. "How _can_ you? When it is your own wedding."
As the carriage stopped Victor leaned forward and laid his hand on his
father's.
"Father--this is a splendid and--and most happy day for all of us. There
are nearly fifty of us--your descendants and their wives and husbands,
and we are very _proud_ of you. Will you give my mother your arm and
follow Bathilde and me up the steps?"
Old Joyselle skipped with great agility from the carriage, and with a
grand imitation of his son's manner followed that son into the church.
Brigit, standing near Felicite near the altar, felt her eyes fill with
tears as the little group appeared.
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