There was something infinitely
touching in the sight of the ancient couple coming back to the altar to
renew their vows after fifty years.
The priest's voice was very weak, but it carried well under the arched
roof, and when the rings--the one for the bride bought by her male, the
one for the groom by his female descendants--were blessed and exchanged,
many people were frankly weeping.
Joyselle had not joined his wife and son, but stood opposite them, in
front of a group of relations from the country, his fine figure in its
perfect clothes contrasting strongly with them.
He was paler than Brigit had ever seen him, and his eyes, bent to the
ground for the most part, even more deeply circled than they had been
at the _cafe_ a few hours before.
The priest droned on; a baby cried, causing the bridegroom to dart a
furious glance in its direction; one of the country cousins blew his
nose with simple-hearted zest; the old couple who had been kneeling were
assisted to their feet. "_In nomine Patris, et Filii_----"
Brigit bowed her head with the rest, and then as she raised it, met
Joyselle's miserable eyes; miserable, accusing, despairing eyes.
The ceremony was over.
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