And last--amused, glad to lend a hand, enjoying it all to the full--Herbert, and Gaston's poor old broken-down-with-hard-work mother--stiff, formal, scared out of her seven wits--trying to smile as she ambled along, her mouth dry, her knees shaking--the rest of us bringing up the rear--Brierley, Le Blanc, The Architect, Marc, and I walking together.
[Illustration: First, of course, came the mayor--his worthy spouse on his left]
But the greatest sight was at the church--it was but a short step,--the mayor, as he reached it, bowing right and left to the throng, the sacristan pushing his way through the school children massed in two rows on either side of the flower-strewn path, their hands filled with Louis' blossoms; back of these the rest of the villagers--those who wanted to see the procession, and crowding the doorway and well inside the aisles, every soul who could claim admission for miles around. And then as we passed under the old portal--through which, so the legend runs, strode the Great Warrior surrounded by his knights (not a word of which do I believe)--the small organ with a spasmodic jerk wheezed out a welcome that went on increasing in volume until we had moved beneath the groined arches and reached the altar. There we grouped ourselves in a half-circle while the vows were pledged and the small gold ring was slipped on Mignon's finger and Gaston had kissed Mignon; and Mignon had kissed her new mother; and madame la marquise had taken both their hands in her own and said how happy she was, and how she wished them all the joy in the world. And then--and this was the crowning joy of the ceremony--then, like the old cavalier he is, and can be when occasion demands, Lemois stepped up and shook Gaston's hand, Mignon looking at the old man with hungry, loving eyes until, unable to restrain herself the longer, she threw her arms around his neck and burst into tears--and so, with another wheeze of the organ, way was made and the homeward march began.
It was high noon now--the warm spring sun in both their faces--Mignon on Gaston's arm. And a fine and wholesome pair they made--good to look upon, and all as it should and would oftener be if meddlesome cooks could keep their fingers out of the social broth: she in her pretty white muslin frock and veil, her head up, her eyes shining clear--she didn't care now who saw; Gaston in his country-cut clothes (his muscles would stretch them into lines of beauty before the week was out), his new straw hat with its gay ribbon half shading his fine, strong young face; his eyes drinking in everything about him--too supremely happy to do more than walk and breathe and look.