They heard also a rumbling monotone preceding each of these vehement interruptions.  The Abbe Bardin was pointing out to her that, unmarried, her son would return to Tonquin, that Lizerolles would be left deserted, her house would be desolate without daughter-in-law or grandchildren; and, as he drew these pictures, he came back, again and again, to his main argument: 

“I will answer for their happiness:  I will answer for the future.”

His authority as a priest gave weight to this assurance, at least Madame d’Argy felt it so.  She went on saying never, but less and less emphatically, and apparently she ceased to say it at last, for three months later the d’Etaples, the Rays, the d’Avrignys and the rest, received two wedding announcements in these words: 

“Madame d’Argy has the honor to inform you of the marriage of her son, M. Frederic d’Argy, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, to Mademoiselle de Nailles.”

The accompanying card ran thus: 

     “The Baroness de Nailles has the honor to inform you of the
     marriage of Mademoiselle Jacqueline de Nailles, her
     stepdaughter, to M. Frederic d’Argy.”

Congratulations showered down on both mother and stepmother.  A love-match is nowadays so rare!  It turned out that every one had always wished all kinds of good fortune to young Madame d’Argy, and every one seemed to take a sincere part in the joy that was expressed on the occasion, even Dolly, who, it was said, had in secret set her heart on Fred for herself; even Nora Sparks, who, not having carried out her plans, had gone back to New York, whence she sent a superb wedding present.  Madame de Nailles apparently experienced at the wedding all the emotions of a real mother.

The roses at Lizerolles bloomed that year with unusual beauty, as if to welcome the young pair.  Modeste sang ‘Nunc Dimittis’.  The least demonstrative of all those interested in the event was Giselle.

     ETEXT editor’s bookmarks: 

     As we grow older we lay aside harsh judgments and sharp words
     Blow which annihilates our supreme illusion
     Death is not that last sleep
     Fool (there is no cure for that infirmity)
     The worst husband is always better than none

     ETEXT editor’s bookmarks for the entire Jacqueline: 

     A familiarity which, had he known it, was not flattering
     A mother’s geese are always swans
     As we grow older we lay aside harsh judgments and sharp words
     Bathers, who exhibited themselves in all degrees of ugliness
     Blow which annihilates our supreme illusion
     Death is not that last sleep
     Fool (there is no cure for that infirmity)
     Fred’s verses were not good, but they were full of dejection
     Great interval between a dream and its execution
     Hang out the bush, but