He was not thinking in the least of what he was saying, and I answered mechanically: 

“Do you think so?  Not too short, the veil, Monsieur Silvani.  Don’t forget the bow on the bodice, Marie.”

When one has to look after everything, one needs all one’s wits.  However, Georges’ husky voice recurred to me, and I said to myself, “I am sure that he has caught a cold; it is plain that he has had his hair cut too short.”

I soon got at the true state of the case.

“You have a cold, my dear fellow,” said my father.

“Don’t speak of it,” he answered in a low voice.  And still lower, and with a somewhat embarrassed smile:  “Will you be so kind as to give me an extra pocket-handkerchief?  I have but one—­”

“Certainly, my dear boy.”

“Thanks, very much.”

It was a trifle, to be sure, but I felt vexed, and I remember that, when going downstairs with them holding up my train behind me, I said to myself, “I do hope that he does not sneeze at the altar.”

I soon forgot all about it.  We got into the carriage; I felt that every one was looking at me, and I caught sight of groups of spectators in the street beyond the carriage gates.  What I felt is impossible to describe, but it was something delightful.  The sound of the beadles’ canes on the pavement will forever reecho in my heart.  We halted for a moment on the red drugget.  The great organ poured forth the full tones of a triumphal march; thousands of eager faces turned toward me, and there in the background, amidst an atmosphere of sunshine, incense, velvet, and gold, were two gilt armchairs for us to seat ourselves on before the altar.

I do not know why an old engraving in my father’s study crossed my mind.  It represents the entry of Alexander the Great into Babylon; he is on an elephant which is glittering with precious stones.  You must know it.  Only, Alexander was a heathen who had many things to reproach himself with, while I was not.

God smiled on me, and with His paternal hand invited me to seat myself in His house, on His red drugget, in His gilt armchair.  The heavens, full of joy, made music for me, and on high, through the glittering stained-glass windows, the archangels, full of kind feeling, whispered as they watched me.  As I advanced, heads were bent as a wheat-field bends beneath the breeze.  My friends, my relatives, my enemies, bowed to us, and I saw—­for one sees everything in spite of one’s self on these solemn occasions—­that they did not think that I looked ugly.  On reaching the gilt chair, I bent forward with restrained eagerness—­my chignon was high, revealing my neck, which is passable—­and thanked the Lord.  The organ ceased its triumphal song and I could hear my poor mother bursting into tears beside me.  Oh!  I understand what a mother’s heart must feel during such a ceremony.  While watching with satisfaction the clergy who were solemnly advancing, I noticed Georges; he seemed irritated; he was stiff, upright, his nostrils dilated, and his lips set.  I have always been rather vexed at him for not having been a little more sensible to what I was experiencing that day, but men do not understand this kind of poetry.