“Do you believe such tales, aunt?  I do not.  And your pearls are yet as white as moonlight.  I do not fear them.  Give them to me, aunt.  I snap my fingers at such fables.”

“Give them to you, I will not, Arenta; but you may take them from the box with your own hands.”

“I am delighted to take them.  I have always longed for them.”

“Perhaps then they longed for you, for what is another’s yearns for its owner.”

Then madame left the room and Arenta lifted the box and carried it nearer to the light.  And a little shiver crept through her heart and she closed the lid quickly and said irritably—­

“It is my aunt’s words.  She is always speaking dark and doubtful things.  However, the pearls are mine at last!” and she carried them with her downstairs, throwing back her head as if they were round her white throat and—­as was her way—­spreading herself as she went.

All fine weddings are much alike.  It was only in such accidentals as costume that Arenta’s differed from the fine weddings of to-day.  There was the same crush of gayly attired women, of men in full dress, or military dress, or distinguished by diplomatic insignia:—­the same low flutter of silk, and stir of whispered words, and suppressed excitement—­ the same eager crowd along the streets and around the church to watch the advent of the bride and bridegroom.  All of the guests had seen them very often before, yet they too looked at the dazzling girl in white as if they expected an entirely different person.  The murmur of pleasure, the indefinable stir of human emotion, the solemn mystical words at the altar that were making two one, the triumphant peal of music when they ceased, and the quick crescendo of rising congratulation—­all these things were present then, as now.  And then, as now, all these things failed to conceal from sensitive minds that odour of human sacrifice, not to be disguised with the scent of bridal flowers—­that immolation of youth and beauty and charming girlhood upon the altar of an unknown and an untried love.

New York was not then too busy making money to take an interest in such a wedding, and Arenta’s drive through its pleasant streets was a kind of public invitation.  For Jacob Van Ariens was one of a guild of wealthy merchants, and they were at their shop doors to express their sympathy by lifted hats and smiling faces; while the women looked from every window, and the little children followed, their treble voices heralding and acclaiming the beautiful bride.  Then came the breakfast and the health-drinking and the speech-making and the rather sadder drive to the wharf at which lay La Belle France.  And even Arenta was by this time weary of the excitement, so that it was almost with a sense of relief she stepped across the little carpeted gangway to her deck.  Then the anchor was lifted, the cable loosened, and with every sail set La Belle France went dancing down the river on the tide-top to the open sea.