reached her ear, lest something might occur to give a rude shock to his feelings.  But it would seem the notary had his cue.  The details touching Christine were so artfully arranged, that while they were perfectly binding in law, they were so dexterously concealed from the observation of the unsuspecting, that no attention was drawn to the point most apprehended by their exposure.  Sigismund breathed freer when the notary drew near the end of his task, and Adelheid heard the heavy breath he drew at the close, with the joy one feels at the certainty of having passed an imminent danger.  Christine herself seemed relieved, though hor inexperience in a great degree prevented her from foreseeing all that the greater practice of Sigismund had led him to anticipate.

“This is quite in rule, and naught now remains but to receive the signatures of the respective parties and their friends,” resumed the bailiff.  “A happy menage is like a well-ordered state, a foretaste of the joys and peace of Heaven; while a discontented household and a turbulent community may be likened at once to the penalties and the pains of hell!  Let the friends of the parties step forth, in readiness to sign when the principals themselves shall have discharged this duty.”

A few of the relatives and associates of Jacques Colis moved out of the crowd and placed themselves at the side of the bridegroom, who immediately wrote his own name, like a man impatient to be happy.  A pause succeeded, for all were curious to see who claimed affinity to the trembling girl on this the most solemn and important event of her life.  An interval of several minutes elapsed, and no one appeared.  The respiration of Sigismund became more difficult; he seemed about to choke, and then yielding to a generous impulse, he arose.

“For the love of God!—­for thine own sake!—­for mine! be not too hasty!” whispered the terrified Adelheid; for she saw the hot glow that almost blazed on his brow.

“I cannot desert poor Christine to the scorn of the world, in a moment like this!  If I die of shame, I must go forward and own myself.”

The hand of Mademoiselle de Willading was laid upon his arm, and he yielded to this silent but impressive entreaty, for just then he saw that his sister was about to be relieved from her distressing solitude.  The throng yielded, and a decent pair, attired in the guise of small but comfortable proprietors, moved doubtingly towards the bride.  The eyes of Christine filled with tears, for terror and the apprehension of disgrace yielded suddenly to joy.  Those who advanced to support her in that moment of intense trial were her father and mother.  The respectable-looking pair moved slowly to the side of their daughter, and, having placed themselves one on each side of her, they first ventured to cast furtive and subdued glances at the multitude.