In the garage, Michel, all seriousness, polished the Ford that was to carry away the bridal pair.  Recently demobilized, he wore the bizarre combination of military and civilian clothes that all over France symbolized the transition from war to peace—­black coat encroaching upon stained blue trousers, khaki puttees, evidence of international intimacy and—­most brilliant emblem of freedom—­a black and white checked cap, put on backwards.  His the ultimate responsibility at our wedding ceremony and he looked to his tires and sparkplugs with passion.

The married sister, beautiful and charming in her Paris gown, was superintending the toilette; and when all was ready, we were called up to examine and admire.  The bride was sweet and calm, smiling dreamily at us in the foggy fragment of mirror.  Below, somewhat portly and constrained in his black coat and high collar, the bridegroom marched with agitation back and forth in the corridor, clasping and unclasping his hands in their gray suede gloves.  The Paris train was due.  Relatives and friends began to arrive; and little nieces and nephews, all in their best clothes.  Noyon had not seen anything so gay in years.  There was bustle and business and running up and down stairs.  The poste, usually clamorous with the hoarse dialect of northern France, hummed and rippled with polite conversation and courtly greetings.  The bride appeared.  The bridegroom’s face lost its perturbed expression in his unaffected happiness at seeing her.  Photographs were taken; she, gracious and bending in a cloud of tulle; he, stiffly upright but smiling resolutely.  They were off in a string of carriages—­sagging old carriages resurrected from the dust—­while a few of us hastened to the cathedral by a short cut to take more pictures as they entered.

The vast nave engulfed us in its desolation.  The mutilated apse seemed to be far, far away, and one looked at it fearfully.  High above through the broken vaulting shone the indestructible blue, and through the hollow windows the breath of Heaven wandered free.  The little bride stepped bravely between the piles of refuse, daintily gathering her dress about her.  A dirty sheet on the wall flapped without warning, and we had a glimpse of a gaunt and pallid crucifix, instantly shrouded again in a spasm of wind.  Passing under an arch we entered a less demolished chapel.  Here all Noyon was waiting.

Thin and quavering through the expectant hush came the chords of a harmonium.  Rustlings and whisperings among the closely packed people as the misty white figure advanced slowly into sight.  At the altar the silver-haired bishop turned his scholarly face upon her, full of tenderness; and when he spoke, his voice seemed an assurance of peace and purity.  The service was long.  In France one listens to a sermon when one is married, and the pretty bridesmaids came round for three collections.  The bishop talked of her father, his friend, who had died under cruel circumstances.  Shoulders heaved in the congregation, and in a dark corner a sob was stifled.