The wedding itself had also gone well, Niemeyer had conducted the service in an exquisite fashion, and on the way home from the church one of the old men from Berlin, who half-way belonged to the court circle, made a remark to the effect that it was truly wonderful how thickly talents are distributed in a state like ours.  “I see therein a triumph of our schools, and perhaps even more of our philosophy.  When I consider how this Niemeyer, an old village preacher, who at first looked like a hospitaler—­why, friend, what do you say?  Didn’t he speak like a court preacher?  Such tact, and such skill in antithesis, quite the equal of Koegel, and in feeling even better.  Koegel is too cold.  To be sure, a man in his position has to be cold.  Generally speaking, what is it that makes wrecks of the lives of men?  Always warmth, and nothing else.”  It goes without saying that these remarks were assented to by the dignitary to whom they were addressed, a gentleman as yet unmarried, who doubtless for this very reason was, at the time being, involved in his fourth “relation.”  “Only too true, dear friend,” said he.  “Too much warmth—­most excellent—­Besides, I must tell you a story, later.”

The day after the wedding was a clear October day.  The morning sun shone bright, yet there was a feeling of autumn chilliness in the air, and von Briest, who had just taken breakfast in company with his wife, arose from his seat and stood, with his hands behind his back, before the slowly dying open fire.  Mrs. von Briest, with her fancy work in her hands, moved likewise closer to the fireplace and said to Wilke, who entered just at this point to clear away the breakfast table:  “And now, Wilke, when you have everything in order in the dining hall—­but that comes first—­then see to it that the cakes are taken over to the neighbors, the nutcake to the pastor’s and the dish of small cakes to the Jahnkes’.  And be careful with the goblets.  I mean the thin cut glasses.”

Briest had already lighted his third cigarette, and, looking in the best of health, declared that “nothing agrees with one so well as a wedding, excepting one’s own, of course.”

“I don’t know why you should make that remark, Briest.  It is absolutely news to me that you suffered at your wedding.  I can’t imagine why you should have, either.”

“Luise, you are a wet blanket, so to speak.  But I take nothing amiss, not even a thing like that.  Moreover, why should we be talking about ourselves, we who have never even taken a wedding tour?  Your father was opposed to it.  But Effi is taking a wedding tour now.  To be envied.  Started on the ten o’clock train.  By this time they must be near Ratisbon, and I presume he is enumerating to her the chief art treasures of the Walhalla, without getting off the train—­that goes without saying.  Innstetten is a splendid fellow, but he is pretty much of an art crank, and Effi, heaven knows, our poor Effi is a child of nature.  I am afraid he will annoy her somewhat with his enthusiasm for art.”