And he went off.

Charles fastened his horse to a tree; he ran into the road and waited.  Half an hour passed, then he counted nineteen minutes by his watch.  Suddenly a noise was heard against the wall; the shutter had been thrown back; the hook was still swinging.

The next day by nine o’clock he was at the farm.  Emma blushed as he entered, and she gave a little forced laugh to keep herself in countenance.  Old Rouault embraced his future son-in-law.  The discussion of money matters was put off; moreover, there was plenty of time before them, as the marriage could not decently take place till Charles was out of mourning, that is to say, about the spring of the next year.

The winter passed waiting for this.  Mademoiselle Rouault was busy with her trousseau.  Part of it was ordered at Rouen, and she made herself chemises and nightcaps after fashion-plates that she borrowed.  When Charles visited the farmer, the preparations for the wedding were talked over; they wondered in what room they should have dinner; they dreamed of the number of dishes that would be wanted, and what should be entrees.

Emma would, on the contrary, have preferred to have a midnight wedding with torches, but old Rouault could not understand such an idea.  So there was a wedding at which forty-three persons were present, at which they remained sixteen hours at table, began again the next day, and to some extent on the days following.

Chapter Four

The guests arrived early in carriages, in one-horse chaises, two-wheeled cars, old open gigs, waggonettes with leather hoods, and the young people from the nearer villages in carts, in which they stood up in rows, holding on to the sides so as not to fall, going at a trot and well shaken up.  Some came from a distance of thirty miles, from Goderville, from Normanville, and from Cany.

All the relatives of both families had been invited, quarrels between friends arranged, acquaintances long since lost sight of written to.

From time to time one heard the crack of a whip behind the hedge; then the gates opened, a chaise entered.  Galloping up to the foot of the steps, it stopped short and emptied its load.  They got down from all sides, rubbing knees and stretching arms.  The ladies, wearing bonnets, had on dresses in the town fashion, gold watch chains, pelerines with the ends tucked into belts, or little coloured fichus fastened down behind with a pin, and that left the back of the neck bare.  The lads, dressed like their papas, seemed uncomfortable in their new clothes (many that day hand-sewed their first pair of boots), and by their sides, speaking never a work, wearing the white dress of their first communion lengthened for the occasion were some big girls of fourteen or sixteen, cousins or elder sisters no doubt, rubicund, bewildered, their hair greasy with rose pomade, and very much afraid