“And he would turn you all out, and that does not suit me.  Now there stands the only man who can make mademoiselle my lawful wife.  So quick march, monsieur the mayor, for time and Bonaparte wait for no man.”

“Stay a minute, young people,” said the mayor.  “We should soothe respectable prejudices, not crush them.  Madam, I am at least as old as you, and have seen many changes.  I perfectly understand your feelings.”

“Ah, monsieur! oh!”

“Calm yourself, dear madam; the case is not so bad as you think.  It is perfectly true that in republican France the civil magistrate alone can bind French citizens in lawful wedlock.  But this does not annihilate the religious ceremony.  You can ask the Church’s blessing on my work; and be assured you are not the only one who retains that natural prejudice.  Out of every ten couples that I marry, four or five go to church afterwards and perform the ancient ceremonies.  And they do well.  For there before the altar the priest tells them what it is not my business to dilate upon—­the grave moral and religious duties they have undertaken along with this civil contract.  The state binds, but the Church still blesses, and piously assents to that”—­

“From which she has no power to dissent.”

“Monsieur Picard, do you consider it polite to interrupt the chief magistrate of the place while he is explaining the law to a citizen?”

(This closed Picard.)

“I married a daughter last year,” continued the worthy mayor.

“What, after this fashion?”

“I married her myself, as I will marry yours, if you will trust me with her.  And after I have made them one, there is nothing to prevent them adjourning to the church.”

“I beg your pardon,” cried Raynal, “there are two things to prevent it:  a couple that wait for no man:  Time and Bonaparte.  Come, sir; marry us, and have done with it.”

The mayor assented.  He invited Josephine to stand before him.  She trembled and wept a little:  Rose clung to her and wept, and the good mayor married the parties off hand.

“Is that all?” asked the baroness; “it is terribly soon done.”

“It is done effectively, madam,” said the mayor, with a smile.  “Permit me to tell you that his Holiness the Pope cannot undo my work.”

Picard grinned slyly, and whispered something into Raynal’s ear.

“Oh! indeed,” said Raynal aloud and carelessly.  “Come, Madame Raynal, to breakfast:  follow us, the rest of you.”

They paired, and followed the bride and bridegroom into the breakfast-room.

The light words Picard whispered were five in number.

Now if the mayor had not snubbed Picard just before, he would have uttered those jocose but true words aloud.  There was no particular reason why he should not.  And if he had,—­The threads of the web of life, how subtle they are!  The finest cotton of Manchester, the finer meshes of the spider, seem three-inch cables by comparison with those moral gossamers which vulgar eyes cannot see at all, the “somethings, nothings,” on which great fates have hung.