After the question of furniture was decided, they settled that of the marriage ceremony, and she was surprised to find that his ideas were the same as hers.

She decided upon her toilet, a silk gown as simple as possible, and she would make it herself, as she made all her gowns.  And then they discussed the witnesses.  “We have no friends,” Phillis said.

“You had some formerly; your father had friends and comrades.”

“I am no longer the daughter of my father, I am the sister of my brother; I would not dare to ask them to witness my marriage.”

“It is just because you are the sister of your brother that they cannot refuse you; it would be cruelty added to rudeness.  Cruelty may be overlooked, but rudeness!  Among the men of talent, who was your father’s best friend?”

“Cintrat.”

“Is he not a bohemian, a drunkard?”

“My father regarded him as the greatest painter of our time, the most original.”

“It is not a question of talent, but of name; I am sure that he is not even decorated.  Your father had other friends, more successful, more commonplace, if you wish.”

“Glorient.”

“The member of the Institute?”

“Casparis, the sculptor.”

“An academician, also; that is what we want, and both are ‘archi-decore’.  You will write them, and tell them who I am, assistant professor of the school of medicine, and doctor of the hospitals.  I promise you they will accept.  I will ask my old master Carbonneau, president of the academy of medicine; and Claudet, the ancient minister, who, in his quality of deputy of my department, could not decline any more than the others.  And that will give us decorated witnesses, which will look well in the newspapers.”

It was not only in the newspapers they looked well, but also in the church of Sainte-Marie des Batignolles.

“Glorient!  Casparis!  Carbonneau!  Claudet!  Art, science, and politics.”

But the beauty and charm of the bride were not eclipsed by these glorious witnesses.  She entered on Glorient’s arm, proud in her modesty, radiant with grace.

While the priest celebrated mass at the altar, outside, before the door, a man dressed in a costume of chestnut velvet, and wearing a felt hat, walked up and down, smoking a pipe.  It was the Count de Brigard, whose principles forbade him to enter a church for either a wedding or a funeral, and who walked up and down on the sidewalk with his disciples, waiting to congratulate Saniel.  When he appeared the Count rushed up to him, and taking his hand pressed it warmly on separating him from his wife, and saying: 

“It is good, it is noble.  Circumstances made this marriage; without them it would not have taken place.  I understand and I excuse it; I do more, I applaud it.  My dear friend, you are a man.”

And as it was Wednesday, in the evening at Crozat’s, he publicly expressed his approbation, which, in the conditions in which it had been offered, did not satisfy his conscience.