“What, jealous?  Are you jealous of his bit of ribbon?”

“No, uncle, I regret nothing; not even Larive’s good fortune.”

M. Mouillard fixed his eyes on the cloth, and began again, after a moment’s silence: 

“I, Fabien, do regret some things.  It will be mournful at times, growing old alone here.  Yet, after all, it will be some consolation to me to think that you others are satisfied with life, to welcome you here for your holidays.”

“You can do better than that,” said M. Charnot.  “Come and grow old among us.  Your years will be the lighter to bear, Monsieur Mouillard.  Doubtless we must always bear them, and they weigh upon us and bend our backs.  But youth, which carries its own burden so lightly, can always give us a little help in bearing ours.”

I looked to hear my uncle break out with loud objections.

“It is a fine night,” he said, simply; “let us go into the garden, and do you decide whether I can leave roses like mine.”

M. Mouillard took us into the garden, pleased with himself, with me, with Jeanne, with everybody, and with the weather.

It was too dark to see the roses, but we could smell them as we passed.  I had taken Jeanne’s arm in mine, and we went on in front, in the cool dusk, choosing all the little winding paths.

The birds were all asleep.  But the grasshoppers, crickets, and all manner of creeping things hidden in the grass, or in the moss on the trees, were singing and chattering in their stead.

Behind us, at some distance—­in fact, as far off as we could manage—­the gravel crackled beneath the equal tread of the two elders, and in a murmur we could catch occasional scraps of sentences: 

“A granddaughter like Jeanne, Monsieur Charnot . . . .”

“A grandson like Fabien, Monsieur Mouillard . . . .”

CHAPTER XX

A HAPPY FAMILY

Paris, September 18th.

We are married.  We are just back from the church.  We have said good-by to all our friends, not without a quick touch or two of sadness, as quickly swallowed up in the joy which for the first time in the history of my heart is surging there at full tide, and widening to a limitless horizon.  In the two hours I have to spare before starting for Italy, I am writing the last words in this brown diary, which I do not intend to take with me.

Jeanne, my own Jeanne, is leaning upon me and reading over my shoulder, which distracts the flow of my recollections.

There were crowds at the church.  The papers had put us down among the fashionable marriages of the week.  The Institute, the army, men of letters, public officials, had come out of respect for M. Charnot; lawyers of Bourges and Paris had come out of respect for my uncle.  But the happiest, the most radiant, next to ourselves, were the people who came only for Jeanne’s sake and mine; Sylvestre Lampron, painter-in-ordinary to Mademoiselle Charnot, bringing his pretty sketch as a wedding-present; M. Flamaran and Sidonie; Jupille, who wept as he used to “thirty years ago;” and M. and Madame Plumet, who took it in turns to carry their white-robed infant.