“Take her for your model, little one.  There are not two people in the world like Madame Chorche.  She has her poor father’s heart.  A true Fromont!”

Sidonie, with her eyes cast down, bowed without replying, while an imperceptible shudder ran from the tip of her satin shoe to the topmost bit of orange-blossom in her crown.  But honest Risler saw nothing.  The excitement, the dancing, the music, the flowers, the lights made him drunk, made him mad.  He believed that every one breathed the same atmosphere of bliss beyond compare which enveloped him.  He had no perception of the rivalries, the petty hatreds that met and passed one another above all those bejewelled foreheads.

He did not notice Delobelle, standing with his elbow on the mantel, one hand in the armhole of his waistcoat and his hat upon his hip, weary of his eternal attitudinizing, while the hours slipped by and no one thought of utilizing his talents.  He did not notice M. Chebe, who was prowling darkly between the two doors, more incensed than ever against the Fromonts.  Oh! those Fromonts!—­How large a place they filled at that wedding!  They were all there with their wives, their children, their friends, their friends’ friends.  One would have said that one of themselves was being married.  Who had a word to say of the Rislers or the Chebes?  Why, he—­he, the father, had not even been presented!—­And the little man’s rage was redoubled by the attitude of Madame Chebe, smiling maternally upon one and all in her scarab-hued dress.

Furthermore, there were at this, as at almost all wedding-parties, two distinct currents which came together but without mingling.  One of the two soon gave place to the other.  The Fromonts, who irritated Monsieur Chebe so much and who formed the aristocracy of the ball, the president of the Chamber of Commerce, the syndic of the solicitors, a famous chocolate-manufacturer and member of the Corps Legislatif, and the old millionaire Gardinois, all retired shortly after midnight.  Georges Fromont and his wife entered their carriage behind them.  Only the Risler and Chebe party remained, and the festivity at once changed its aspect, becoming more uproarious.

The illustrious Delobelle, disgusted to see that no one called upon him for anything, decided to call upon himself for something, and began in a voice as resonant as a gong the monologue from Ruy Blas:  “Good appetite, Messieurs!” while the guests thronged to the buffet, spread with chocolate and glasses of punch.  Inexpensive little costumes were displayed upon the benches, overjoyed to produce their due effect at last; and here and there divers young shop-clerks, consumed with conceit, amused themselves by venturing upon a quadrille.

The bride had long wished to take her leave.  At last she disappeared with Risler and Madame Chebe.  As for Monsieur Chebe, who had recovered all his importance, it was impossible to induce him to go.  Some one must be there to do the honors, deuce take it!  And I assure you that the little man assumed the responsibility!  He was flushed, lively, frolicsome, noisy, almost seditious.  On the floor below he could be heard talking politics with Vefour’s headwaiter, and making most audacious statements.