At these words I shuddered slightly, and by a singular freak of my brain pictured to myself Monsieur Georges—­Georges—­my husband—­in a cotton night cap and a dressing-gown.  The vision flashed across my mind in the midst of the storm.  I saw him just as plainly as if he had been there.  It was dreadful.  The nightcap came over his forehead, down to his eyebrows, and he said to me, pressing my hand; “At last, Valentine; you are mine; do you love me? oh! tell me, do you love me?” And as his head moved as he uttered these words, the horrible tuft at the end of his nightcap waggled as an accompaniment.

“No,” I said to myself, “it is impossible for my husband to appear in such a fashion; let me banish this image—­and yet my father wears the hideous things, and my brother, who is quite young, has them already.  Men wear them at all ages, unless though—­” It is frightful to relate, but Georges now appeared to me with a red-and-green bandanna handkerchief tied round his head.  I would have given ten years of my life to be two hours older, and hurriedly passed my hand across my eyes to drive away these diabolical visions.

However, mamma, who had been still speaking all the time, attributing this movement to the emotion caused by her words, said, with great sweetness: 

“Do not be alarmed, my dear Valentine; perhaps I am painting the picture in too gloomy colors; but my experience and my love render this duty incumbent upon me.”

I have never heard mamma express herself so fluently.  I was all the more surprised as, not having heard a word of what she had already said, this sentence seemed suddenly sprung upon me.  Not knowing what to answer, I threw myself into the arms of mamma, who, after a minute or so, put me away gently, saying, “You are suffocating me, dear.”

She wiped her eyes with her little cambric handkerchief, which was damp, and said, smilingly: 

“Now that I have told you what my conscience imposed on me, I am strong.  See, dear, I think that I can smile.  Your husband, my dear child, is a man full of delicacy.  Have confidence; accept all without misgiving.”

Mamma kissed me on the forehead, which finished off her sentence, and added: 

“Now, dear one, I have fulfilled a duty I regarded as sacred.  Come here and let me take your wreath off.”

“By this time,” I thought, “they have noticed that I have left the drawing-room.  They are saying, ‘Where is the bride?’ and smiling, ’Monsieur Georges is getting uneasy.  What is he doing? what is he thinking? where is he?’”

“Have you tried on your nightcap, dear?” said mamma, who had recovered herself; “it looks rather small to me, but is nicely embroidered.  Oh, it is lovely!”

And she examined it from every point of view.

At that moment there was a knock at the door.  “It is I,” said several voices, among which I distinguished the flute-like tones of my aunt Laura, and those of my godmother.  Madame de P., who never misses a chance of pressing her two thick lips to some one’s cheeks, accompanied them.  Their eyes glittered, and all three had a sly and triumphant look, ferreting and inquisitive, which greatly intimidated me.  Would they also set about fulfilling a sacred duty?