I thought of my last wedding-day, when I had stood in this very place, full of hope, intoxicated with love and joy, when Guido Ferrari had been by my side, and had drunk in for the first time the poisoned draught of temptation from the loveliness of my wife’s face and form; when I, poor fool! would us soon have thought that God could lie, as that either of these whom I adored could play me false.  I drew the wedding-ring from my pocket and looked at it—­it was sparklingly bright and appeared new.  Yet it was old—­it was the very same ring I had drawn off my wife’s finger the day before; it had only been burnished afresh by a skilled jeweler, and showed no more marks of wear than if it had been bought that morning.

The great bell of the cathedral boomed out eleven, and as the last stroke swung from the tower, the chapel doors were flung more widely open:  then came the gentle rustle of trailing robes, and turning, I beheld my wife.  She approached, leaning lightly on the arm of the old Chevalier Mancini, who, true to his creeds of gallantry, had accepted with alacrity the post of paternal protector to the bride on this occasion; and I could not well wonder at the universal admiration that broke in suppressed murmurs from all assembled, as this most fair masterpiece of the devil’s creation paced slowly and gracefully up the aisle.  She wore a dress of clinging white velvet made with the greatest simplicity—­a lace veil, priceless in value and fine as gossamer, draped her from head to foot—­the jewels I had given her flashed about her like scintillating points of light, in her hair, at her waist, on her breast and uncovered arms.

Being as she deemed herself, a widow, she had no bride-maids; her train was held up by a handsome boy clad in the purple and gold costume of a sixteenth century page—­he was the youngest son of the Duke di Marina.  Two tiny girls of five and six years of age went before, strewing white roses and lilies, and stepping daintily backward as though in attendance on a queen; they looked like two fairies who had slipped out of a midnight dream, in their little loose gowns of gold-colored plush, with wreaths of meadow daffodils on their tumbled curly hair.  They had been well trained by Nina herself, for on arrival at the altar they stood demurely, one on each side of her, the pretty page occupying his place behind, and still holding up the end of the velvet train with a charming air of hauteur and self-complacency.

The whole cortege was a picture in its way, as Nina had meant it to be:  she was fond of artistic effects.  She smiled languishingly upon me as she reached the altar, and sunk on her knees beside me in prayer.  The music swelled forth with redoubled grandeur, the priests and acolytes appeared, the marriage service commenced.  As I placed the ring on the book I glanced furtively at the bride; her fair head was bent demurely—­she seemed absorbed in holy meditations.  The priest having performed