Had you, sweet St. Dorothy, or fair child-saint Agnes, lived in this day, you would have felt something sharper than the executioner’s sword; for being pure, you would have been dubbed the worst of women—­being prayerful, you would have been called hypocrites—­being faithful, you would have been suspected of all vileness—­being loving, you would have been mocked at more bitterly than the soldiers of Pontius Pilate mocked Christ; but you would have been free—­free to indulge your own opinions, for ours is the age of liberty.  Yet how much better for you to have died than have lived till now!

Absorbed in strange, half-morose, half-speculative fancies, I scarcely heard the close of the solemn service.  I was roused by a delicate touch from my wife, and I woke, as it were, with a start, to hear the sonorous, crashing chords of the wedding-march in “Lohengrin” thundering through the air.  All was over:  my wife was mine indeed—­mine most thoroughly—­mine by the exceptionally close-tied knot of a double marriage—­mine to do as I would with “Till death should us part.”  How long, I gravely mused, how long before death could come to do us this great service?  And straightway I began counting, counting certain spaces of time that must elapse before—­I was still absorbed in this mental arithmetic, even while I mechanically offered my arm to my wife as we entered the vestry to sign our names in the marriage register.  So occupied was I in my calculations that I nearly caught myself murmuring certain numbers aloud.  I checked this, and recalling my thoughts by a strong effort, I strove to appear interested and delighted, as I walked down the aisle with my beautiful bride, through the ranks of admiring and eager spectators.

On reaching the outer doors of the chapel several flower-girls emptied their full and fragrant baskets at our feet; and in return, I bade one of my servants distribute a bag of coins I had brought for the purpose, knowing from former experience that it would be needed.  To tread across such a heap of flowers required some care, many of the blossoms clinging to Nina’s velvet train—­we therefore moved forward slowly.

Just as we had almost reached the carriage, a young girl, with large laughing eyes set like flashing jewels in her soft oval face, threw down in my path a cluster of red roses.  A sudden fury of impotent passion possessed me, and I crushed my heel instantly and savagely upon the crimson blossoms, stamping upon them again and again so violently that my wife raised her delicate eyebrows in amazement, and the pressing people who stood round us, shrugged their shoulders, and gazed at one another with looks of utter bewilderment—­while the girl who had thrown them shrunk back in terror, her face paling as she murmured, “Santissima Madonna! mi fa paura!” I bit my lip with vexation, inwardly cursing the weakness of my own behavior.  I laughed lightly in answer to Nina’s unspoken, half-alarmed inquiry.