Chapter VIII: Marriage.--A Meeting.--The Ball

My mother went to see Madame Dumeillan, and they suited each other. It is a miracle when two women of mature years suit each other. My mother found Eugénie very attractive; she complimented me on my choice, and she was very hard to suit, too. I was overjoyed, in ecstasy. The provisions of the contract were very soon arranged by the two ladies, each of whom had but one child. For my part, I hurried forward the wedding day to the best of my ability. And yet, I was very happy. I passed three-quarters of my afternoons and all my evenings with Eugénie. If the ladies went out, I escorted them. Our approaching union was no secret, and many young men congratulated me on my good fortune. Some of them sighed as they glanced at Eugénie; perhaps they were in love with her. Poor fellows! I pitied them; but I could do nothing for them.

It was decided that I should retain the apartment which I occupied. It was large enough for my wife, and I had it decorated carefully in accordance with her taste. It would not have been large enough if Madame Dumeillan had come to live with us, as I expected at first. Eugénie too hoped that she would not leave her; but Madame Dumeillan said to her affectionately but firmly:

“No, my child, I shall not live with you. When a man marries, he wishes to take but one wife; why give him two? I know that Henri is fond of me; that he would be glad to have me live with him; but I know also, my children, that a young couple often have a thousand things to say to each other, and that a third person, no matter how dearly loved, is sometimes in the way. In love, in jealousy, in the most trivial disputes, the presence of a third person may be most harmful, and may prolong for a week what need have lasted but a moment; it checks the outpouring of love and intensifies the bitterness of reproach. But I will live near you, and I shall see you often, very often. And whenever you want me, you will always be able to find me.”

Eugénie was obliged to yield to her mother, and for my part, I considered that Madame Dumeillan was right.

Should we have a wedding party? That was a question which I asked myself, and which I was tempted more than once to put to Eugénie. But a little reflection convinced me that I should be wrong not to celebrate my marriage. To please me, Eugénie would pretend that she did not care about a ball; but at twenty years of age, possessed of innumerable charms, endowed with all the graces which attract and subjugate, is it not natural for a woman to long to show herself in all the glory of her happiness? Is that not a marked day in her life when she is called madame for the first time, although she has not absolutely ceased to be a maiden; when she has not as yet the assurance of the former, but on the contrary has all the shrinking modesty of the other in an intensified form? Yes, at the age of love and enjoyment, it is essential to have a wedding party; doubly so, when one marries the object of one’s passion; for happiness is always an embellishment. My Eugénie needed no embellishment; but why should I not have a little vanity? Why should I not be proud of my triumph?

So it was decided that we should have a wedding party: that is to say, a grand breakfast after the ceremony, and in the evening a supper and ball at Lointier’s. I determined to look to it that my Eugénie should have magnificent dresses for that great day; not that she could possibly be more beautiful in my eyes, but I wished that she should enjoy all those triumphs which mark an epoch in a woman’s life. I gave her leave to be a coquette on that day.

The moment of my happiness drew near. We turned our attention to the list of guests. For the breakfast there would be very few, enough however to make sure that they would not be bored, and that it should not have the aspect of a family party. For the evening, many people were invited; the salons were large, and it was necessary to fill them. We simply tried to make sure that in the throng none of those fine gentlemen should worm themselves in, who are known neither to the groom nor to the bride, nor to their relations, but who boldly present themselves at a large party, where, under cover of their decent exterior, they consume ices and often cheat at écarté.

We had already written a multitude of names; I had not forgotten Bélan, and as the ladies were slightly acquainted with Madame de Beausire and her daughter, we sent them an invitation too; I knew that that would rejoice poor Ferdinand. Suddenly I stopped, and looking at Eugénie and her mother with a smile, I said to them:

“Shall we put down their names too?”

“I am sure that I know whom you mean!” cried Eugénie. “Henri is thinking of the Giraud family.”

“Exactly.”

“Why invite them?” asked Madame Dumeillan; “they are terrible bores, and their inquisitiveness actually amounts to spying.”

“I agree with you, and the last time they came to your reception they made themselves ridiculous. But I cannot forget that it was at their house that I first met Eugénie. And then our invitation will please them so much! and when I am so happy, I like others to be so.”

“Henri is right, mamma; let us invite them.”

So Giraud’s name was put down on the list. At last, the solemn day arrived. I rose at six o’clock in the morning, having slept hardly at all. I could not keep still. What should I do until eleven o’clock, when I was to call for my mother, and then for my Eugénie? To read was impossible; to draw or to paint was equally impossible. To think of her--ah! I did nothing else; but it fatigued me and did not divert my thoughts. After dressing, I went all over my apartment, where I was still alone; I made sure that nothing was lacking. I hoped that she would be comfortable there. That apartment, which I had occupied four years, involuntarily reminded me of a thousand incidents of my bachelor life. That room, that little salon had seen more than one female figure. I had received many visits. When a lady had promised to come to breakfast or to pass the day with me, how impatiently I counted the minutes! How, until the time arrived, I dreaded lest some inopportune visitor should ring the bell in place of her whom I expected! How many kisses, oaths and promises had been exchanged on that couch! And all those things were so soon forgotten!--Ah! I was very happy in those days too!

But suddenly I thought of all the letters I had received; I had not burned them, and they were in a casket on my desk. I had often enjoyed reading them over; but suppose Eugénie should find them! I determined to burn them, to burn them all; for what was the use of them now?

I took out the casket which contained them; I opened it; it was stuffed with them. There are some women who are so fond of writing, either because they write well, or because they think they do, or simply because they love one. I took all the letters and carried them to the fireplace, where I made a pile of them. But before setting fire to them, I opened one, then another, then another; each of them reminded me of an episode, some day of my life. It is strange how quickly time passes amid such old souvenirs. The clock struck nine, and I was still reading. I was no longer in love with any of those women, but it was my last farewell to bachelorhood.

I set them afire, not without a faint sigh. At last my bachelor amours were burned, and only a pinch of ashes remained; some day nothing more will remain of all the riches, of all the marvels of this earth.

Those were very serious thoughts for a wedding day, but they served to pass the time, and that was something. Moreover, extremes always meet: the happier one is, the more disposed is one’s mind to melancholy thoughts. A grocer weighing sugar, or a postman delivering letters, does not feel such impressions.

But I almost forgot something else; for since I had thought of nothing but Eugénie from morning until night, it was not surprising that I had not set all my affairs in order. I had once amused myself by painting miniatures of some of the ladies whose letters I had just burned. Those portraits were in the desk upon which I painted; there were eight of them.

Should I sacrifice them as well? It would have been a pity; not because of the models, but because the miniatures were really not bad. Why destroy them? In the first place, Eugénie would never see them; and even if she should see them, they were fancy portraits. When one paints from life, one must necessarily paint portraits. So I had mercy upon those ladies, and replaced their pretty faces in the depths of the desk, whence I thought that they would never come forth.

Now I had carefully scrutinized and examined everything; nothing was left which could possibly offend Eugénie’s eye. No, she could come there now and reign as mistress; thenceforth no other woman should enter those rooms than such as she should choose to receive.

It was time to think about dressing. I thought it would do no harm if I were at my mother’s a little before the hour. If only the carriages did not keep me waiting. But someone entered my room; it was my concierge and his wife, with a big bouquet. Did they think I was going to put it in my buttonhole?

The husband came forward with an affable expression and was about to speak, but his wife did not give him time.

“Monsieur,” she said, “this is your wedding day; we are very glad to be able to congratulate you on such a happy day, by offering you this bouquet and our compliments; these immortelles are the symbol of your happiness, which will last forever.”

While his wife glibly delivered this speech, the concierge tried to slip in a few words, but he did not succeed. I took the bouquet, gave them some money and dismissed them. A wedding day would have little charm if one must submit to many congratulations of that sort. At last a carriage arrived. I went downstairs and passed rapidly before a long line of cooks and some gossiping old women who lived in the house, who were stationed in the courtyard to see me, as if a man who was going to be married had his nose placed otherwise than usual on that day.

I was driven to my mother’s, and found that she had just begun to dress.

“It isn’t eleven o’clock yet,” she said; “we have plenty of time; go and read the newspaper.”

Read the newspaper! just at the moment that I was to be married! I, who could not read one through when I had nothing to do! No, I preferred to remain there, and each five minutes I knocked at the door of her dressing-room to enquire if she were ready.

At a quarter-past eleven I carried my mother off, I almost dragged her away, although she declared that her bonnet was on crooked and that she wanted to have the ribbons changed. I refused to listen, we entered the carriage, and I swore to my mother that her headgear was in perfect order; she became calmer and consented to be amiable once more.

We arrived at Madame Dumeillan’s. Eugénie was ready; I was confident that she would not keep me waiting, that she would have pity on my impatience. Her dress was charming, according to all the people who were there; for my part, I did not notice her dress, I saw only her, and I should have thought her a thousand times lovelier if it had been possible.

One of our witnesses kept us waiting. There are people who would not hurry one iota to please others, and who know of nothing in the world that is important enough for haste. I could not live with such people.

At last the tardy witness arrived and we started for the mayor’s office. I was not allowed to escort Eugénie. On that day everything was subordinate to ceremony; a man must be happier on the day after his wedding than on his wedding day.

I have never cared much for ceremonial, and that of my marriage seemed extremely long. To give me courage, I looked at my wife; she was more impressed than I by the solemnity of the moment; she was deeply moved and was weeping. Dear Eugénie! I thought of nothing but loving her forever, and it was certainly not necessary for anyone to order me to do it.

It came to an end at last. We returned to the carriages, still in procession, and through a crowd of curious folk who devoured us with their eyes. I felt more buoyant, happier. I was so glad that it was over!

I spied Giraud and his wife at the church, in full array; they had offered us congratulations which I had not listened to; but I had said to them: “until this evening;” and they replied with a low bow.

We drove to Lointier’s, where a handsome breakfast awaited us. But a wedding breakfast is generally a decidedly gloomy affair. The bride can hardly be expected to laugh, and even when she is happiest, she is thoughtful and talks little; the grandparents are always intent upon preserving their dignity. For my part, I was engrossed, or rather annoyed, by the reflection that it was still early in the day. There were in the party some jokers, or persons who tried to joke; one stout gentleman, a kinsman of my mother, regaled us with some of those superannuated jests concerning the occasion and happiness that awaited us; but his sallies met with no success; nobody laughed at them, and he was forced to keep to himself the ample store of _bons mots_ with which I am sure that he was provided. I was delighted, because I considered such jests very bad form; they should be left for the weddings of concierges or servants; the modesty of a young woman who has but one day of innocence left should be respected; and we should assume innocence in those who have none.

Eugénie and I were at a distance from each other; we could not talk, but we glanced furtively at each other and our eyes mutually counselled patience.

The clock struck five, and the ladies left to change their dresses. I escorted my wife to the carriage which was to take her home with her mother. I would have been glad to go with her, but Madame Dumeillan and my mother persuaded me that it was my duty to remain with the guests who were still at table. Eugénie leaned toward me and whispered in my ear:

“Oh! we shall be much happier to-morrow, my dear! we shall not be separated then, I trust.”

Dear Eugénie, you were quite right. I had to return to the table, because it pleased some of our guests to eat and drink through four hours. If only I had been hungry!

We left the table at last, at six o’clock. Several of the gentlemen began to play cards. As courtesy did not require me to watch them lose their money, I left the restaurant and drove to my wife’s house.

The hairdresser had just arrived, and she had abandoned her lovely hair to him. Really, those hairdressers are too fortunate, to be able to pass their fingers through those lovely locks and to gaze constantly at the pretty head which is entrusted to them. That one took at least three-quarters of an hour to arrange Eugénie’s hair, as if it were difficult to make her look charming! But women are wonderfully patient with respect to everything that pertains to their toilet.

Her hair was arranged at last; but they took her away, for she was not dressed. My wife was not yet mine; she was still in the grasp of the conventionalities of that day. I was fain to be patient, until I once had possession of her. But that night I would bolt all the doors, and no one should see her the next morning until I chose.

I saw that Eugénie would not be dressed for at least an hour, so I went out and tried to kill time. I jumped into one of the carriages which were waiting at the door, and was driven to the Tuileries. I alighted on Rue de Rivoli, and entered the garden. The day was drawing to a close; the weather was gloomy and uncertain. There were very few people under those superb chestnuts toward which I walked. I was delighted, for I do not care for a promenade where there is a crowd; the people who stare at you or jostle you every moment prevent you from dreaming, from thinking at your leisure.

I rarely went to the Tuileries; to my mind that great garden was melancholy and monotonous; but on that day it seemed pleasanter to me, for I could think freely of my wife. My wife! those words still had a strange sound to me. I was married, I who had so often laughed at husbands! Had I been wrong to laugh at them, or should I prove an exception to the rule?

I walked at random. Finally I found myself in front of the enclosure where the statues of Hippomenes and Atalanta stand. That reminded me of a certain assignation. It was three years before, in the middle of winter. There had been a heavy fall of snow; the garden, the benches were covered with it, and it was very cold. But I had an assignation, and on such occasions one does not consult the thermometer. It was with a certain Lucile, who, for decency’s sake, called herself Madame Lejeune, and who mended cashmere shawls. She was very pretty, was Lucile. About twenty-three years old at that time, with a pretty, shapely figure, and an almost distinguished face which did not betray the grisette. I had an idea that her portrait was among those that I had preserved. She was accustomed to love madly for a fortnight; during the third week she calmed down, and ordinarily she was unfaithful by the end of the month. As I had been warned, I considered it more amusing to anticipate her, and to take up with another before the fortnight had expired. She did not forgive me; her self-esteem was wounded, for I have no idea that she would have been more constant with me than with others; but she tried to make me believe that she would have, and whenever I met her I could always detect a flavor of bitterness in her speech and anger in her glance.

It was in front of that enclosure, close by those statues, that we had arranged to meet. I remembered that Lucile was there before me, despite the extreme cold. We had not known each other four days, and we adored each other. She did not reprove me for keeping her waiting, and yet her nose and chin were purple with cold, and her fingers were stiff; but her eyes burned. I put her into a cab and took her to dine at Pelletan’s, at the Pavillon-Français. It was one of the red-letter days of my bachelorhood.

Very good, but the whole business was not worth one smile from Eugénie. I was about to turn away from Atalanta, when I saw within a few feet of me a lady dressed with some elegance, who was looking at me with a smile on her lips.

“You must admit,” she said, “that the snow is all that is needed to make the resemblance complete.”

It was Lucile! What a strange chance! I walked toward her.

“You here, madame?”

“Yes, monsieur; and I beg you to believe that I have not come here in search of memories.”

“I am here, madame, by the merest chance. But, as I passed these statues, I remembered a certain assignation, one winter, and I confess that I was thinking of you.”

“Really! Ah! that is most flattering on your part! You have to come to the Tuileries to do that, do you not, monsieur?”

“If that were so, madame, you must admit that other men devote their thoughts to you. One aspirant more or less--you can hardly detect the difference.”

“Ah! your remarks are exceedingly polite! But I am not surprised: you have never been anything but agreeable to me! You are the same as ever!”

“I do not see that I have said anything to you that----”

“Oh! mon Dieu! let us drop the subject. You might conclude that I attach great value to memories of you, and you would be much mistaken. But how fine you are! Are you going to a wedding?”

“Just so; I have been one of a wedding party since morning, and I came here for a walk while the bride is dressing herself for the ball.”

“Oho! you are a wedding guest to-day! Is the bride pretty?”

“Lovely.”

“A widow or unmarried?”

“Unmarried.”

“How old?”

“Twenty years.”

“Has she--you know what?”

“I can tell you that better to-morrow, if I should happen to see you.”

“Are you the best man?”

“Better than that.”

“Better than that! What! Do you mean--Oh, no! that is impossible. You are not going to be married?”

“Why is it impossible?”

“Because you don’t do such crazy things as that.”

“I don’t know whether marriage is always a crazy thing, but I can assure you that I was married this morning, and that, far from regretting it, I congratulate myself upon it.”

“Oh! if it was only this morning, that is easy to understand.--What! are you really married, Henri? Ha! ha! how amusing it is!”

“What is there so amusing about it?”

“Ha! ha! ha! Poor Henri! You are married! Upon my word, I can’t get over it. But I promise you that it gives me the very greatest pleasure! Ha! ha! ha!”

Lucile’s sneering laughter had an ironical note that began to irritate me. I bowed to her and turned away, but she detained me.

“By the way, one moment, monsieur; it is probable that I shall not have the pleasure of talking with you again for a long time, for a married man doesn’t go out without his wife. So yours is very pretty, is she?”

“Yes.”

“And are you very much in love with her?”

“More than I have ever been.”

“Oh! how frank!”

“Why shouldn’t I say what I think?”

“To be sure. Then you must try to make her love you more than you have ever been loved. Ha! ha!”

“I think that that will not be difficult.”

“Do you think so? You may be mistaken.”

“Excuse me, madame, if I leave you; but my wife must have finished dressing, and I must return for her.”

“If _your wife_ is waiting for you, why, go, monsieur; and see to it that she never waits for anybody else. Ha! ha!”

I saw that Lucile had not forgiven me. I left her. I was unable to conceal the vexation that that woman caused me to feel. I jumped into the carriage which took me back to Eugénie. She was waiting for me; the sight of her, a single word from her lips, speedily dissipated that slight cloud. Eugénie was dazzling; her charms, her graces, her lovely dress, everything combined to add fascination to her aspect. I took her hand.

“It is time to go to the ball; let us start,” said Madame Dumeillan and my mother. I held Eugénie’s hand, I was looking at my wife, and I had forgotten everything else.

Our appearance in the salons was greeted with a flattering murmur. Words of praise rang in my ears, and I admit that they flattered my heart too; it was my wife who was the object of universal admiration. Eugénie blushed and lowered her eyes; but it would have been difficult for her to avoid hearing the compliments which were rained upon her as she passed.

There were many people already there, and my acquaintances came forward to greet me. Giraud took my hand and pressed it. I felt inclined to be friendly with everyone, I was so happy! The men crowded about my wife to obtain the favor of dancing with her; they took their numbers, and I overheard one of them say that he was number twenty-six. Judging from that, it was evident that I could not look forward to dancing with my wife that night. But I made the best of it, and invited other ladies to dance.

I spied a little man, pushing and jostling everybody to make a passage for himself; it was Bélan, escorting a young lady who was at least a head taller than he, and with whom he was about to dance. When they passed me, they stopped, and he said to me:

“My friend, this is Mademoiselle Armide de Beausire, of whom I have spoken to you so often.”

I bowed low before Mademoiselle Armide, who was neither beautiful nor ugly, and whose eyes were almost as large as her mouth; but there was in her face and in her whole person something stiff and prim which smelt of the province a league away.

People crowded around Bélan and Mademoiselle Armide to see them dance. The little man danced very well; and as he had a very good figure, he had procured tight trousers, a tight coat and a tight waistcoat; there was not a fold to be seen on his whole body; if his face had been black you would have thought that he was a little negro _in puris naturalibus_.

Between the contradances I struggled through the crowd, to try to introduce to my wife a crowd of people whom I hardly knew, but who said to me:

“Won’t you present me to madame?”

At midnight the crowd had become so great that it was difficult to move. Did I know all those people? No; but I had told several of my acquaintances to bring their acquaintances, and that sort of thing extends very far sometimes. However, it was a brilliant affair. There were lovely dresses and very pretty women; the men were well-dressed, and I saw none of those expressionless, ignoble faces, none of those old creased caps which one is surprised sometimes to see at a fashionable party, where however they often have more right to be than most people; for those unattractive, common faces which we see in corners at a wedding party usually belong to some uncle or some cousin whom it was impossible not to invite.

Three times I found Giraud eating ices or carrying them to his wife. He had brought only two of his children; the two older ones; that was very considerate of him. I was so happy that I asked Madame Giraud to dance, and she seemed highly flattered by that courtesy. But what did it matter to me with whom I danced when it was not Eugénie? I no longer thought of paying court to ladies; other times, other ideas.

“Your ball is delightful,” said Bélan, leading me into a salon where card playing was in progress, but where it was possible to move about. “There are at least four hundred people here.”

“Faith! I should be hard put to it to say how many there are here. If they are enjoying themselves, that is all that is necessary.”

“It will be like this at my wedding. What do you think of Armide?”

“She is very attractive.”

“And her eyes?”

“They are superb.”

“They are extraordinary, are they not? Well, my dear fellow, she has everything like that,--wit, talents, and such an air of distinction! Did you see us dancing together?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t we get along well?”

“It is a pity that you are a little short beside her.”

“Short! you are joking. She is a little tall! However, when a man is built as I am, it is worth three inches of height. I certainly wouldn’t change figures with that tall, lanky man in front of us. Those tall fellows are always awkward. Have you seen Madame de Beausire?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come then, and let me present you to her. You will see a woman who hasn’t a single touch of the plebeian; she is the type of true distinction.”

I submitted to be led away; I did whatever anyone wanted that night. I saw a tall, yellow woman who resembled a piece of old tapestry, and who looked as if she had never laughed since she came into the world. I made haste to bow and to run away. It seemed to me that one must necessarily catch the _spleen_ in Madame de Beausire’s company.

The supper hour arrived; at last the ball was drawing to a close; and although I was not exactly bored, still I should have been very glad to be at home with my wife.

The ladies were conducted to their seats. I looked after the comfort of everybody; I saw that the tables, large and small alike, were properly waited upon.

“Pray rest a moment and eat something,” people said to me.

Much I thought about eating! I preferred to hurry the supper of that multitude.

I found Giraud and his two children sitting at a small table with three young men. Giraud had a currant cake on his knees, and he had slipped a bowl of jelly under the table, not choosing to pass it, for fear it would not come back to him. I called for fish, chickens, and pâté; I covered his children’s plates with cakes. Giraud was in ecstasy; he shook my hand, murmuring:

“This is one of the finest weddings I have ever seen, and God knows that I have seen a tremendous number of them!”

Madame Giraud, who had been obliged to leave the large table when the other ladies rose, walked behind her husband and children at that moment, with an enormous reticule hanging on her arm. While pretending to pass the gentlemen what they wanted, I saw that she kept opening the bag and thrusting cakes, biscuit, and even pie crust into it. Giraud, seeing that I had noticed his wife’s manœuvring, said to her angrily, as she was trying to force some macaroons into her bag:

“What on earth are you doing, Madame Giraud? What sort of manners are these? You are putting macaroons into your bag!”

“Just for Azor, my dear, the poor beast. He is so fond of macaroons, you know. They would be wasted, so what harm does it do? I want poor Azor to have a little of the pleasure of this party.”

“You know very well that I don’t like such things, Madame Giraud.”

I appeased Giraud, who pretended to be very angry; then I walked away, in order to leave his wife at full liberty; and she ended by making a perfect balloon of her bag.

Meanwhile, the tables were gradually deserted; many people returned to the ballroom, but many others entered their carriages, and I considered that the latter acted wisely.

The ball was more agreeable perhaps, because it was more comfortable to dance. Eugénie continued to be invited, and I must needs content myself with dancing opposite her; but there were figures in which we took each other’s hands, and then how many things we said by a soft pressure! it seems that the heart, that the very soul, passes into the beloved hand which presses ours lovingly.

The ranks became thinner. My mother had gone, and Madame Dumeillan was only awaiting our departure to follow her example. It was five o’clock. The daylight was beginning to show through the windows, and to lessen the brilliancy of the candles. The number of ladies diminished every moment. I went to Eugénie’s side.

“I am tired of dancing,” she said, “and yet I am afraid to refuse.”

“Why, it seems to me that we might venture to go now.”

She lowered her eyes and made no answer. I concluded that I had done enough for others and that I might think of myself at last. I took my wife’s hand and led her from the room; Madame Dumeillan followed us; we entered a carriage and drove away. We had to take Madame Dumeillan home first. It was a short distance, but it seemed very long to me. The nearer one’s happiness approaches, the more intense one’s impatience becomes.

We spoke but little in the mother’s presence. At last we reached her house, and I alighted. Madame Dumeillan embraced her daughter; it seemed to me that their embrace was interminable. Selfish creatures that we are! it did not occur to me that that was the last embrace in which a mother would hold her daughter, still a virgin, in her arms, and that I should have all the rest of my life to enjoy my privileges as a husband.

Madame Dumeillan entered her house. I returned to the carriage, and we drove on. At last I was alone with Eugénie, with my wife. I believe that that was the sweetest moment that I have ever known; it had seemed to me that it would never arrive. I put my arms about Eugénie; she wept when she embraced her mother; but I embraced her, and she ceased to weep, for I overwhelmed her with caresses, and unfamiliar sensations made her heart beat fast.

At last we reached my apartment, our apartment. The servant who was to live with us, and who had been in her mother’s service, was waiting for us in the concierge’s room, with a light; but it was broad day; we needed no service. My wife and I entered our home. I led her by the hand, I felt that she was trembling and I believe that I trembled too. It is a strange effect of happiness that it suffocates one, that it almost makes one ill.

I closed the doors and shot the bolts. I was alone with my wife! At last there was no third person with us! We were at liberty to love each other, to tell each other of our love, and to prove it!