This was the time that had been fixed for our marriage. When
we had quitted the province where we had both experienced so many bitter
mortifications and such grievous trials, we had imagined that we
should never feel any inclination to return. Yet, so powerful are the
recollections of childhood and the ties of family life that, even in the
heart of an enchanted land which could not arouse painful memories, we
had quickly begun to regret our gloomy, wild Varenne, and sighed for the
old oaks in the park. We returned, then, with a sense of profound yet
solemn joy. Edmee's first care was to gather the beautiful flowers in
the garden and to kneel by her father's grave and arrange them on it. We
kissed the hallowed ground, and there made a vow to strive unceasingly
to leave a name as worthy of respect and veneration as his. He had
frequently carried this ambition to the verge of weakness, but it was a
noble weakness, a sacred vanity.
Our marriage was celebrated in the village chapel, and the festivities
were confined to the family; none but Arthur, the abbe, Marcasse, and
Patience sat down to our modest banquet. What need had we of the outside
world to behold our happiness? They might have believed, perhaps, that
they were doing us an honour by covering the blots on our escutcheon
with their august presence. We were enough to be happy and merry among
ourselves. Our hearts were filled with as much affection as they could
hold.
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