CHAPTER I.A WEDDING-PARTY AT THE CAFE VEFOUR.
"Madame Chebe!" "My boy--" "I am so happy!" This was the twentieth time that day that the good Risler had said that he was happy, and always with the same emotional and contented manner, in the same low, deep voice-the voice that is held in check by emotion and does not speak too loud for fear of suddenly breaking into violent tears.
Not for the world would Risler have wept at that moment--imagine a newly-made husband giving way to tears in the midst of the wedding-festival! And yet he had a strong inclination to do so.

His happiness stifled him, held him by the throat, prevented the words from coming forth.

All that he could do was to murmur from time to time, with a slight trembling of the lips, "I am happy; I am happy!" Indeed, he had reason to be happy.
Since early morning the poor man had fancied that he was being whirled along in one of those magnificent dreams from which one fears lest he may awake suddenly with blinded eyes; but it seemed to him as if this dream would never end.

It had begun at five o'clock in the morning, and at ten o'clock at night, exactly ten o'clock by Vefour's clock, he was still dreaming.
How many things had happened during that day, and how vividly he remembered the most trivial details.
He saw himself, at daybreak, striding up and down his bachelor quarters, delight mingled with impatience, clean-shaven, his coat on, and two pairs of white gloves in his pocket.

Then there were the wedding-coaches, and in the foremost one--the one with white horses, white reins, and a yellow damask lining--the bride, in her finery, floated by like a cloud.